Eagle

I did the one thing this morning that, for a long time, have wished to have a female companion to assist me with.  I guess, I could have a male companion help out, but I'd feel very uncomfortable about asking a dude to come help me out in the bathroom.  Standing shirtless in front of the mirror, doing the deed is uncomfortable enough, but to do it with another fella present would be crazy awkward.  The task that I speak of is, of course, shaving my head.  Get your damned minds out of the gutter, folks.

For a couple of years now, I've opted to shave my head instead of growing my hair out.  Previous to joining Saskatoon  Transit, I'd had longer hair.  My sister, a hairdresser, couldn't always fit me in for an appointment.  Working limited hours and constantly taxiing her two boys around the city and a portion of the province (these days), she never had the time and not one for bringing her work home with her, plus I'd never dream of asking for such an arduous favour.  So I'd let my hair grow out.  For awhile it was quite lengthy, too.  In the beginning it'd hang in my eyes and would be especially bothersome on a windy day until finally I stopped attempting to keep it from blowing across my face and eyes.  Working outside, though, caused my hair to bleach from the constant exposure to the sun, until finally it began to look like I was balding, even though (at the time) I was not.  I'd always had thin strands of hair, but I was never losing much of it.

Everything changed when I got hired onto Transit.  When I had my identification picture taken for my pass card, the way the camera flash reflected off my head, was truly devastating.  That evening, I did manage to get in to see my sister for an emergency hair appointment at which time, despite her reluctance to grant my wishes, she did shave my head completely bald.  After that, I'd purchased a mid-to-high range cordless clippers and the adventure began.

In the beginning, I attempted to shave every couple of days, but strips would be missed and I'd look like a bargain basement Mick Foley (as Mankind).  One time, another driver, who also worked as a part-time hairdresser, took pity on me and cut down some of the offending strays.  After that, I decided that I'd allow my hair to grow about a quarter to half an inch before taking it all off, right down to the skin.  I don't Bic my head, as my cranium doesn't appear to be very round.  Standing back, it looks like a human skull, but when I run my fingers over my scalp or run the clippers through my hair, I'm constant finding valleys and divots, thus making some areas more difficult to cut.  Hence the need for a spot checker.  Maybe even someone who'd be competent enough to touch up the troubled areas.  Then again, if I'm shaving my whole head anyway, there's a grey area where skill doesn't even come into play.  The fact that I do it myself, is proof and a half that no skill is required.

I remember the first time I'd shaved my head.  It was...  Oh shit, more than twenty years ago. 🤯  God damn I'm getting old. 

The first time I'd shaved my head, it was done by a friend and, ironically, it was done by a dude, my friend Joel.

Another friend had been diagnosed with cancer.  He was about to embark on the chemotherapy aspect of his treatment and was facing the inevitable hair loss.  Myself and a group of his friends, all agreed to shave our heads in support.  It was a procedure that none of us had, up to that point, so the initial victims, er I mean, participants suffered through some seemingly barbaric treatment.  I can't recall who went first, thankfully it was not me, but they came out of that bathroom which trickling streams of drying blood.  It was not a pretty sight.   After all, as memory serves, I don't believe we had any clippers.   Just a pair of scissors, normally used for cutting paper and fabric, not human hair, and a pack of Bic disposable razors.  It was amateur hour at it's finest.

The next fella came out a little less scathed, followed by a third friend, who decided to have some fun in the process, opting first to cut a horse shoe out of his head.  You know, hair on the sides and back, but the top was shaved bald.  It was quite a spectacle to see and he resembled a high school principal.  He did a couple different style that resulted in all of us laughing like idiots.  It was a good night, overall.

As for my experience, it was great.  By the time it was my turn to go under the knife, so to speak, and we'd all got our process down to a sweet science and I came out of the bathroom looking like a million dollars.  I'd always had concerns as my neck is wider than my head, so I always believed that I would look like a thumb with a goatee, but it wasn't so.  My neck is wider, but it didn't (& I don't) look as bad as I thought it would.

I'd love to have a female companion for a number of reasons.  It'd be nice to come home once in awhile and talk to someone who responds with actual words and not murmurs and meows, but I wouldn't trade that fuzzy faced boy, Monkey, for anything or anyone.

Now I sit here, all my hair removed except for a velvety layer, tapping away at my keyboard.  Procrastinating about having to leave the house.  Venturing out into the cooler temperatures.  Maybe I should have waited until this afternoon to have shaved my head, but then I wouldn't have been inspired enough to come share this experience with all of you.  Have a nice day, everybody! 🙂

Biffed!

Funny as hell, it was.  This small statured teen was running for the bus stop, with two large slushies, one in each hand, then BOOM!!!  The kid went down and went down hard.  His little body sliding across the remainder of the street, the two cups of icy soda went straight up in the air, before smashing down to the ground, turning the snow from bright white to red and blue.

The weather has been very mild, for the last week.  A warmer than usual winter, overall, but this past week found the mercury rising to nearly double digits.  Astonishing for January in Saskatchewan.  The weather reverted back to colder temps, but instead of getting the snow that was forecasted for last night, instead I think it may have rained.  That combined with the constant melting-freezing-melting process that seems to be happening, the ground has (virtually) turned to glare ice.  It was rare, for me today, to spot any stretches of sidewalk that wasn't covered in an inch of ice.  Two places on my route, to be exact.

I've shared my mishap on ice from 2018, where I slipped in the back parking lot at my [then] job as a courier, knocking myself out for nearly a half hour.  Thankfully, it was only a brisk night, rather than one of those hellacious negative forty nights, otherwise I probably would have froze to death.  The result of that knock on the head was a year of my life rehabilitating and the struggle to regain my memory in it's entirety is an ongoing battle.  A fight which experts have told me will never come to fruition.  That fateful slip on the ice, literally changed my life from that point on.  Long term memory, fleeting at best.  Short term, not the best either.  A prime example would be this morning.  My cat has lived with me for nearly fourteen years.  During this time, I've obviously fed him every morning, yet this morning, it seems I'd forgotten, but boy did he remind the shit outta me when I got home. 

So seeing that kid biff it out on the street, I should have been more concerned, rather than laughing out loud.  I did ask if he was alright, but he ignored my concern and immediately asked for a free ride.  Little bastard!  I'm glad he wiped out.  Even better that he dumped his drinks.

I saw another prime example of people not really thinking about the surface that they were walking on, as I was sitting at a traffic light.  I watched as a man and a woman were slowly sidling up the sidewalk until they came to a sizeable spanse, where they stopped.  The man said something to the woman and next thing ya know, he's picked her up in his arms and takes one step onto the slippery surface.  His progress did not last long enough to take a second step.  DOWN he went with a tremendous thud, his female companion falling on top of him.  I let out a small gasp followed by a snicker because, it was f*cking stupid to attempt whatever the hell he was trying to do.  Kudos for trying to keep chivalry alive, but holy shit!  The light changed to green and I soon lost sight of the two of them, him lying flat on his back and her perched neatly on his chest, unscathed by the ordeal.

. 

❆❅❄❅❆

The Man In The Brown Suit

In the brief time that I've been a transit operator, I've seen many different locations all around town.  Places that I, otherwise, would never have seen if I were doing anything else.  I've driven down new streets and seen many new things.  In my travels I've spotted new restaurants and eateries that I've since tried. Some good, some not so much.  I've seen parks and roadways and all sorts of places that would otherwise go unnoticed.  Especially for someone, like myself, who rarely ventures out if I don't otherwise need to.

In addition to all the new scenery, I've also revisited old memories of past haunts.  One route takes me down Ruth Street, past a location where me and friends would get drunk at, then stumble home as we lived close-by.  The route I'm currently doing in my afternoons, takes me past a house where I lived...  HOLY SHIT!!  Over twenty years ago, now.  I remember I moved out the spring following 9/11.  (*Holy crap...  Sorry.  This realization just freaked me out a little.) 😲

I lived in the basement suite of 70 Laurentian Drive.  It was a nice little place.  A one bedroom, with a private entrance.  It had a cool room, under the stairs and a bar in the living room, where I stored movies and shit.  Unfortunately, there was a washer and dryer behind a door in my kitchen, which the upstairs landlord used, so they'd frequently barge into my domicile unannounced and I'd mostly feel awkward.  Just imagine relaxing in your underwear, watching TV, when your landlord comes booming down the stairs.  It was ridiculous, to say the least.

I had moved into that place after moving from the afore mentioned house where I'd stumble home from the bar to.  I worked nights and needed the peace and quiet that I wasn't getting from where I was.  For the most part, everything worked well.  Come home from work and the landlord and his wife would be gone already.  I'd wind down a little bit watching TV, then I'd retire to my dark bedroom for a few hours of shut eye. 

One day, I'd come home from work, the last night before a couple days off.  As per the usual, I'd camp out in the arm chair, staring at the TV.  About an hour or so in to my programs, I started hearing foot steps upstairs.  None of the cars belonging to the landlord and his wife were parked in the driveway, so they must have company staying upstairs, I thought.  All day long, however, these thunderous footsteps would wander from the living room, which was directly above mine, to the kitchen.  Then out of the kitchen and down the hall to the far bedrooms, also located above my similar rooms.  The kitchen was above mine, as was the hallway, bathroom and so on.  The footsteps continued in this pattern all day long.  Heavy steps, that echoed throughout the house.  If I was going to get any sleep, it wasn't going to be that afternoon.

From about nine in the morning until about thirty minutes before the landlord and his spouse would return home,  A couple hours later, Denny, the landlord, came down the stairs to run a load of laundry.  We exchanged pleasantries, then I asked him who the houseguest upstairs was?  Denny cocked his head to the side like the confused mutt that he was, forcing me to explain what I was referencing to.  

"All day," I explained to him, "I've been listening to footsteps that walked heavily from the living room, to the kitchen to the far end of the house and back."  I explained that it'd been occurring all day long and that I wasn't able to get any sleep because of the loud racket.

With a look of clarity on his face, Denny leaned back against the door jam that separated the small kitchen from the living room.  He followed that facial expression with a look of hesitation, then explained that there wasn't any houseguest roaming about upstairs.  He paused for a moment then said, "It was probably the man in the brown suit."

Denny had only recently gotten married to his bride, moving into her existing residence.  (For the life of me, I can't remember her name), had lived in the house for many years, residing there even before meeting her, now, husband, Denny.  He continued to explain how in addition to the odd occurrences that happen from time-to-time, there have been a couple actual sightings.   Most notable was his wife's introduction to the "man in the brown suit". 

Apparently, she'd been awoken from a deep slumber by an unnerving presence.  When she'd opened her eyes, she saw a tall man in a brown suit looming over top of her as she laid in bed.  Frightened for her life, she sprang out of bed and ran to the kitchen to grab a weapon to protect herself, only to discover that she was alone in the house.  Nobody, not a soul...  Wait a second!  Over the years, she'd grown accustom to the presence and never gave it much thought beyond that.

I was taken aback by the response to my query.  It didn't scare me, to be honest, and moving forward from that time, I'd continue to hear odd things, but whatever it was or whoever it was, never ventured down the stairs, so I was never bothered directly.

Eventually, the landlord asked me to move out as they were looking to convert the basement suite into a lounge area for their kids to hang out in.  On the day that I was to move out of the tiny apartment, the ghost upstairs was having a fit.  I don't know why it chose that day in particular, but I had a feeling that it was protesting my leaving.  Not that it was attached to me or had any sort of connection, but I always got the feeling that whatever it was, had a deep dislike of Denny, which as I got to know him over the brief time that I'd lived there, I could understand.  Denny was a real boob.

As I sat, waiting for family to come over and help me move, I sat at the bottom of the stairs and listened as the spirit upstairs slammed ever cupboard door in [their] kitchen.  I don't know how many doors were up there, but rest assured, every last one was being slammed repeatedly.

I've had many encounters with the paranormal over the years.  In recent years, some of it occurs in my very own house.  Many weird and strange things happen here, at home.  Other stuff has happened when I was at work, in a variety of vocations, even as a bus driver, I've had some strange shit happen.  I'm not psychic, but I do believe that I'm sensitive to the presence of weird shit.  No time to expand on that subject, at the moment, but I will delve into that shit at a later time.

For now and for the next two months, I'll continue to drive past the ol' homestead and every time I do, like a person with Tourette's, I look at the house and utter the words, "The man in the brown suit."  I would not be shocked if I were driving past one day and actually saw a man in a brown suit peering out the window. 😄

Taking The Plunge

Spoke to Whitney care of Rock 102 FM, today.  Yesterday the discussion revolved much around her co-host, Sully.  A Vancouver transplant, Sully had never experienced a real winter.  Not a harsh winter like the ones that Saskatchewan is notoriously known for.  There's a reason why the late-Roddy Piper used to refer to Saskatoon as the coldest place on Earth.  Clearly it is not, but sometimes it does feel like it.

Saskatoon experienced a warmer than usual autumn and early winter.  The snow really never flew until after the New Year had already begun.  It was a nice change from the ordinary, but in the back of my mind, I knew that we, people, were going to pay dearly for the good weather.  Last Wednesday, proved just that as temperatures took a nasty plunge.  The frigid polar freeze timed itself perfectly for Sully, who despite being warned of how terrible the weather would be, hopped on a plane and flew, he and his family, to Hawaii.  Good timing, on his part.  Perfectly timed, as by the time his jet lands in Saskatoon coming back, the cold snap will have passed almost entirely and Sully will have missed the worst of it.

So the discussion on the radio, yesterday, was revolving around how to get back at Sully.  People were calling in suggestions on how to further his journey into being Saskatchewanized, but not much by way of punishment for missing the cold spell.  

While flipping through Facebook a few days ago, I saw a post from a friend.  She and a gal pal, donned in swimwear, took to the South Saskatchewan for their own polar plunge.  I don't know how it turned out for them, but it intrigued me all the same.  A Polar Plunge, I texted in to the station.  Sully should jump in the South Saskatchewan, just as my friend had, and that should be quite chilly.  I was immediately prompted to call in, but as I was working at the time, I was unable, but arranged to call in this afternoon.

It was a lengthy discussion, lasting almost twice as long as previous discussions.  We conversed on a few topics, finally coming around to the polar plunge idea.  I even offered to do it with him, as I would never suggest anything that I wouldn't be willing to do, myself.  Plus, a polar plunge sounds kind of fun and it's something that I'd love to say that I've done.  Just like being in a vehicle roll over (controlled) and driving a truck through a house.  All Bucket List items.

Somehow, the discussion came around to my telling Whitney that I had fallen through ice, once.  This admission took her by surprise.  At her behest, I described the incident at hand.  I explained how my sister's first husband had a dugout behind the gas station that he ran, just outside the city, to the east.  In the dugout, my former brother-in-law had fish, so to prevent the ice from freezing completely, which would kill the fish, he ran an air hose to the water's edge, aerating the water, thus preventing it from freezing.  However, sometimes when the temperatures dipped to the extremes that it has been over the last few days here, the air hose would freeze which required one of us gas jockey's to run out to the ice and pull the hose in to thaw.

Earlier that day, as memory recalls, it was a strange day, weather wise in Saskatoon.  I was out at my dad's house.  I remember despite it being a Sunday afternoon in January, it was also four degrees above zero.  I was outside, literally, in just a T-shirt and I felt fine.  I had to work a few hours later, out at the gas station and like usual, the weather took a nasty turn and it was about -30C by six o'clock that evening.  I can't remember who it was that I was working with, but it may have been one of the teenage girls that worked there.  That's likely why I volunteered to go check on the hose and lug it in if it were froze.

What happens next, I only remember in chunks.  I remember walking down the narrow path that had been trudged in the snow.  I remember gazing past the water's edge to see the ice hole had froze, prompting me to get on the ice to pull the hose out.  The ice was thick enough to walk on.  My ex-brother-in-law used to go ice fishing on the ice, throughout the winter months, so I never hesitated to step onto the ice.  As I was pulling the hose out, I remember hearing cracking in the ice.  It wasn't thunderous.  It never echoed off the buildings or anything, but it was loud enough to provide me with my very own Wile E. Coyote moment.  No soon than hearing the cracking noises, I looked up at the camera that wasn't there, looked through to the imaginary audience, mouthed 'Oh shit!', then disappeared from frame.

If the make believe camera were to pan down to the ice level, it would have recorded my have fallen though the ice up to my armpits, like the fellow pictured above.  I was wearing a heavy parka, ski pants, heavy boots, mitts and a toque.  I was dressed for the weather at hand, but not for taking a quick swim in the frigid water.  At first, I just sat there, dumbfounded by the predicament I happened to find myself in.  There was only two of us working and it being a functioning gas station, my cohort would likely not have an opportunity to come look for me in the near future.  Plus, as a petite teen, it's doubtful she'd have the strength to pull me out, anyway.  

So I was stuck, forced to think about how I might pull myself out of this hole, without further breaking ice.  The weight of all the garments I was wearing would surely pull me under and that would suuuck.  As I glanced about for my options, I couldn't help but reflect that it really didn't feel that bad.  I was dry, despite being submerged almost to my shoulders.  "I don't know what all those people are whining about." I thought to myself, referencing any interviews I've watched where people had fallen into icy waters.  No sooner had that thought expired, than I began feeling the water grazing my legs.  Now I was getting saturated and I had to act fast before I would weigh more than I could muscle.

I can't recall the exact strategy or method I used to clench and claw my way out, but [[SPOILER ALERT]] I survived.  I got the the beach and began walking back to the main building.  It wasn't far, but it was enough distance that made it challenging.  Because the temperature was SO low, lower with the wind chill is factored in, I'd only taken a few steps before my soaked clothing began to crystalize and freeze.  I was reminded of the scene in Terminator 2: Judgement Day, when the T-1000 is frozen with liquid nitrogen.  How it crystalized then solidified.  I was not in a position where I was in danger of freezing solid 🥶, but if I were in the middle of nowhere, who the hell knows.  In this case, the clothing froze in small sections separated by cracks.  All-in-all, it was kind of neat, but I must have had a guardian angel at my side that night, as things could've went really bad.

Of course, I gave Whitney the abridged version, cutting out some of the descriptive dialogue, but that's what happened.  I made it into the gas station, my coworker was shocked and scared, calling the boss who arrived with my sister and a bag of dry clothes.  They were all so concerned about my well-being, but I really didn't see what the big deal was all about.  I survived.

I don't think a polar plunge would be all that devastating.  It's a controlled event.  No one jumps in blindly, I wouldn't think.  Not smart people, anyway.  There's definitely some planning involved.  No big whoop.  Like I said before;  I wouldn't suggest anything that I wouldn't be willing to do myself.  I mean...  What could possibly go wrong?! 😄

No Way Jose!!

 

I'm a cat person.  In part, because I'm allergic to (most) dogs, but mostly because cats are awesome.  Watch any cat video on YouTube and try to convince me otherwise.  Cats are also fairly self reliant and don't need that constant coddling that dogs need.  I can't visit my sister's house without their Golden Retriever showering me with attention and constantly lying at my feet, starving for attention.

Another benefit to having a cat is, never having to take him for walks around the block or through the park.  He gets most of his exercise in the house, but in the warm weather, he likes to venture about in the backyard.  Daily walks around the perimeter, assuring that we are secure, I always say to him, jokingly.  When the temperatures dip down to the frigid temperatures that we've been experiencing over the last week and both, he and I, are more than happy to stay confined within the warmth of our house.  Meanwhile, I see my neighbour, bundled up into a furry ball, venturing out into the Arctic blast with dog in tow.  Neither one of them really look like they want to go for that walk and who can blame them?

The other day I was driving home when I noticed a bundled up person dragging an object behind her on the sidewalk.  As I drew nearer, I realized that the object was a small dog.  Completely bare, the short-haired dog looked catatonic.  It's tiny body, rigid, even when it was picked up and held in the person's arms.  I couldn't help but wonder just how important it actually is to take dogs for walks? 🤔  Everyone needs exercise, but can't daily walks be put on hold when the temperatures outside dip to below minus fifty with the wind chill?

I felt like there may have been a conversation between the two as they stepped outside into the frigidity of the morning.  Dog likely pulled back on the leash, exclaiming "No way, Jose, am I going out into that!!"  His momma probably tugged on the leash, coaxing the little one out the door, all the while uttering kind words to the dog in a soothing manner, "It's okay.  It's not that bad."

"Not that bad?!" I imagined the dog thinking, "You're wrapped in multiple layers to keep out the cold wind, while I'm standing here buck naked!!" 🥶

Granted, some dogs absolutely LOVE the outdoors, especially when the temperatures get so damned cold.  My sister's first dog, Tucker, was a pure breed Saint Bernard and I felt terrible for that lumbering soul in the summer months when the mercury would rise about thirty degrees Celcius.  However, when that same mercury dipped thirty degrees below zero, that dog was happier than a pig in mud.  When my mom would dog sit Tucker at her house, he loved running around her huge backyard, jumping, digging and rolling around in the deep snow.  She could pull a chair up to the back door and watch that dog have the time of his life back there.

Not Tucker, but this is what he'd look like after his play sessions in the snow.

I've seen all kinds of outfits that people get for their dogs.  I love watching these examples awkwardly walking down the sidewalk, marching like Soviet soldiers, kicking their feet high in the air in an attempt to shed their little shoes.  Then there's the little cloaks and other clever outfits crafted for their comfort. Many seem to fight it, while others almost seem to embrace it.  I recall a little Boston Terrier that belonged to a woman I used to work with.  His name was Riley and he wore a couple of different outfits, but the favourite one seemed to be a little leather bomber jacket like something you'd see a hot shot pilot wear in an old World War II film.  It was awesome.

Dress for the occasion.

The best thing about having a cat is, arguably, the worst thing about having a cat.  They shit indoors, so we can all avoid going outside in the cold, but then I have to shovel that shit out and I don't know what's in the food I feed that boy, but golly them shit's are rank.

Perhaps I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.  I've never owned a dog, myself.  I grew up with dogs, on the farm, but they were fairly self reliant.  No walks necessary as we lived on a farm and they were allowed to run freely.  Usually along side of my dad with he was working in the field.  Even when the temperatures got so unbelievably cold, those dogs stayed indoors, pausing only to go potty outside.  

I don't know where I'm going with this.  Suffice it to say; If it's too cold outside, I think we can shelve the exercise for that day or few days.  It's not like the deep freeze stays forever.  A week or two at the worst, though admittedly, it feels much longer.  Your pet, I'm sure, will appreciate it.  

That and.... Cats rule and dogs drool. 😁

Window Into My Soul

It's existed for as long as humankind has drawn breath.  Poets and playwrights have printed pages upon pages about the concept of love.  Defined, it is described a plethora of different ways, all culminating in one general theme:  It is an emotion that trumps all else, an overwhelming feeling that pushes past superficial components.  It's that feeling that hits you like a sucker punch, that convinces you that life cannot be any better without that person sharing your life.

I realized I possessed that feeling this morning.  As I gazed into their loving eyes, I realized at that precise moment, that I was exactly where I needed to be and that I don't desire to be anywhere else.  I wanna scoop this person up and smother them with hugs and kisses.  I wanna shout from the highest rooftops.  Climb the highest mountain peak.  Hire a pilot to tow a banner declaring what is causing my heart to burst at it's seams.  I want to grab a ghetto blaster, like John Cusack in Say Anything, filling the air with "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel, a song also composed for a true love. 😍  I want to jump on a sofa, like a crazed Tom Cruise on the Oprah show, screaming with excitement.

I cannot fathom a single moment without this lovely personality in my life and have found myself soaring into complete despair and depression when I think of my life before they graced me with their existence.  This morning, as I was serving them their breakfast, it hit me.  I grabbed a hold of them and squeezed.  I was overwhelmed with emotion and failing to stand on a soap box in the middle of the town square, I will use this venue to declare my overwhelming true love for....  My cat, Monkey.  He is truly the greatest entity to enter my life.  I love that kid with every fibre of my being.

I love you, Monkey.
You're simply the best!

💘

 

4 Fox Sake

 

I noticed today that I've been saying "For F*ck Sake" a lot.  A Lot.  A LOT!!!  And, honestly, it's annoying the shit outta me. 😒 I don't know when I started saying it, nor how long it's taken for me to realize that I am saying it. 🤨  I do know that it's not something that I've said my entire life, because I do know that I haven't.

If memory serves me...  I believe it was a permanent resident of my dad's vocabulary. 🤔  A truly poetic swearologist, my dad was.  He could lace together a plethora of curse words that sounded as lovely as a Shakespearean sonnet.  I've never heard another person do it like my father could.  If I had to, I'd say Ricky from Trailer Park Boys, is about as close as comes.

Oddly, I've been thinking about my dad a lot, lately.  I've been watching some show on TV about celebrities confronting ghosts that haunted them once upon a time, doing so through psychic Kim Russo.  They, Russo and whatever celebrity is featured that episode, exchange some casual banter, usually involving loved ones who've passed away previous to filming the episode.  I don't know if it's real or not, but the information she reveals is usually bang on accurate.  Real or not, it gets a guy thinking.  If I were in that situation, with someone who has psychic abilities, who would come back to message me or more accurately, who would I not want to hear from?

Of course, I'd welcome anything offered my way.  I'm kind of a mark for that shit, but if it is real and accurate, do I really want to hear how disappointed my dad is in me and the shitty life I've lead?  I live with that regret every day.  I don't need a reminder from beyond the grave. FML.

Could it be?  In thinking about the what ifs and the what was's, I was reminded of all the times I'd disappointed him when he was alive? 🤔 All those times I'd f*ck up and he'd give me that look.  You know that look!  Every son who's f*cked up has seen that look. 😠 My dad would yell, "FOR FUCK SAKE!!!" Followed by a compilation of expletives linked together like the limerick of a deranged psychopath.  It was scary as f*ck when it was happening, sure.  I'll grant ya that, but f*ck me, thinking back, man. When I hear a parent in the next aisle at the grocery store go postal on their annoying kids, I smile and think about my dad. 😊💬

Holy shit. 😲 When I set out to type this blog out, I was just looking for a way to delete the phrase "for f*ck sake" from my vernacular.  Instead I had a psychological breakthrough.  Holy f*ck!! 😄

Ricky (Robb Wells)
Trailer Park Boys

Excellent Swearologist