The Little Tramp

I had some time to kill before going into my doctors appointment today, so I took the opportunity to continue listening to the Howard Stern program that was repeating on Sirius 100.  Rarely do I tune into any other channel on Sirius, as I really enjoy the Stern programming, but it is a rare occasion that I get to listen to a show in it's entirety, so being allowed a few extra moments today, was a gift, for lack of better terminology.

Howard was, like always, at the top of his game, this time ragging on the Tony Awards, which aired last night on CBS.  Howard praised Neil Patrick Harris, who hosted the event, as being fantastic.  Harris has been on the Stern program in the past and has always proved himself to be a great guest.  However, the rest of the Tony Awards, did not meet up to the notoriety that it's self-boasting tends to celebrate.  Howard proceeded to ridicule just about everything and everyone associated with the program, stating that he greatly disapproved of the pretentious attitudes displayed by the participants.  Even going so far as to poke fun at acting legend Bernadette Peters, who introduced an award using a high society sounding tone of voice and accent that greatly distanced her from where her roots lie.  "She's from f*ckin' Queens!" Howard chuckled.

Disappointed greatly in the awards show, Howard explained that he wanted to got to bed and watch True Blood, before turning in for the evening.  Howard works a very early time for his radio program, so late nights for the King of All Media, are a rarity.  Only he found himself with about twenty minutes to spare, before True Blood was to begin.  He could've continued to watch the Tony's, but he was so turned off by the behavior of "those theater types", that he opted instead to self-pleasure himself.

This is a subject that Howard speaks about quite often on his show.  He's a married man, with a beautiful wife and a healthy relationship, but sometimes a man's gotta do, what a man's gotta do.  Besides, which his lovely wife was out of town.  So to his laptop he went.  

Howard is a huge proponent of the YouPorn website.  It's like YouTube, only with a more "colourful" catalog.  He also tends to lean towards watching "babysitter porn".  I've never seen it, but every time I hear about it, I think of the movie "The World According To Garp", starring Robin Williams.  I'm not sure if it's because he has sex with the babysitter in the movie or that other scene where his wife accidentally bites off the dick of a guy she was giving a hummer to in the driveway of her house.  Either way, the subject doesn't seem very appealing to me.  And it didn't seem to interest Howard either, though I'm sure it was for entirely different reasons.  He claims to have watched the same video over and over several times, so decided to look for a new subject.

The Howard Stern Program has had a lot of adult entertainers come visit the studio over the years and so he drew inspiration from one of his past guests, Little Lupe.  He typed her name into the search engine on the YouPorn site, but found nothing by her.  Some "artists" wish to retain their integrity and resent the free status that is YouPorn, just as some mainstream programs cannot be found on YouTube.   Instead of finding Little Lupe under the YouPorn site, a plethora of other "Little's" came to light, including Little Person porn, which is funny as hell to watch.  Bridget the Midget....  Ha ha....  I tells ya....  But Howard wanted nothing of the sort.  Instead he found something that sparked his attention.  "Little Tramp Has Sex For The First Time".

Howard began explaining the premise to his co-host, Robin Quivers and his audience, but I blocked it all out, laughing hysterically because I thought at first it was old sex footage of Charlie Chaplin, aka "The Little Tramp"...  Ha ha haaa....  Can you imagine?  I certainly did.  I laughed so hard, tears began to form in the corners of my eyes.  I continued to laugh as I crossed the parking lot, heading for my doctor's office and even as I approached the reception desk, I still had a stupid-ass grin on my face.  It was a perfect end to an otherwise troubling day.

Only The Good Die Young

At long last, I sat down tonight and viewed the movie "50/50", which stars Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Seth Rogen.  Levitt portrays a cancer patient who learns that he's got a rare form of cancer that has a survival rate of 50%.  The story shows how he deals with his own mortality, but more importantly, how even though he's able to bravely manage his condition, he is oblivious to how those around him are being affected.  The movie is loosely based on a friend of Seth Rogen's, so the subject matter hit pretty close to home for the Canadian actor.

My own father, passed away a little over thirteen years ago, succumbing to his own cancers (yes, cancers plural).  I can't recall which two types of cancer he had.  I believe one was in his esophagus, which is one that he'd battled (unknowingly) for a number of years.  There was another cancer two, which has spread from the first, but I can't recall what it was.  Needless to say, by the time medical help was sought, it was too late and he died a couple of months later.

That is pretty much my only experience with cancer directly.  Indirectly, I had a friend around the same time that was stricken with testicular cancer.  At the time, in a show of solidarity, a few of us friends all shaved our heads, bald, so he would not be the only one to stand out.  I thought it was a nice gesture, and I think he appreciated it.  I remember the night we all did it, the shaving of our heads, that is.  No one really knew what they were doing, but had some fun with it all the same.  I remember my friend, D_____, the fellow with the cancer, went first, opting for a mohawk, before finally taking it all off.  Next was T_____, his "toxic twin" (drinking pal), who instead, shaved the top of his head, leaving the sides and back, resembling himself as an old man, before finally taking off all his hair.  A couple more did it before it was finally my turn.  As I'd stated, no one really knew what they were doing at first, so there were a lot of nicks and cuts on those first few craniums, before everyone honed their craft.  By the time it was my turn, all hair was removed without incident or injury.

Watching the movie, tonight, though, I came to a conclusion.  A sort of theory, if you will.  Despite my outward appearance, I've always remained fairly healthy.  My family seem to all thing that I am destined for an early grave, but they're full of shit and should really worry about their own affairs and leave my shit alone. However, I truly believe that I can't (and likely won't) ever be stricken with anything major like cancer, and this is the reason why:  I don't have anyone to share it with.

By this I mean, the people that I've experienced cancer and serious shit with, have always had a strong family presence or a loved one like a girlfriend or alike to lean on in times of strife.  I don't have that.  I'm not particularly close (in that way) to my family, nor do I have anyone of significant importance in my life, like a girlfriend or anyone.  No one I would burden with trivial shit like cancer.  I haven't a soul, which I believe will ultimately save my life.  "You can't lose everything, if you don't have anything to lose."  The downside, of course, is the fact that I will probably continue to be lonely and miserable.  So it's not all sunshine and roses.

I do not have cancer, nor do I speculate that I will be stricken with it anytime soon.  I do, however, go into the hospital on June 29th, to be put under anesthesia for some sort of procedure to find out why I continue to choke on food, but I doubt that will be anything too terribly serious, and doubt very much that I would die from such a routine procedure.  I mean, f*ck!  I've had the same routine performed on me a half dozen times, while completely conscious, so the positive is that I'm going to be under some heavy duty narcotics, and drugs are ALWAYS fun.

Rocker Billy Joel has the song "Only The Good Die Young".  There are no worries by this cat, as I'm not as good as people think I am, so I won't be dying anytime soon.  Besides which.., I'm a Juggalo!  And wicked clowns, never NEVER DIE!!!

Fudge Packer

Last week, I was in a particular mood.  For some unknown reason, I had a hankering for some ice cream cake.  In my youth, whenever I would get such a craving, I would answer the urge with a visit to Dairy Queen.  I don't know what the recipe is for their soft-serve ice cream, and frankly I don't care what the process is that goes into it's smooth velvety coolness.  I just know it is a delight when I feel it ooze down my gullet.

Granted, the folks at DQ tend to work a lot with a variety of nuts and alike (and that's just the people who work there - BA DUM BUMP), and the fact that they also make their confections with an abundance of peanuts and other legumes, makes my visits even more sparse.  I have a nut allergy.  Bad enough to put me in the hospital..., or worse.  However, on rare occasions, I throw caution into the wind, cross my fingers and hope for the best.  Hope that no cross-contamination has occurred in the preparation of my forthcoming ice cream treat.

So last week, when I got that rare craving for ice cream cake, I found myself walking into my local Dairy Queen location, with a grin on my face.  In the past, I'd always resorted to getting the "pizza"-style ice cream treat, but all they had this time 'round, was shit with peanuts and pecans and a whole host of other shit that should never find their way into any desert dish, let alone my ice cream bowls.  My eyes, instead moved to the cakes and logs.  

The prices have risen quite substantially since my last purchase, so an actual round "cake-style", was out of the question, as they neared the $30 mark.  I opted instead to go with an ice cream log.  The price was just south of the twenty dollar mark, still a little pricey for this thrifty soul, but the cravings overrode my self-respect and I found myself quickly exiting with a ice cream log in tow.

I'd never had a log that consisted of the ingredients that this treat did.  The bottom layer was soft chocolate ice cream.  The next level was crumbled cookie, then a thick layer of frozen fudge.  After that was Dairy Queen's trademark soft-serve vanilla ice cream, then topped with a subtle layer of whipped cream and dusted with rainbow-coloured sprinkles.  By this description, alone, I shouldn't have to inform you that this was tasty as a motherf*cker!  However, I'm going to tell you anyway.  This was tasty as a motherf*cker!  YUM, with a capital MMMMMM.

The ratios of each participating ingredient was perfect.  The only complaint I would air, and it's not really a complaint, but it would be the fudge.  The fudge is packed into the log, insanely tight.  I don't know the methodology used by Dairy Queen for packing the fudge into an ice cream log, but whomever is saddled with that task, is probably one of the top fudge packers in all of the industry.  If fudge packing were an Olympic event, then Canada would most certainly take the gold medal for fudge packing at this summer's Olympic Games in London, England.

Where does a person learn such a craft as fudge packing, and how many hours per day of fudge packing, did this individual have to endure, to become the champion fudge packer that he (or she) has become.  I feel bad, assuming the mystery fudge packer is a male.  I'm sure that a woman could also pack fudge in such a fashion, as well.  Although, given how tightly the fudge is packed into this log, a lot of upper body strength would be required.  The mystery fudge packer, in question, packed quite a wallop, getting that fudge packed in there so tightly.

I suppose, in a day when nearly everything is mechanized, it'd be easy to speculate that the fudge packer is not human at all.  That it's actually a robotic machine of sorts, that continuously packs fudge everyday.  The machinery alone, though, required to pack fudge into the logs so tightly, would be quite large and complicated.  Likely, it'd take up considerable room, and the Dairy Queen in my neighbourhood, is not that large, nor would their sales of ice cream logs (or any other fudge packed confection) would be high enough to warrant such a pricey contraption.  I prefer to think that Dairy Queen keeps the process close to tradition and uses human fudge packers, rather than mechanized ones.  Plus, a machine would fail to add a touch of love with each packed fudge.

Of course, I'm sure the freezing process probably plays a part in the fudge remaining as tightly packed as it is.  After packing the fudge in there so tightly, you'd want to flash-freeze that log as quick as possible.  No one wants to contend with fudge running out of that orifice after being slammed in there.  Fudge can make quite a hefty mess when allowed to run all over.  That is not a mess I would enjoy cleaning up afterward.  Especially after hammering all that fudge up into that hole.  So a good flash-freezer is a necessity.

Whether they are male or female, I salute and take my hat off to DQ's resident fudge packer.  I would not wish to shake their hand though.  I'm not being prejudicial towards their choosing to be a fudge packer, but given the environment they work in, I can only speculate that they also handle a lot of nuts in their hands.  Rolling them between their digits, their oils brushing off and sticking to their fingers.  It's one thing to be a fudge packer, exclusively, but I draw the line at anyone who handles nuts.  No offense.  To each their own.  However, I don't wish to run the risk of shaking this fudge packer's hand, and having nut juice spread to my hands and making me sick.  Plus, if you take into account, all the fudge packing this individual (or individuals) do on a daily basis, the upper body strength would be enough to rip my arm out of the socket.  And that, my friends, would suck balls!

Dead Silence

"As it was going down it was getting louder and louder and then all of a sudden it was just quiet." described an eye witness via telephone interview Monday, "When it hit the ground, I didn't see it, but then there was just dead silence."

Saturday morning two planes collided in the skies over the small town of St. Brieux, Saskatchewan, and while such plane crashes, similar to this, crash all over the world, there are usually mitigating circumstances involved.  Normally some evidence that would point investigators in the right direction, in hopes of solving the mystery of why two perfectly good aircraft, with two (presumably) capable pilots, met with such tragedy.  As of the writing of this piece, nothing clear has been released by investigators.

The mystery that plagued me, though, ever since first learning of this tragedy this morning, is how the f*ck is it possible for two planes to collide head-on?  If the air space over St. Brieux was congested with hoards of flying aircraft, one could plausibly concede that such traffic would be a contributing factor to the crash.  However, being that St. Brieux (and area) is practically in the middle of nowhere, chances are that this factor is not a contributor to the accident.

So how the hell do you suppose that the ONLY two airplanes in the sky for virtually hundreds of miles around, managed to plow into one another.  I speculated that one was flying out of the direction of the sun and the other was flying into it, but according to authorities, and given the time of day, this simply was not the case.  So I am baffled.  Not to 'toot my own horn', but I'm pretty good at deciphering a good mystery or puzzle, but this one's got me hooped.

All I know is the odds of something like this occurring, have got to be greater than winning the lottery.  That's like the only two people standing in a desert, firing a gun into the air and winding up shooting one another to death.  Astronomical odds and they managed to do it.  It is senseless.  Senseless that five innocents had to lose their lives, including that of an eleven year old boy, due to a fluke.

Screwin' the Pooch Pays Off For This Son of a Bitch

Years ago, I came up with an idea about creating artificial plants that included dead and dying leaves.  After all, when all the leaves look prim and proper, then of course the plant is going to look phony.  However, when mowing the lawn in my back yard, I am forever picking up leaves from my neighbours plants.  My neighbour's FAKE plants.  I can't understand how a plant which is primarily made up of plastic and fabric, could possibly lose it's leaves.  Yet here I am.  Bending over and removing plastic material from my lawn and tossing it over the rear fence, back into their yard.

Another factor that I find bothersome about tackling yard work, is the electric cord for my mower.  I have a sizeable yard and therefore require a lengthy extension cord.  So there's that constant necessity of swinging the cord to the side, practically throwing my arm out of joint in the process.  Not to mention, the retarded fashion that my yard is cut up, what with a duo of shrubs bisecting the yard.

The worst thing about doing yard work, though, is my allergies.  I am extremely allergic to grass.  Freshly cut grass.  During the summer months, I'm unable to open my windows for the fear of dusty grass remnants wafting into my house, thus causing extreme discomfort, health-wise.  And despite wearing a dust mask, which works in most cases, it does not always do so.  Today, in fact, by the end of the tedious task, my eyes were swelled shut and I had loads of "material" flowing from my nostrils.  I was in terrible disarray.  While in the garage, I managed to smoke my head two or three times before I finally retired for the day.

I had originally planned on doing this dastardly task yesterday, but opted to remain inside instead.  My neighbour to the north of me was out and about, mowing his lawn, so I'd have really been up shit creek.  I waited until today, instead and thank goodness I did.  My neighbour T__, to the south of me, was about to begin his own bout of yard work, when I came into the front yard with mower in tow and a big white mask over my face.  

"You look like you're ready to perform surgery." he joked.

"I wish." I replied, adding that I was deathly allergic to grass and the affects that it has on me.

"That's terrible." he responded, "What happens to you?"  I explained the extreme occurrences, and that's when he offered up the services of his daughters.  

"They can swing by and mow your lawn when they do ours." he explained.  "And they'll do it for $10."

AWESOME!!!  I f*cking hate yard work and would gladly pay someone $10 a week to do it for me.  That is a sweet deal.  It looks, to me, like screwing the pooch this weekend, really paid off.  Yay!

Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!

Construction has begun on the empty lots behind my work.  It was cool watching all the machines strategically move the earth around.  I found myself, for a moment, caught up in the excitement of it all, wishing that I'd made different choices in life.  Choices that would've placed me behind the controls of these behemoth machines, instead of pondering from afar.

Watching the boom swing back and forth, I thought back to when I was a small child.  I grew up on a farm, not far from the city.  In the winter time, it was up to my father to clear out the snow from the yard to allow the easy entrance and exit of our vehicles.  My dad did not have a snow blower, relying on an aluminum scoop shovel, instead.  Either it seemed like we had lots and lots of snow, because I was a small child, or this particular year in my memory, we were relentlessly bombarded with snow.  So my dad could be heard clearing away the snow with his shovel.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!" would echo off the building encompassing the yard. "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"  And we had a sizable yard, too.  Not a small driveway, but a grand-sized yard and a long lane-way that connected it to the highway. A front-end bucket for his tractor would have been a worthwhile investment, but instead.... "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"

So one day, my sister and I were in the city with my mom, who came across these children's snow shovels.  They were red or blue or both, with a picture of a snowman in a winter scene.  "Would you like a snow shovel?" my mother asked us kids.  As I recall, our faces lit up and both were thrilled at the prospect of obtaining our own shovels.  Then we could go help dad clear the snow from the yard.  Up to then, it looked like a lot of fun.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"

No sooner did we arrive at home, than did my sister and I go running out to begin our crusade of helping our father clear the snow that continually blew into the yard.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!" continued to echo off the buildings, as my sister and I rounded the corner of the house, shovels in hand.  My dad was happy to see his smiling children, with shovels in hand and promises of help.  He pointed out a spot where we could begin our assistance.  "Clip! Clip! Swish!" we began, moving small increments of snow.  "Clip! Clip! Swish!"  Our efforts were small in comparison to the gargantuan amounts of snow our dad was able to move, and our shovels barely made a sound as they cut into the snow, unlike the thunderous clunks our dad's shovel made.

Soon, I realized that my dad didn't do this task on a nearly daily basis, because it was fun, but did it out of necessity.  This wasn't a game for him, but work.  As quick as I thought it was a wonderful idea to get the shovel to help my dad, I was wanting to desert my dad.  My sister, if I recall, being much younger than myself, had no qualms about dropping her shovel and returning to the warmth of the house.  I tried to hold on longer, but soon claimed to be cold and was encouraged by my dad to return to the house to warm up.

It's funny the shit you remember from the most insignificant and innocent of moments throughout your day...

So as I stood there, in the back of the shop, watching the earth moving equipment push the darkened soil about, I wished I could be the guy behind the controls of the machine, but almost as quickly, realized that it's probably a lot more actual work than it is fun to maneuver the equipment.  As I've learned in the last few days..;  Work isn't supposed to be fun...  Go figure!

It Thounds Like I'm Lithping

Although the original movie was released 35 years ago on May 25th, Star Wars geeks have hijacked May the 4th, like Stormtroopers overtaking a Corellian freighter in search of black market booty.  Wisely they should, as May the 4th, seems tailor-made to accommodate George Lucas' visionary trilogies.

I've heard reference to this date before, but today, I never really put two and two together to get May the 4th, let alone "May the 4th be with you".  Boy oh boy, though, once I clued in, I felt the loss of some very cool acknowledgments the whole day through.

By some sort of irony, I'd already planned to watch all of the Star Wars flicks back-to-back-to-back this weekend, with my boy (my cat) Monkey.  We sat down the other night and watched the third Robot Chicken Star Wars collection, but he didn't seem to get any of the jokes or references.  Being that he only turns three years old (tomorrow), it's a given that he's never seen any of the Star Wars movies.  Although I prefer the Star Trek films to the Star Wars movies, one simply cannot go through life having never seen the awesomeness that is STAR WARS.

So tomorrow, instead of swigging back cervezas with my amigos, I will instead be celebrating my boy's birthday and watching Star Wars.  Although, between you and I, I've got Monkey convinced that the entire world is celebrating Cinco de Mayo, because of his being born and not because of Mexico's desire to celebrate a warring victory over the French on May 5th, 1862.  So they beat the French!  So f*cking what?!?  EVERYBODY beats the French.  They surrender.  That's what they do.  THAT'S what the French do best.  That and smell bad (because they don't bathe in France)...

Live Long and Prosper!