Opposable Thumbs Up

It's been written that 90 percent of the animals on the endangered species list are birds. This is a fact that I don't find this that difficult to believe.  I also believe that their pending extinctions should not be blamed entirely on mankind's intrusion into their habitats.  Not exclusively. I believe quite the contrary, in fact.  That the birds, themselves, should be blamed for their extinction.  Both on them and evolution.  In fact, the truth be known, human beings play a very minor role in their being endangered.

Throughout the ions of time, upon the extinction of their kind, many species have been able to adapt and conform to their new environments.  For example, the Arctic Fish can live in freezing water, despite being a cold-blooded animal.  While other fish would succumb to the freezing cold, these fish have an antifreeze type protein in their blood which prevents ice crystals to form in their blood.  Mother Nature saw a way to survive and made it happen.  The Sperm Whale and the Bar-Headed Goose are two more examples of adapting to their environment.  Both creatures store a lot more oxygen in their blood than any other animal on the planet.  The whale because it's need to dive to extraordinary depths for food.  The goose because of it's flight pattern over the Himalayan Mountain Range, where there is minimal oxygen at those elevations.   Or even more simply..., the dog and cat community simply said "F*ck it!" and moved in with us.  Now who scoops their shit?  (All a part of the grand scheme, me thinks...)

Ninety percent is a hell of a lot of birds facing elimination.  Honestly, I don't really give a shit.  Like I said, before.  It is their own fault, or the fault of natural selection, rather than whether mankind wished to plot a grand highway through their forest homes.  If they (birds) wished to oppose man's progress, they should lash out at us, and defend their habitat, but they won't, and you know why?  No opposable thumbs.

If the ornithic realm evolved to the ability to form a fist, complete with opposable thumbs, they could then lash back at humanity.  Sucker punch their human interlopers and fighting them back to submission.  Or, failing that, move to the city and get a job, as they could now grasp basic tools, like a hammer or a spatula.

Essentially, I'm saying that the responsibility lies on the avian community and not on humanity.  There's a reason why it's called "natural selection".  It's a case of piss or get off the pot.  Make your own destiny, as was the theme of 1991's "Terminator 2: Judgement Day".

Concerning the above captioned Cassowary (Casuarius casuarius johnsonii) apparently has been lashing out at humankind.  It's been recorded that approximately 75 to 85 percent of recorded attacks have been on humans, a majority of which have been giving chase, mind you, and about 15 percent kicking.  In all cases, the attacks were provoked, instigated by humans infringing on their food sources or nesting area.  Physical attacks usually include pushing, pecking, head-butting and even jumping upon their victims.  Many of the physical interactions have resulted in the deaths of the human.  A trait which this large bird shares only with the Ostrich, worldwide.

So kudos to the Cassowary for having the balls to, not only attack human beings, but kill the motherf*ckers, too!  However, they are still on the endangered list.  Being without fists or arms, for that matter, one can only expect to be so effective in any attack.  It'd be like Alvin Law [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alvin_Law] in a Mixed Martial Arts fight.  He might get off a couple good strong kicks, sure, but in the end he's just going to get his ass kicked.  Very much like the ass kicking the bird kingdom is receiving now.

Does A Bear Shit In The Woods?

Does a bear shit in the woods?  Yes.  I suppose it does.  However, another quandary that has bugged me for awhile, now, concerns zombies.

The premise of zombies has plagued our culture for over half a century, if not longer.  Zombies have certainly been a mainstay in cinema, made most famous by the George A. Romero movies, which include "Night of the Living Dead", "Day of the Dead", and "Dawn of the Dead", just to name a few, as well as inspired other film makers to produce their own spins of the zombie phenomenon.  Like AMC's "The Walking Dead", Brit, Simon Pegg's comedic "Shaun of the Dead", and most recently, the Brad Pitt vehicle, "World War Z", which offered an entirely new spin on the zombie genre.

However, as much as the zombie craze eats at our imaginations and nightmares, one question has eluded me for quite sometime now.  Given my unique outlook on life and the world, when watching such media involving the undead, I find myself distracted by this mystery.  I doubt that there are many others, if any at all, who wonder about the inner mechanics of a zombie.

If any one of us (living souls) were to sit down and gorge ourselves with a hearty meal, it wouldn't be long before we'd need to visit the commode to evacuate our bowels.  So I pose this query, given all the brains and guts that a zombie feeds upon, do they not poop?  With their increased craving for human flesh driving their need to feed, logically, the more they devour, one of two things would be the inevitable outcome.  Either one, they simply shit themselves.  Or two, they would grow well beyond the capacity of what their rotting flesh could contain, resulting in a rupture of the lower torso, causing everything to spill out onto the ground.  I would dare to venture a guess in supposing that the latter would initiate cannibalism among the zombie herd.

That is what logic dictates, although evidence of that has never been profiled in any zombie movies that I am familiar with.  Mostly because zombies tend to die rather quickly with a bullet to the brain or a tire iron skillful thrust through their skull.  And even the ones who do "survive" and assault from the living, the camera very seldom, if ever sticks around to showcase a "day in the un-life of a zombie".

There's no evidence of zombies succumbing to exploded stomachs and intestines.  Yet I doubt that during their aimless trek across the land, that they slyly sneak behind a bush to quickly drop a deuce before continuing their quest.  Therefore, it is most likely that shit themselves. The consistency of what zombie fecal matter would be, but I've consume rare beef in the past and it's not had a good reaction in the bathroom.  So by process of elimination, it's safe to presume that a zombie's defecation would one of an oily or greasy secretion, rather than a chunky mass that would easily run down their pant leg.  While a zombie's appearance is unkempt and dirty, I've never noticed any disturbing (and disgusting) brownish-black shit stains on their wardrobe.  Not that I'm in the habit of checking out the asses of the undead.

So, to answer the question;  Does a bear shit in the woods?  Hell yeah, it does.  But does a zombie bear shit in the woods?  Who the f*ck knows?!?  But I wouldn't want to be around to find out.

Trouser Snake

At first mention of the words, trouser snake, one's imagination goes to a male's genitalia, which in this instance you'd be mistaken.  To what I refer to in this blog, today, is going to be much much worse and far more offensive.  So be warned before reading on, and if you indeed choose to continue reading, you've been forewarned and cannot blame anyone but yourself.  So that being said, I will continue my tawdry tale.

Last weekend was Thanksgiving for Canada.  I don't know why our Thanksgiving Day is more than a month prior to that of the U.S.  Canada probably wanted a long weekend in October, is what many of us have speculated.  I know in the last few years, there was a holiday proposed for February, although I don't think it's recognized in all the provinces.  (I'm talking about YOU, Quebec.  You suck, Quebec!)

So after stuffing myself full at my mother's house, she was gracious enough to send me home with a mountainous amount of left overs.  I don't know how much, per se, but upon warming it up the other night, I'd speculate that it was, at least, a pound in weight.  The left overs contained pretty much everything that had been available at the dinner table, except for the beets, which my mother announced she wouldn't include out of fear it would turn everything purple in colour.

So Thursday night was the night I'd decided to heat up and devour this huge meal.  This was not the easiest of tasks, by any measure, but like a trooper, I forced it all down as I watched wrestling (TNA Impact Wrestling) on Spike TV.  Later that night, I suspect due to the tryptophan in my system, I slept one of the most restful nights in a long long time.  I hadn't been sleeping very well in the nights preceding, so the slumber was welcome.

The next day, work went on as usual.  No issues.  No nothing, other than the usual setbacks and shit.  After work I needed to speed across town to sign some documents, then afterwards, I headed to the Home Depot, in search of a specific tool that I want to purchase for my brother-in-law for Christmas.  While looking around, I suddenly found myself needing to visit the washroom.  I don't normally like to use public facilities, as they are usually pretty f*cking gross, but this being a newer Home Depot location and in a decent part of town, I didn't think the washroom would be in too terrible of disarray, and quickly hobbled in it's direction.  Plus, judging from the impending doom, whether or not the bathroom was a disaster, I had one locked in the chamber and the safety switch was slipping.

Sadly, someone was in the handicapped stall, the spot I usually like to occupy as it has lots of leg room.  I don't necessarily need to stretch out as I "drop the kids off at the pool", but it's like a life jacket on a boat.  It's nice to have, just in case.  So I squeezed myself into the other available stall and unleashed the fury.

Actually it wasn't so furious, thank god!  Nothing is worse than having an atrocious bowel movement and having to clean up the mess with that sandpaper they call toilet paper.  Am I right, people?  It's like wiping with a cheese grater.  It might do the trick, but it doesn't feel good at all, nor are you left in a very happy place afterward.  But thankfully, this was not one of those horrific occasions.  Nope!  This one slipped out quite nicely.  Like a basketball through a hoop with nothing but net.  Phoof!!!

I took care of the aftermath and turned to flush when I noticed the gargantuan specimen looking back up at me from the porcelain bowl.  I'm not bragging, nor is this anything to be proud of, but I am a little impressed at the slick torpedo that was laid to rest in the tiny toilet stall at the Home Depot.  By my estimation, it had to be between 14 to 16 inches in length, and it wasn't coiled.  It was straight as the crow flies, nestled comfortably at the bottom of the bowl.  I was almost tempted to take a picture of it with my phone, but quickly decided against it as I don't know of anyone who would be as impressed with this feat as I was (and am).

I flushed and forever lost the evidence of my visit to the Home Depot, but the memory is still in my head.  I remember leaving the confines of the tiny bathroom thinking, "That was one helluva trouser snake."  It was then that I knew I'd have to share this with the world, via my blog, Brain Matter!

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.