Death Ride

They say that if you die in your dream, you die in real life.  I don't know who "they" are, but they sure as f*ck don't know shit!  I've died many many times in my sleep and have woken up each and every single time.

There was a point when I was younger that I died a different way in every dream I had over the course of about a week.  One involved riding a rickety old roller coaster that jumped a high sharp turn.  I had one where I'd jumped on a grenade.  There was one that involved another amusement park ride, where the arms spun round-and-round, as well as up and down, the little pod at the end, of which I was riding, went up and kept going up into a cascading arch, before plummeting into a nearby parking lot.  There were a couple of dreams where I was trapped in a vehicle sinking underwater.  Those ones I've never been very fond of, having a healthy respect for the water.

Nope!  I'd say who ever the scholastic "they" are, they don't know shit about dreams.  Or if their synopsis is correct, then I'm an exception to the rule, perhaps.  Whatever the case, I've died a great many times and I've awoken every time.  The reason I'm addressing this, here, is I had another one just the other night.  Only this one was exceptionally strange.  In all preceding death-related dreams.  My death would come in the natural pace that it would.  The roller coaster car making contact with the ground, then I'd calmly wake up.  The grenade explodes under my torso and after a brief pause in my head, I'd open my eyes and be safely within the four walls of my bedroom.  As for the sinking vehicles, I was surprisingly calm before waking up safe and dry.  This dream the other night, though...  Troubling.

I'm unable to remember the events leading up to my tragic end, the other night.  I can only recall driving my pick-up to a location just outside a city that I've never been to before.  After sometime at this place, I was dispatched to drive back into the city to visit another locale, only they people gave me a car to drive back.  It was a nice car, if I remember correctly.  A sleek black sedan with bright LED and Xenon lights on the front that were bluish in colour.  It may have been a BMW, but that's not an important factor in this story.

I set out on my mission, the night quickly approaching and the world growing more and more dark.  I headed north, I think, on towards the amber glow of the nearby metropolis.  The roads that took me there weren't paved, thick with gravel that made driving a little more challenging in the sedan that it had been in my truck.  I was close, though, and soon found myself gliding along smooth concrete surfaces.  This mysterious place definitely was not in Saskatchewan, as I've never traveled such gloriously smooth highways anywhere in  my home province of Saskatchewan.

The GPS, that had been programmed by my hosts, directed me to cross an overpass that dissected a train yard.  There was no traffic on the roads so I never bothered to slow down at the flashing amber light.  I signaled left and sped up the brightly lit roadway that lead straight into the darkened sky.  The speedometer needle continued to climb up the dial, even after I found my wheels had left the safety of the roadway.  It became all to apparent that the overpass was still under construction, after I glanced to my left and realized there was nothing there, but a few straggling re-bar.  My attention returned to the view in front of me as the nose of the car began to bow towards the ground.  I braced for impact, like that was going to help reduce the pain for falling a couple hundred feet.

It never happened in slow motion, although the events that followed did seem to move at a slower pace.  I remember making out the grey stones that made up much of the ground in this train yard.  I remember the front of this luxury sedan folding up like a cheap suit, the moment it made contact with the ground.  I remember being jarred in my seat and a sharp pain zipping up the right side of my spine, like a shock of electricity.  Then I remember quiet.  Absolute silence, interrupted a few seconds later by the sounds of steam and the car settling into it's new resting place.

I sat quietly for a few minutes, trying to comprehend just what the f*ck happened.  Conjuring up the memories of what lead me to this moment in time.  I hadn't seen any traffic signs indicating that the road was closed due to construction.  I couldn't move.  I was pinned behind the wheel of the car.  Light from the flickering GPS made shadows dance across my face and the cabin of the car.  I reached up and turned the key off, despite the engine being quite dead.

A few more moments passed, but they seemed like hours.  I now found myself outside the car.  Standing across from the bright headlamps that were still operational, I assessed the damage.  I looked up to see a gathering of people looking over the edge of the defunct overpass.  To my right, I saw rescuers making their way down the embankment, with flashlights in hand.  I tried to approach them, but was unable to move.  I was confused, but more so once the people made it to the car.  They began trying to open the driver door, all the while reaching in and screaming at me.  "SIR!  SIR!  CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

They were obviously calling out to me, but their attention was directed inside the car.  In fact nobody bothered to look my way at all.  I called out to them, but no one responded to my pleas.  Finally I was able to make my way to the front of the smoldering car and take note of myself unconscious behind the wheel and the rescuers checking my vital signs.  "It's too late..." I overheard one of them mutter to another.

I continued to stand there watching, confused by what I was witnessing unfold, but completely calm.  Aside from their incessant chatter, I could clearly hear my own breaths.  Deep inhales followed by heavy sighs.  I felt at peace.  One thought did cross my mind that didn't involve the happenings unfolding before me.  "What's going to become of my sweet little boy [cat], Monkey?"  On that single thought, I heard the alarm on my cell phone going off.  I turned away from the car and found myself awake and hitting snooze.

Once more, after being killed in my dreams, I awoke to live out my dream life.  Working a job that doesn't appreciate me and living with my sweet cat, Monkey, who does appreciate me.

It Matters

"That's not fair!" he said accusingly.  He was in utter disbelief that his request was being denied.  "You're being racist!!"

Yesterday, after work, I stopped by my bank to pay a portion of what's currently owed on my credit card.  Month-by-month, I've been paying what I can to whittle it down to a more reasonable amount.  For a change, I was in and out of the bank in a speedy fashion.  Only on this occasion, I was accosted by an individual just outside the doors of the mall.

He was a tall kid with a very dark skin tone.  I'd noticed him on my way into the bank, as he stood joking with his friend who was inhaling a cigarette deeply.  The sight of anyone smoking a cigarette, generally disgusts me.  The smell, itself, makes me ill, and the practice itself, boggles my mind.  I can't say for sure if I made a face as I passed by.  I may have, but it's difficult to conclude that I did for sure, but it may have lead to what happened after.

As I was leaving the bank and heading to my truck, this tall dark lanky fellow ran up and stopped me just as I was going to cross the road to where I was parked. "Hey man!" he said with a thick accent.  I stopped and looked at him.  "Give me some money!"

Taken aback, I did a double-take out of confusion.  "Excuse me?"

"Give me some money!" he repeated, holding out his open hand.

"What do you mean, 'give you some money'..?" I asked.

"Give.  Me.  Some.  MONEY!" he said, again.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter who I am... Give-"

"EXACTLY!!!" I said, cutting him off mid sentence, "It doesn't matter who you are, so get the f*ck outta my face, you piece of shit!"  I turned and attempted to walk past him.

"Piece of shit?!?" he responded.  He couldn't believe that he'd just been spoken to in this manner.  "Piece of shit?!?  Who are you to speak to ME that way?"

"Who the f*ck are YOU to demand I give you money.  I don't know who the f*ck you are!  You're just some lazy piece of shit trying to steal money from me!!"  I said, with some induced heat behind my words.

"That's not fair!" he said accusingly.  He was in utter disbelief that his request was being denied.  "You're being racist!!" 

I couldn't believe my ears.  I was being accused of being a racist.  Me, the person who hates everyone equally, being called a racist.

"I'm a racist?!?"  I exclaimed.  "You're some foreigner who's come here from wherever the f*ck, and instead of getting a job and earning your own money, you're standing here outside the mall, demanding that I give you money, and I'm being racist...  Go f*ck yourself!!!"

I then pushed past him and never looked back.  I don't know what occurred following this experience, but who cares.  I hope no one else fell for his bullied demands and authorities got involved.

I work very hard for what I have, which isn't a lot, but to have some punk-ass bitch think he's going to bully me, of all people, into handing over my money.  That's a f*ckin' slap in the face!

Living the Dream

I stood quietly, overwhelmed in the moment.  Staring across the sea of magazine stands and book shelves at the terminal that would soon determine my fate.  This was a motion that I'd repeated many many times beforehand, but this time it felt different.  Like anything was possible.  People passed me by, never once paying any attention.  They didn't care and why should they?

The day started as any other work day would.  A groggy stammered start to a shortened work week.  The long weekend had just come to an end, but my long weekend was just too short.  I'd spent most of my Saturday at the Veterinarian College, where I took my sick cat in for some much needed tests.  So despite having the extra day off, I still felt completely spent.

Feeling much better after his stressful ordeal, my cat came to see me off, as he often does in the mornings.  It makes me feel better seeing his fuzzy face lurking out the front window as I pull out of the driveway.  This morning he was extra attentive, almost as if he were trying to talk me out of leaving.  "Believe me," I said to him, "If I could afford not to work anymore, I'd gladly spend my days at home with you.  Maybe I'll check my lottery ticket on the way home.  You never know...."

The thought never entered my mind again until I overheard someone talking about the lottery at work.  "Someone in the city, here, won the $14 million." he said.  After that, it was all I could think about.  Usually, when something like this occurs, where it's known that a local resident has won a substantial win fall, I pay no mind.  Reality, of course, sets in and I know in my bones that I never won the jackpot, and the proof is in the pudding, as I still work a nine-to-five job, rather than gallivanting across the globe.  However, this day felt different.

In the past, I've mentioned something I refer to as "Jeffy's Law".  It's similar to Murphy's Law, only Jeffy's Law is: Anything of equal of greater value will happen to me.  For instance, I received a $900 tax return many many years ago, then had my car breakdown to the tune of a $1200 repair.  For every good, something much worse will occur.  So naturally, I thought given all the bad shit I've had to endure this year, that perhaps something good would come of it.

So all day long, I thought about the financial freedoms that might come upon me.  What I'd do with this...  What I'd do about that....  I thought about the television program that I'd develop and sell to TLC.  (I figured if they gave a show to that idiot Honey Boo Boo, whoever the f*ck that is, that they'd have to give me a show.  My show is pure genius!!)

So all the thoughts and warm regards of my day culminated to that one moment.  The fleeting few seconds that found me standing in the drug store, looking across the field of magazines and hard cover books, to the lottery number verifier terminal.  In a few moments I'd find out if I was a winner or not...

I held my breath as I placed the unfolded ticket under the scanner.  Then it happened.  BEEP!!

Wednesday morning began like any other workday.  I was groggy and stammering to put my work shoes on.  My cat, saw me off and I waved as I drove away.  Needless to say, I didn't win f*ck all.  Not even a free play.  I'm the same loser I was before, working a nine-to-five job and livin' the dream!

Fan Fest

Fan sites.  What the hell?  I can understand people gathering to discuss the latest gossip for their favourite television show.  Music groups, I understand, except maybe for that Justin Bieber kid, unless it's a full on discussion of how he ought to have his ass kicked.  Even video games, I get, to a certain point.  Halo fans and gamers of all sorts of other games, meeting online to discuss strategies and maybe even linking up for some online competition later on down the road.  One fan site I've recently crossed paths with, doesn't make sense in the slightest.

I admit to having a problem.., an addiction, if you'd prefer, with Facebook.  In fact, once I complete this blog, I'll be sharing it on Facebook.  Not only that, but I'm going to specifically post it on the very Facebook Fan Page that I hope to address here.

One of my biggest weaknesses on Facebook is the Words With Friends game.  A re-invented Scrabble game, that up to this point, I've lost more games than I've won.  Despite these horrific losses, I do enjoy the game.  That is until recently, when my game has stopped loading.  I've let it go, on a separate window, attempting to load for well over an hour, on a recent visit to the internet.  The f*cker simply will not load.  This is when I discovered a Words With Friends Fansite within Facebook.  I thought that, most certainly, there might be others who have experienced the same or similar problems, so I posted a comment requesting suggestions on how this problem might be fixed.

No sooner had I posted my request than the slanderous replies start pouring in.  Comments which included calling me a "f*cking tw*t" (the latter word was spelled with an A, not an I...) and telling me to stop whining about trivial bullshit.  That they're not affiliated with Zynga Games, the designing company responsible for the game's creation.  Zynga Games was also responsible for FarmVille and a whole host of other games before going bankrupt in 2012.

For a community that strives for inclusion of fellow fans of the game, they sure have an odd way of welcoming in new fans of the very same game.  Isn't the whole premise of a community to help and assist one another towards a common goal?  I looked up the word "community" on www.dictionary.reference.com, and in so many words it defines the word as: A social, religious, occupational or any other group sharing common characteristics or interests and perceived or perceives itself as distinct in some respect from the larger society within which it exists.  So instead of offering up advice to fellow fans of the very game they are fans of, they instead rally together to offend newcomers seeking their expertise and advice.

The Words With Friends Fan Site is one thing for sure.  A coalition of assholes.  Not a single person of the six that I received feedback from, offered any sort of valid advice.  One fellow, the most civil of the bunch, suggested that the game was refusing to work for me because of my lack of giving to those less fortunate.  Going so far as to suggest that my game's recent dysfunction was due to my lack of charitable work.  Apparently hippies now play word games.  He went on to suggest I delete my account and start over.  This seems a little extreme, considering this shit is supposed to work 24/7, but whatever the hell.  Perhaps this IS fate's way of stepping in and telling me to get my priorities together.  

I do have some stormy weather on the horizon.  This I'm most certain of.  Getting upset over a Scrabble rip-off, should be the least of my problems. 

Kevin Is An Idiot!!

Holy f*ck, did I ever come close to dying yesterday.  I am in no way, exaggerating.    I could've died, or at the very least, been injured quite seriously.  I still shudder to think that if I'd been (literally) two seconds earlier, my Thursday would've ended with a tremendous crash and a trip to the hospital...

I drive a fork lift for a living for a local farm implement manufacturer.  I've been there for a little over a year now, most of which I've spent covering for people who were out on disability or vacation or whatever.  A few months ago, those transient ways came to an end, when I was moved into the warehouse, where I'm now responsible for the loading and (mostly) unloading of tractor trailers full of stock and supplies.  This is something that I've done for many years prior to coming to this company, and it's something I've always done well and with very little incident.

Yesterday began much like most.  Trucks would arrive and I'd quickly unload them, usually running the large over-sized items, shipped to us by a variety of suppliers, out the door and onto the concrete pad or across the road.  Wherever we can find room, a commodity we are quickly running out of.

In addition to those trucks, we also have a warehouse nearby, which houses most of the stock for manufacturing.  We have trailers upon trailers arriving daily from the other warehouse, stocked to the teeth with replenishments for our shelves.  On occasion we have overstocks which require to be sent back on the emptied trailer.  This is a common practice, though not necessary everyday.  Yesterday, happened to be one of those days, where shit needed to be sent back.

I raced to unload this truck yesterday afternoon, as there was a violent storm occurring outside, and there was a waterfall between the trailer and the building, thus every time I entered the trailer and made my exit with heavy pallets on my forks, I'd be drenched by the cascading water.  I was instructed by, not one, not two, but three different people, to place some nearby stock back onto the truck to be sent to the other warehouse.  The last pallet of stock came off the truck just as a crash of thunder echoed overhead.  It scared the bejesus outta me.  The stock at hand, had to be delivered around the corner to the delivery lanes, where another forklift driver is responsible for delivering said stock to the various locations around the east and west plants.  I was gone for maybe a minute.  No more than two, as the route was congested with all sorts of machines designed for the delivery of manufactured parts and carts.  It's much too complicated of subject matter to delve into at this time.  Rest assured, there was heavy traffic.

As I rounded the corner, back to the loading bays, I was preparing to begin my loading of the now emptied trailer.  Lone and behold, if the ramp wasn't already returned to it's upright position and the overhead door closed.  "What the f*ck?!?" I wondered aloud.  So I got off my lift, opened the overhead door once more and lowered the ramp that bridges the gap between the building and the trailers.  I got back onto my lift and began to inch forward.  It was just as my front wheels got to the edge of the plate, the trailer pulled away from the building and the ramp dropped violently, scaring the shit out of me in the process.  "HOLY F*CK!!!" I cried out, as Kevin, the warehouse supervisor was returning from his trip outside.

I'd noticed Kevin walking away from the overhead door as I'd come around the corner moments earlier.  It wasn't difficult to spot him, as he was wearing a brightly coloured orange raincoat.  "Why is this door open again?" He asked quite sternly.

"Why was it closed, is a better question!!"  I replied, "I could've been killed."

"When you're done emptying the trailer, you have to close the door and send C___ on his way." Kevin scolded.

"Which is what I would've done, had I been finished.  But I wasn't!  I have all this shit that they wanted me to put back on the truck to send back..!!" I replied.

"Well," he began, "I came over here and you weren't around and I walked into the trailer and came back and closed up everything.  You were gone for too long!!!"  He was acting like this was my fault, which was bullshit, and I told him so.

"Bullshit!!!  I was gone for maybe a minute.  I had to take the stuff to the delivery lanes.  That does NOT take more than a minute."

He just stood there, looking at me with that stupid f*cking look in his head, a kind of nervous smile, and shrugged his shoulders.

"You could've killed me.  I could've died." I told him from my forklift, which towered over him.

"Awe, you wouldn't have died," he guffawed and waving his hand.

For anyone who is unfamiliar with how the loading bay is designed on a building, it is essentially a descending ramp which tractor trailers are backed into and which should meet up with a large opening in the side of the building.  The distance from the floor of the building to the bottom of the ramp is generally between 3 to 5 feet.  To fall a distance of three to five feet, might result in some minor bruising or worse yet, broken bones.  To fall that distance behind the wheel of a forklift, a machine that weighs, in some instances, twice that of a regular motor vehicle, is going to hurt a f*ck of a lot more than falling just by one's self.

"That's horse shit!!!" I said, "I'm serious, you could've killed me."

Seeing that I wasn't going to laugh it off like he was attempting to, he just stormed off.

What a f*cking idiot!!!  Instead of clarifying with those of us who actually know what the f*ck is going on, he took the initiative to butt his nose in where it didn't f*cking belong.

Today, was uneventful.  Kevin stayed out of the warehouse for most of the day, and when he did happen by, he'd make jokes, trying to get back on my good side.  Too little, too late, Kev.  Your stupidity and ignorance almost got me injured or worse.  You can make all the jokes in the world, it's not going to change my mind on the fact that YOU, Kevin, are an idiot!!

Not Like The Old Days

I was watching TV earlier when a special interest commercial came up.  A public announcement from Pauley Perrette, co-star of CBS's NCIS.  She, in the advertisement, stands very stoic and calmly recites the words, "If you receive a text message while driving, pull over to the side of the road, before looking to see what it says.  No text is worth losing your life over or killing someone else."  The ad concludes with tagline,CBS Cares.

I began to laugh.

I, in no way, disagree with this practice or the need to constantly remind people that they need to do this.  Reading your text messages while waiting for a red light to change to green, doesn't count either.  You motherf*ckers need to get over to the side and put your shit in park or apply the e-brake.

This is not why I laughed.

I laughed because I suddenly thought of valid reasons as to why it'd be necessary to read a text while driving.  The examples are as follows: 

1. "LOOK OUT!!!"
2. "THEY'RE RIGHT BEHIND YOU!!!"
3. "DON'T STOP THE CAR OR THEY'LL F*CKING KILL YOU!!!"

These are just a sample of messages I'd prefer to know about before I wound up a crimson stain on the asphalt.  Call me old-fashioned, which is ironic being that text messaging wasn't available in the olden days.  People back then had to be surprised when a load of logs fell from a tractor trailer squashing them in their cars or be bludgeoned to death by a hooded maniac with a hook for a hand.

Unbearable

For the life of me, I can't understand why people enjoy camping.  My father loved it and I remember every summer vacation, being lead out to some remote lake, to live out of the trunk of our car and sleep under the stars in a leaky tent.  "Back to the basics." he'd say with a deep inhale of fresh air.  Early to bed, as there's very little to do at night, but stare into the flickering of the campfire and very early to rise as the early dawn brought about the screeching birds, and that was if we were lucky enough to not be rained on during the night.

To this day, I find it extremely difficult to recall a single time that our camping excursions never resulted in some kind of disastrous outcome.  Whether it be a misty rain bleeding through the sheer material of our tent, often resulting in the saturation of our sleeping bags; or the least of our troubles, the rocky terrain and stubble protruding through the tent floor and into our backs.  It wasn't until later that air mattresses were introduced into the camping experience.  The mattresses provided a more comfortable sleep, but never saved us from the flooding.

The tenting experience can be avoided with the advent of camper trailers, which if I were foolish enough to go camping, is the only way you'd ever find me out in the wilderness.  Bringing the creature comforts of home, out to the wild yonder.  Although this practice defeats the whole "getting back to the basics" that my late father enjoyed, it sure beats having to shit in the woods.  Cooking over an open fire is replaced with a propane cooking stove.  The shitty polystyrene cooler that always flaked off at the corner, littering the camp site with tiny balls of foam plastic, now replaced with a mini fridge secured safely under the faux oak cupboard in the RV.  The sole entertainment of watching the orange glow of logs slowly crumbling under the extreme heat of the campfire is now replaced by a mini plasma TV and DVD player, complete with surround sound.  Best of all though, is sleeping on (more) comfortable foam bedding, with real blankets and comforters, protected from the elements by a hardened shell of aluminum and fiberglass.

I remember as a kid, many times arriving at our destination well after the sun had gone down then being forced to listen to the barrage of cursing from my father as he fought with the problems of hammering tents pegs into the rocky ground.  Often times, the ground was too hard and the cheap ass metal spikes would bend violently as he'd attempt to hammer them into the ground.  Thinking back, I recall searching through the surrounding foliage for the hammer my dad was using.  Upon striking the hand holding the peg in place, the hammer would be flung into the darkness followed by expertly-voiced curses.  One of my fondest memories of my father, whether it be camping or just working around the yard, if he lost his cool, the string of curse words could link together was nothing short of poetry to my ears.  While I can intertwine a lovely collection of curses, I can only aspire to one day equal the skill level of my late father's degree of swearology.

Whatever the mode of the camping experience, people are inexplicably drawn to the wilderness.  Mine was vicarious through my father's desire.  From what I've been able to compile from Google, is a combination of the feeling of accomplishment; man over the wild; the sense of community as they visit with other camping enthusiasts.  Others feel it gives them an opportunity to reflect on their lives; and even bring themselves closer to God.  Personally, I don't understand what that aspect has to do with sleeping under the stars.  Homeless people do that year round and I'd imagine they feel more spited by God, than spiritually closer to "him".  None of the remarks that I was able to find, mentioned that it brought people closer to nature.  This poses a problem for me.

Friday afternoon, I was privy to a conversation people were engaging in the lunchroom at work.  There was talk of an upcoming camping trip by one of the folks, which soon moved to past encounters with bears.  Camping encroaches on the bear's territory.  Moose, elk, deer, wolves and bears are among the many creatures one may encounter out in the wild.  Every provincial and national park post instructions on how to enjoy the nature walks and avoid being attacked by the indigenous wildlife.  That being said, the fact that people wish harm to the bears that may wander into the camp sites, bothers me.

In the conversation, it was mentioned that if the same bear wanders into a populated camp site more than twice, it is immediately terminated as a nuisance.  Imagine that!  Killed for simply being a bear living in a forest.  The people around me couldn't understand my disdain for this practice, replying that the bear had no right to be in the camp sites. I shook my head with disbelief.  "That's like if someone came into my house and the police coming and taking ME away.  If I return to my house twice more, the police then take me out and shoot me."  I said.  

Man put these camp sites in the forest homes of bears and alike.  Not the other way around.  The bears didn't suddenly one day decide they needed to visit the city more often.  It's our inherent need to return to the wild, stupid as that is.  It's like swimming in shark infested waters for the adventure and excitement, then getting upset when we lose a f*cking leg.  People need to know the risks before they enter into these situations and accept them.  Realize that they're entering a dangerous environment.  That if they don't exercise some care and caution, they might be mauled by a f*ckin' bear.  It's a reasonable expectation.  Don't fault the bear for your own foolishness and stupidity.