Heads Or Tails: Is There A Preferred Difference?

Butter chicken on a bed of Basmati rice.  That's what I had for dinner, last night.  Quite a tasty treat, until a few hours later when I burped and the taste was not equal to that which I'd consumer hours earlier.  I like the sweet sharpness of the curried chicken, but add in stomach acid, when it revisits my taste pallet later, it's horrifying.

Grape, 7-up, Cream Soda, or Cherry Coke, I think my favourite flavour to come up with a throaty belch, would undoubtedly be that of Root Beer.  The fizzy sweetness is still present for doubling down on the refreshing taste.  A second to that would most likely be from a chocolate milkshake.  Drink one of those too fast and you don't have to wait the formality of a couple hours.  One burp of that chocolatey goodness, will bring a smile to your face like no other. 😋

I enjoy burping.  The louder and more obnoxious, the better.  It's a gift that I don't mind sharing with all those around me.  What elevates the enjoyment of not excusing myself afterward.  The disturbed looks of utter disgust is unequalled until they realize that I'm not going to excuse myself, then the appearance of ultimate revulsion warms over their face like a plague.  This brings unbridled joy to me. 😊

I used to like farts, too.  Especially the "silent-but-deadly" variety.  Sidling up to an unsuspecting person in a crowd and unleashing the stealthy fury, then quietly watching the panic and disgust as the victim flees to escape the unrelenting wrath.  Some people are good at video games...  I choose to hone my skills in other ways.  While this isn't something that can be enjoyed by masses, unless video recorded then shown on the Your Mom's House podcast, peppered with laughter from main mommies, Tom Segura and Christina P, the joy is retained to just me.  My fondest moment of this is standing in line to clock out at a job.  It was my last day at a job I did not enjoy.  I quietly broke wind just as a young Filipino woman strode up behind me.  There was a slight pause, before I heard her sweet accent utter the words, "Oooh.  Ees SO steenky."  I looked back to witness her face all scrunched up, like an old potato left on the kitchen counter for too long and her hand waving franticly in an effort to clear her sinuses.

A nice loud and boisterous fart is nice, too, but they scare me.  I'm at an age, now, where if I attempt to force out a loud booming fart, there's likely going to be some shrapnel that accompanies the flatulence.  Sharting is NOT enjoyable, by any means.  I'm sure there are some crazies out there who do enjoy the warm pasty feeling filling their shorts when a squirt happens, but not this guy.  Homey ain't playin'.  False alarms do happen.  I'm sure everyone has squeezed out a fart and it felt like something wasn't as it should be, but upon further investigation, happily learn that the fart was a dry one.  When this happens to me, I always buy a lottery ticket, before that luck runs out.  Overall, the quiet farts are awesome, but I don't know if I'd call that my favourite.

Sour burps suck.  Any time that stomach acid comes up to say "hello", sucks big time.  These always worry me, as my father suffered from "sour burps" for many years, drinking back glass upon glass of baking soda and water as a means to appease the indigestion that he was experiencing.  If only he had visited his physician and had some tests done, then perhaps they would have discovered the Esophageal Cancer that was forming in his throat and he could have been treated in time and survived having cancer.  Chalk that up to 20/20 hindsight.

Like flipping a coin.  Heads or tails.  Which do I prefer, overall?  Do I enjoy the intensity of a hearty belch or the grunginess of a nasty fart?  It's obvious I've done a lot of thinking on this matter.  More than a normal person would or should.  During the pandemic, I don't have a lot of things to occupy my time, so my thoughts tend to wander and when it does, it tends to question things that the normal mind may never conceive.  That's just a part of my charm, I suppose.

The verdict:  I'm going to have to say I like burping over farting.  Mainly because it's something that even an unsuspecting bystander can enjoy.  That's me.  Bringing happiness and joy to the masses during these trying times in the Coronavirus Pandemic, as well as the years to come. 😁

 

The Magic of Christmas

 

I remember it was the last day of school, before the Christmas break.  I was riding the school bus, and it was snowing.  Lovely big poofy snowflakes, covering the street and the windshield.  I was so excited for the Season to commence.  There was a true feeling of magic that filled the air.  Intoxicating, in a way, as it filled my thoughts with what might become of things over the next week or two.

I cannot pinpoint the moment when I realized that the magic that comes with the Christmas season died for me.  When I stopped looking toward the end of December with wonderment in my soul.  That feeling of good will being expressed from one person to another, without any expecting anything in return.  Being nice, simply for the act of being nice.  I'm not sure when that all died for me, but it's gone.  Missing from my life and I think it's something that I'd like back.

I remember the week after my birthday (which is November 29th), our family would venture into the city, to purchase a Christmas tree.  This was the first step in creating happy Christmas memories.  The tree would come home with us and spend the night in the bathtub for all the snow to melt off.  The small restroom would be flooded with the smell of pine and spruce.  The next day, the tree would be raised in the corner of the living room and we'd all take turns placing our favourite decorations after my mother had strung the coloured lights.  Of course, I'd be pushed aside by my sister and my mother, as they've done my entire life in regards to everything, followed by the claim that "You're not doing it right!"  Once complete, the tree would be the sole source of light in the living room and whether I played a big part or not in it's decorating, I marveled in it's glow.

Next would come the colourfully wrapped gifts, but because we didn't have a lot of money, growing up, many of the gifts were wrapped in the very same paper, presenting in a somewhat monotone collection of gifts.

Many Christmas' were rung in with Christmas spirits, only it was never the ghosts of Christmas past, present or future, but more so of the alcoholic brand.  Many o' Christmas memories were speckled with arguments and fights, really instilling that Good Will vibe into people.  I don't think that growing up in an alcohol-infused family is what killed Christmas for me.

If I had to guess, it may have been in high school.  There was an event, shall we say, that split up our family.  I moved out of the house, because I no longer felt safe in that environment.  It's a long story and perhaps I'll share it one day, but not today.

I remember being at my aunt's house when I was given a gift from my sister.  It was a T-shirt which I was quite displeased with and threw it back, claiming it wasn't good enough.  The next gift came a week later and it was something else that flipped my switch and I threw that back, too.  It was then that I realized that I was being a supreme asshole.  That a gift is something that someone sees and hopes that the recipient will like.  Having it thrown back in a fit of rage, has to be heartbreaking and from that point on, I changed my tune, as it were.  I would come to accept that second gift, which was a cassette of Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet.  I wasn't a fan of Bon Jovi, but whatever.  It's the thought that counts, right?

In the years and decades since, I've treated the gift exchanges as just that.  I don't honestly care if I receive a gift or not.  The only real gift I get that warms the cockles of my heart, is when I am able to purchase a gift that the recipient shows genuine affection and appreciation for.

Nowadays, Christmas is an occasion for my nephews.  They're young and I don't know if they understand the true nature of what the Christmas season is supposed to be about, but when I'm able to give something that truly brings wonderment to their face, it's magical.  This isn't something that I've gotten from them in a few years now.  In an effort to not create jealousy between the two boys, I try to purchase similar gifts.  I believe that the younger of the two boys, emulates his older brother and by giving similar gifts, I'm avoiding any jealousy or unwanted tension.  Maybe I'm wrong.  We shall see, this year, but the strategy hasn't happened in the last couple.

Christmas is for the kids.  Maybe that's what happened to me.  I grew up too quick.  The magic was lost due to too many birthdays.

When my little boy, Monkey (*Monkey is a cat, for anyone who doesn't know), came to live with me, that first Christmas was the best.  He was asleep upstairs in bed, while I snuck downstairs and placed a cat tree in the corner of the front room.  I returned to bed and we slept the night away.  In the morning, we came downstairs and I acted all bewildered and confused, while he investigated the new item taking up space in the house.  I ran upstairs to grab my camera, to take a photo of him playing with the feather that hung underneath, but by the time I'd returned, Monkey had that feather ripped off the underside of the tree and pieces of feather was strewn all around the room.  The boy works fast, but seeing how much joy he was having with that cat tree, warmed my heart.  That was the magic that I'd lost so many years before.

Nowadays, Christmas is a struggle.  I can't find that magic that I so desperately crave.  I'm a single fella with just a cat at my side.  Maybe I need something else to fulfill my life.  Maybe a special someone who possesses that magic...  Or maybe, magic is just and illusion.

Evolution Got It Right

 I've long thought about this before, and frankly, I'm sure many have, but sitting in the drive-thru, yesterday, fumbling through my wallet as the line of vehicles built up behind me, "I wish I had a third arm."

A third arm would be handy and hell, pardon the pun.  I bet texting while driving wouldn't be an issue anymore as two hands would always be on the wheel, while the third thumbed through social media.  Of course, your eyes wouldn't be on the road, likely, so maybe we, as humans, need to grow a third eye, as well.

Unpacking vehicles alone wouldn't be such a nuisance anymore.  No need to ask for someone to lend a hand, as you'd already have a third hand.  Waving to people would be extra celebratory.  Even jazz hands would be exciting to watch.  Watch...  Hmm.  You could wear a wrist watch on that extra arm.  Okay...  That one is a little silly.

The only drawback would be getting dressed.  I have no idea what the strategy would be for putting on apparel.  Nor have I thought of where the third arm would be situated.  I always figured growing straight out of your chest, but that would be unattractive.  Most of us, myself included, aren't very attractive sans clothing, so adding a protruding arm into the mix, would undoubtedly be somewhat frightening.  Plus, it'd likely get in the way in an industrial setting, and third arms would be getting lopped off left and right... and center.

I guess it could be coming out of our backs, but then how would we sit or sleep.  Most sleep on their side, but turning over would prove impossible as the third arm growing out of your back would act like a kickstand.  Handy if you're one of those adrenaline junkies who climb cliffs and mountains.  You could sleep on a mountain edge without fear of rolling off because of your built-in kickstand.

Speaking of adrenaline junkies, that third arm would impede parachuting apparatus'.  Bungee jumps would be okay, but wingsuits would be impossible, too.

As helpful as that third arm would be, I guess I haven't clearly thought out all the pros and cons yet.  Like which way would the hand fold.  Would it vary from person to person?  Two left folding hands to one right folding hand or vice-versa?  Would it be ambidextrous, meaning it could fold both ways?  That could be handy, again pardon the pun.  Fornication would be interesting...  Good god, can you imagine what the pornographic implications would be?  Shocking to say the least.

As inconvenient as it is, two arms is best.  The people behind me in the drive-thru are just going to have to be more patient.  Evolution got it right!!

Not A Cure...

 

I recall seeing a 4-wheel drive truck spinning it's tires on glare ice, back when I was in high school.  This truck was raised several inches, had big tires on it and a powerful engine that roared as the tires did very little to move the truck forward.  I shook my head as we passed by it in our 2-wheel drive sedan.  How were we able to progress, while this monster truck was virtually helpless?  I think it was the false sense of security that the driver of the truck had.  Here he had this truck that towered over everything else on the road, so when it came to ripping through ice and snow, he felt that he was second to none.  That nothing would stop him, yet a small sheet of ice rendered him helpless.

I often reflect on that motorist whenever I think of something or someone as having a false sense of security.  As the vaccines begin to siphon out and get distributed across the country and soon, the world, I'm thinking that those who get inoculated, there'll be a false sense of invincibility that follows.  

The definition of a vaccine is that it is essentially preventative.  That the drug that is administered will contain a weakened virus that will help the body's immune system to produce antibodies that will help stave off impending sickness, but it won't eliminate completely.  My guess or prediction, rather, is people will receive the vaccination then continue their lives as they once did, prior to the global shutdown due to the Coronavirus Pandemic.  Such behavior would be premature and I would imagine many more people would become infected as a result.

This blog has evolved much since I was first inspired (many weeks ago) by this subject.  Discussion in the beginning involved WHO would receive said vaccine.  I couldn't believe that was even a question.  There should be one logical line of treatment that follows upon the opening of that first box of vaccines.

1. Frontline caregivers; doctors, nurses, pharmacists, care home providers, etc.
2. Patients in hospitals, care homes, those most at risk.
3. Police, ambulance and firefighters.
4. Funnel down from there; High density populations, then down from there.

Latest news concerning the Covid-19 vaccine, lists side-effects and a warning to those with severe allergies.  Side effects include symptoms of Covid, so I'd imagine those who receive inoculation, may be required to quarantine for two weeks, which is a little ironic.  My research has presented that many of the side effects resemble that of getting the Coronavirus, which is expected, but leaves me scratching my head in confusion, anyway.

As for me...  I often joked throughout the year that if the shit that I've dealt with and handled in my job hadn't killed me, then Covid would have no effect.  That aside and given my severe allergies, it doesn't look like I'll be getting an inoculation any time soon, anyway.  I've never been one for getting the flu shot, so why risk getting sick (or worse) from getting the Covid-19 vaccination?

I've got a shit-ton of very stylish face masks and I don't mind wearing them.  This is just a calm before another storm.  People will get inoculated then carry on as they once did.  They'll either get sick or get others sick and we'll be in the same boat as we've been in 2020.

The vaccine is NOT a cure.  No one will get cured of the Corornavirus.  It's all preventative, so care will still be required.  We all gotta be smart, here.  As for the morons who are non-believers, we smart people are going to have to be smart for those idiots, too.

A New Chapter

 

It's been a long long time since I've been inspired to sit down at my computer to tap out words of inspiration.  Although, if memory serves, the words that I pounded out in years past, seldom possessed anything that could be considered, inspiring.

A lot of shit has gone down in the last few years, the most life-altering, would be the catastrophic concussion I got in March of 2018.  Slipping on some ice, I managed to knock myself unconscious which treated me to months of memory loss, speech impediment and an inability to walk in a straight line without bumping into walls and shelves.  The effects of the concussion continue to haunt me to this day.

I've moved into a new job that presents me with much responsibility, whether I welcome it or not.  My higher-ups seem to believe in me and my abilities more than I do, myself.  Little by little, though, I am beginning to come around.  That's a work in progress.

Other than those few things, I'm still surviving and still the opinionated bastard that I always was.  Only difference is now, I'm inspired once more to share my personal brand of rawgabbits online and rattle a few cages to see what shakes loose.  If y'all are onboard, I'm ready to get going on this silliness, and open up this new chapter.

MARATHON

There's been a lot of talk about marathons, lately.  Well, actually, I guess marathons have been around and chatted about for a very long time, but I've only really taken notice as of late.  I'm in no place where I'm physically capable or remotely interested in taking on such a challenge.  I'll leave that up to those more able to contend with such challenges.  People like comedian Bert Kreischer and hoards of other people.

There's a half marathon taking place tomorrow in my hometown.  It's got something to do with the City Police and raising awareness for crime or victims of crime or something.  I didn't really pay much attention to the tweet before I deleted it from the feed on my phone.  I'm not certain how a marathon raises awareness for such things, except maybe trains you for running away from criminals.  I don't know, but the one thing that did catch my eye was, half marathon.

"What constitutes as being a half of a marathon?" I wondered to myself, as I trekked up the stairs to my computer room, preparing to put finger to keyboard to search the internet for answers, before tapping out the first blog I've done since early-October of last year.  I thought, initially, that a marathon was any race that spanned a great distance.  However, if this was the case, couldn't just about any marathon be labelled as "half"?  For instance, if a marathon was a hundred miles in length, then a half marathon that was only, say twelve miles, certainly could not be called a 'half marathon'.  A specific number had to exist for any race to be deemed a marathon.

According to the old interwebs, a marathon is: A footrace being a little over 26 miles in length.  So I guess a half would be, obviously 13 miles and change.  So anything above that 26 miles is an Endurance race or what I perceive to be true torture.

A triumph of will over reason...  I like that one.  I have no will to ever attempt a marathon.  I'm physically unable to participate in a marathon of any kind.  For now, I'm just going to live vicariously through Bert Kreischer.  He possesses the one thing that I don't believe I have, the Mickey Mantle Gene.  If I do have the gene, then it exists in a different form which allows me the ability to pull off different kinds of feats.  For now, however, I'm going to continue to cheer on Mr. Kreischer.

Journey Into the Bizarre

It was vividly real.  He was standing just a mere couple of feet away from me, sputtering his illogical rhetoric, pausing only long enough to take a breath. That's when I got a word in edge wise.

His pompous ego has never allowed him to accept any kind of advice from anyone, though in the past, he's always claimed to have the bestest and the bigliest people on hand to provide him with the greatest guidance.  Today, we all know this to be bullshit, as well.

This, however, was a dream.  I know it was a dream, because for one, I awoke from this bizarre scenario about ten minutes ago, but the situation that took place, as I've stated, seemed so vividly real.  A second clue would be how strange the event, if you can describe it as such, was.  It involved mowing a lawn.  Personally, I don't care to mow my lawn, but do so out of necessity.  I'm allergic to grass, so each endeavour is met with a lot of sneezing, wheezing and hacking.  In the dream, none of this was happening.  Third clue, was that the "Tangerine Tyrant", himself, was mowing his own lawn and mine, as well, as a courtesy.  Of what I know, common courtesy is not a trait that this individual possesses.  Nonetheless, there he was.  Wearing his trademark dark suit and overly long red tie, pushing a small lawn mower across a field of matted gold-coloured grass, leaving a swath barely touched behind him.  On this day, I met the acting "president" of the United States, Mr. Donald John Trump.

The lawn was thick and matted, gold in colour, rather than a lush green like most well-kept lawns are known to be.  It was a terrible mess, the underbrush pulling it close to the earth, not allowing the decrepit mechanical device that Trump was attempting to use, to cut it.  The trail of which his machine left behind, was barely noticeable, but the look of accomplishment on his face was second to none.

Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, the billionaire began his legacy with a mere $14 million dollar loan from his father, Frederick Trump. (On a side note, I just learned this... Fred Trump's middle name was Christ.  How f*cking pompous is that?  Oh the ego that f*cker must have had.)  However, being spoiled and rich his whole life, I doubt Donald J. Trump has ever known an honest day's work in his entire life. Chalk that up as another hint that this was a bizarre dream concocted in my own head.

The lawn, as described, was golden yellow in colour.  It was thick and seemed to be growing back on itself.  It was reminiscent of Donald's hair.  Well coiffed, but wild in it's nature.  The mower that Trump was sweating over, was a standard manual push reel mower that was barely making a dent. His efforts rivaling the ineffectual nature of his presidency.  To my left, I had a newer gas mower, primed and running, but I could still overhear Trump's vexing exasperating grunts in the distance as he disappeared around a small building.  I took it upon myself to tackle the lawn with my modernized machine, successfully removing several inches of tangled lawn, in the process.

Hearing the roar of my gas-powered lawn mower as it cut a deep trench through the patch that he'd already "mowed", Mr. Trump came storming around the corner.  No one has seen him move with such urgency since he was going for a second piece of chocolate cake at his Mar-a-Lago resort in Florida.  Apparently the chocolaty treat is quite rich and delicious. (Much like Trump fancies himself.*)

The man was quite adamant, viciously attacking me, arguing that his method was the correct way to tackle the situation, despite the side-by-side comparison existing before us.  It was only when he paused to inhale, powering up for another relentless barrage of insults to fling at me, that I was able to explain that the RPMs on the gas mower, far exceeded that of the manual reel mower that he was struggling with.

I explained to the huffing and puffing Donald Trump how Revolutions Per Minute working in conjunction with mowing a lawn.  Wiping the white spittle that had formed in the corner of his mouth, Trump paused to learn a lesson in basic physics, learning that the over 3000-plus rpm's of my machine far exceeded the maybe 800 to 1000 rpm's that he was fighting to get out of his dulled archaic gadget.

As the realization warmed over his face, the mad man began to smile, as if he'd just discovered the wheel.  Now he was boasting to a small crowd that was forming, how he'd discovered this new futuristic implement that can be used to mow one's lawn.

Yeah.  That sounds like a real Trump-ism. Take credit for shit that already exists.  On that note, Trump flung his old reel mower, like a three year old having a tantrum, and walked off, leaving me alone in a field of yellowed grass.  Thank goodness, this is when I woke up, because as I said in the third paragraph, I hate mowing the lawn.  Even if it's in a dream.

.

*Trump fancies himself to be like his favourite pastries. Rich and delicious.
Why else would he turn himself into a human-sized marshmallow? 😆