Who Shot Will Sasso?

Got a call yesterday from my brother-in-law who is also my accountant.  I took in all my receipts and documentation to do with my income taxes a week or so ago and he's completed my taxation already.  For the first time in years, I'm finally going to get a refund, as opposed to having to pay in.  I guess unemployment has it's perks, although I'd imagine the fifty-two bucks coming my way will be diverted into the outstanding amount owed from four years ago, which I'm thinking is still in the thousands, or something along those lines.

I asked B___ what I owed for doing my taxes and he compassionately told me to simply bring him a coffee with cream.  As I said, unemployment has it's perks.  So I stopped at the nearest Tim Horton's by his office, to assure freshness and temperature, but what a chore that ordering process was.  [Head slap!]

I've voiced my opinions on this subject before and god damn it, I guess I'll be voicing them again.  I feel for any poor f*ck who faces oppression on a day-to-day basis in whatever backward f*cking country they come from, having to flee to the freedoms provided by one of the greatest countries in the world, Canada, but god damn it.  Learn the f*cking language.

It's good that there are people coming into this country who are willing to take those shitty f*cking jobs that no one with a grain of self respect would ever do as a life long vocation.  Flipping doughnuts, schlepping french fries or whatever the f*ck, but damn it!  Learn the language.  If you want to speak your jibberish in the back of the kitchen while preparing salads or cream-filled eclairs, then by all means, do that.  If you're going to work the front counter, then learn the language.  If I, myself, decided one day, "F*ck it!  I'm going to move to Buttf*ckistan."  I'm going to learn to speak Buttf*ckistani, come hell or high water.  I would show the Buttf*ckistanians that much respect.  I wouldn't dream of clumsily selling goat milk with my thick non-Buttf*ckistanian English.  The same should go for here in Canada.

An order that should have taken sixty seconds, at most, to place, took nearly four minutes of my endless failures to comprehend the less-than-broken English of (more consonants than vowels) girl.  I asked for an extra large coffee with cream and got the response, and I'm not exaggerating, "Doo da tray dee dee?"  I assume she asked a question as her tone rose at the end of her garbled speak.  "No," I said, "I want a large co-ffee, with creeeeam."

"Doo da tray dee dee?" she asked, with a look on her face like I was supposed to know what the f*ck she was saying.  "WHAT?" I confusedly responded.  She just smiled and repeated, "Doo da tray dee dee?"  I stared at her blankly...  "I...  I don't know what that means."

"Doo. Da. Tray.  Dee dee?" she said slowly, as if that was going to help.

"I want an extra large coffee with cream." I said.

"Ah." she muttered, and I swear I saw a light coming on.

"Oh good," I said, "I thought I was going to have to shoot myself in the head over that."

"Oh.  You want shot o assass-oh?"

"What?!" I charged, "Who shot Will Sasso?"

"No. You want shot o assass-oh!"

"WHAT?!?" I just stared at her, as she stupidly smiled back at me.  Truly a living example of: The lights are on, but nobody's home.  Dumb as f*ck!!

The one thing that stupidity has that I would consider to be a good trait is; Stupidity is colour-blind.  In fact, stupidity is affirmative action.  Stupidity, for all intense purposes, accepts people of all colours, cultures, creeds, and etcetera.  No matter what background you come from, whether you're a camel jockey from Kuwait or a race car driver in Milan or that Ivy League professor in Connecticut, you all possess the possibility of being painfully stupid*.

I don't know what the solution is to all this.  I wish there were a simple vaccine that people could get shot in their asses, that would vanquish stupidity forever, but until that day comes, I'm afraid all of us, myself included, are going to have to grow thicker skins in order to deal with these stupid f*cking people, whether they are domestic or imported.  In the meantime, maybe we need support groups.  A weekly meeting where us normal people can meet up for tea and cookies and a sympathetic shoulder to lean on while we talk out the idiocies that we're forced to contend with on a daily basis.

I did, finally, get my order.  Like I said, it took way longer than it needed to have taken, and it was finally because (more-consonants-than-vowels) girl finally handed me off to another bloke.  His English was atrocious, as well, but at least he was smart enough (barely) to take my order, accurately, and send me on my way.

.

Side Note: (*I met a college professor once, who was highly decorated with all kinds of diplomas and certificates.  He had a brand new car, which was failing miserably.  The cause was no oil.  He'd run the car for a couple of years, never changing the oil or even checking it or anything of the sort.  Then one day, he turned the key and the engine had seized up on him and he couldn't figure out why.  No oil,  stupid!!)

Good Morning Blow

Call me crazy, but sometimes there's nothing more satisfying than waking up and giving yourself a good strong healthy blow.  The kind of blow that really cleans out your entire system.  The kind of blow that following your evacuation into the tissue, you feel your innards tug and pull from deep in your chest.  A long gooey-stringy mess that is barely contained within the confinements of your tissue.  Call me crazy, but sometimes there's nothing more satisfying than giving yourself a good strong healthy blow.  Except the crusty ones that give you a nosebleed.

Those ones suck!

Green Jell-O

In an effort to figure out what the "black mass" is that was discovered on my lung a couple of years ago, I underwent a simple procedure called a 'Bronchoscopy' on Friday, that involved having a tube equipped with a camera and a couple other devices, shoved down my throat and into my airway and lungs.  I've underwent a similar procedure, the 'Gastroscopy', more than a dozen times due to choking and swallowing issues. It's a procedure that is normally performed with anesthesia, but I've been informed that I've built quite a reputation hospital-wide, as being the only one to get that procedure done while fully coherent.  I usually drive to the hospital when the obstruction occurs, so naturally I'm going to want to drive home.  I'd NEVER leave my truck overnight in THAT neighbourhood.

The bronchoscopy is a much more evasive procedure, I was led to believe.  It began, much like the gascoscopy, where I'm shuttled into a tiny little room, surrounded by more medical professionals with more credentials and job-titles than I can remember.  The doctor, a real hack because of her shitty attitude towards my case, hands me a shot glass filled with a red cherry-flavoured substance, designed to numb the inside of my mouth.  She instructs me to pour half in my mouth then gargle.  "Do you need us to show you how to gargle?" she added, as if I'm a complete imbecile, but apparently, I was informed, there's a lot of people who don't know how to gargle fluid.  F*ck sakes, how stupid are people becoming, that they don't know how to 'gargle'?  I swished the concoction around like a true gargling champion, if there was ever such a thing.  Another freezing agent was then sprayed into the back of my throat to numb that region up, the reason being that it'd relax the region enough to receive an injection from a syringe.  Before that was to happen, one of the nameless other medical professionals sidled up to the gurney that I sat upon with two syringes filled with a clear fluid.  "This is a little something to help you relax." she said, with a soothing tone.  I watched as she injected the specimens into my intravenous tube.

"Now we're talking!" I said, gleefully, laying back on the gurney.  Just then I noticed the spots in the suspended ceiling tiles begin to spin frantically, the image resembling one of those hypnotic spiral posters you see at the carnival.  "Wow," I said, "This stuff really acts qui-"

That's all I remember.

Years ago, I tore my left bicep "clean off the bone", as the surgeon told me, the following day, after my operation.  I was, obviously, anesthetized for that procedure as well, as you can probably imagine.  I don't know how well my body reacts to being under anesthetic, because I heard a story from a friend who claims that I shared a hospital room with her ailing grandfather, who was none too pleased with the wailing coming from my side of the room.  I can't speak as to the accuracy of this claim, but there's no reason to embellish the situation.  Plus, from what I do recall from the experience, was repeated visits from the nurse-on-call, who'd come in and pump me full of morphine.  I don't completely understand the concept of addiction, but being on morphine provided a good argument.  So when I began to come out of my induced coma after getting tubes, cameras and other devices shoved down my throat and into my lungs, the process was, as I recall, as loud as it was confusing.

All I can remember from yesterday morning, following the procedure, was a strong desire for Jell-O.  I remember begging and pleading with the nurses in the section to bring me some Jell-O.  "I know you have Jell-O," I called out, "I've had it here before."  They declined the request, but offered me something to drink, instead.  Coffee, tea, orange juice or apple juice, were the options.  "No!" I demanded, "Jell-O!  I'll even take the green jell-o that nobody likes.  I know you have it!  Please bring me some."

Nicole, the prettier and younger nurse of the gaggle, approached me and softly gave me the list of options, again.  I softly responded, "I find coffee is gross.  Tea makes me pee too much.  I'm allergic to citrus, so orange juice is out.  And apple juice, I find, tastes like the afore mentioned 'pee', but I'll take some of that green jell-o you gals are hiding."

I continued for the next twenty minutes or so, pushing the green jell-o agenda, but the girls wouldn't budge.  Finally, it came time where I was coherent enough to leave the hospital, so walking on rubbery legs, I left the small second floor day-surgery locale and met my ride who brought me home.

I never did get my jell-o, sadly.  What does strike me as odd, however, is: If everybody hates green jell-o, why does it continually get made?  I've never once, in all my visits to cafeterias where jell-o was offered, have I ever heard someone excitedly say, "Ooh, good!  Green jell-o."  Always, 'ew, there's only green jell-o left'.

The woozy affect of the anesthetic.

Handsy

Why is it necessary that rappers
always wave their hands about,
with every emphasis of every word?

Even Eminem does that crazy shit!!

Day-am!!

There's not a lot that I have to look forward to in life.  Being a single guy, all I have that puts a smile on my face is my truck, my car and my TV remote.  Outside my home, I have friends, of course, I'm not a complete recluse, but when I'm at home, it's essentially those three things, sprinkled with the comedic antics of my boy, Monkey.  I also love getting mail, although it's mostly bills and reminders that I need to pay bills that occupy my mailbox.  However, on Wednesdays and Fridays , is when the fliers and coupons arrive.  These are the days when my ears perk up and find a little dance in my step.

I love to slowly and methodically look through my fliers with a black marker or highlighter pen in hand, circling everything that I want to go look at or purchase for that week.  Suffice it to say, when I was employed full time, this was a real treat, as opposed to the last few months where circling things is an admission of a virtual pipe dream, if I bother perusing that flier at all.  Most times, now, I'm discarding favourite fliers rather than teasing myself with wishful thinking.

So when suddenly the steady flow of fliers came to a complete halt, disappearing as quickly and as mysteriously as the dinosaurs.  Like a sad puppy staring out the window for it's master, I found myself constantly scanning the street for a lonely soul pulling a cart filled with tightly wound fliers.  Believing a watched kettle never boils, I tried to occupy my time with something else, coming back to check my mailbox infrequently, only to close the front door with sullen despair.

Finally I'd had enough heartbreak and disappointment and sent a stern email to the local newspaper, the authority responsible for sending out the fliers in the first place.  A short time later, not only did I find the fliers stuffed into my mailbox, but now I notice that someone drives to my house specifically, to hand deliver the fliers early in the morning, opposed to the evening time, like before.  Looks like I got me some pull.  Day-am!!!

Hammer Thumb

People are always criticizing poor Megan Fox about her thumbs. Hammer thumbs, they call them and while they are quite unattractive, they shouldn't discount the fact that she is one of the hottest women on the planet.  The bullying comments, of course, usually made by people who would never stand a chance with the Hollywood starlet, even if she weren't already married with children.

That's not what this entry is about, though.  The subject matter refers to Hammer vs Thumb and no!  It's not a wrestling match set for this year's Wrestlemania.  When I turned the television on this afternoon, there was a home improvement type show ending.  Hometime has been on TV for a number of years, it's host, Dean Johnson always at the helm offering sound advice for any potential Do-It-Yourself'er.  I've not seen the program in years, but I recall that Johnson's co-host was a woman named 'Robin', whom I assumed was his wife, given their onscreen chemistry.  So this morning as Johnson and his co-host, also named 'Johnson' (Miriam), a much much younger individual, I immediately thought, "Dean you old dog!  You traded up!"  Apparently, Johnson is an extremely popular name, as she is not his young wife nor is she even related to him.

I've always been a fan of these home improvement style shows, even though I lack the confidence to tackle any job myself.  Hell, I had my best friend change the inner guts of my toilet for me earlier this week.  I did tackle changing a light fixture when I was remodeling my condominium nearly a decade ago, and nearly electrocuted myself in the process.  Granted, it's extremely difficult to electrocute one's self changing the flapper in a toilet, but if there's a will, there's a way.

I faithfully watch all kinds of home improvement programs, but lost sight of Hometime quite a few years ago due to it's constant jumping around channels and time scheduling.  What I do recall, most blatantly, of this particular show, was a mishap that host Dean Johnson had.

I'm certain that accidents happen on the job all the time.  Especially with a camera crew trampling about, distraction has to be a definite constant.  However, with most injury, the camera rarely captures the accident, or at the very least, human reaction is left on the cutting room floor, but on this occasion, it was included in the show.  I speculate that Johnson's arrogant attitude was a contributing factor in producers choosing to include his angry outburst following his clobbering his thumb with his hammer.

Looking at the camera and explaining his method, he lost concentration for a split second, catching his thumb between the plain and his swinging hammer.  He screamed in pain and unleashed a barrage of swears, angrily throwing his hammer across the work site.  He held his throbbing thumb with his free hand as camera followed him wandering about looking for first aid, barely stopping his cursing and swearing long enough to catch his breath.  That episode of Hometime included nearly everything  in that aftermath.

I don't recall much of anything regarding that episode and if memory serves, it wasn't long after that that the show became more and more difficult to locate.  Obviously, shit worked out for him.  As far as I could tell, today, he still has to opposable thumbs... and a hot little sidekick.  Miriam Johnson is in no way nearly as hot as Megan Fox, but I guess she has normal thumbs.  As for Megan Fox and her 'hammer thumbs', they're not an issue as far as I'm concerned.  If any of us schlubs ever had a chance with the sexy actress, I'm sure we could convince her to wear gloves, but why bother?  I mean, look at this chick!!  Just look at her!! HOT!

Karma is a Pain In The Ass

It is granted that I'm not active by any sense of the word, though lately, I've been leaving the house and getting out in the world more frequently than I was a few months ago, even though I'm essentially a glorified purse holder for my gal pal, Melissa.  She would argue that I purchase as often as she does, but her regular haunts are hardly places where I would freely purchase wares.

Usually a few hours out and about, results in my legs cramping up and my back getting unusually sore.  In January of 2014, I injured my spine really bad, an injury that left me with three compression fractures in three different vertebrae.  My T3, 4 and 5 were broke with patterns that reminded me of a spider web or a smashed car window.  I was reassured by medical professionals that I had nothing to worry about.  That there was little or no chance of any rogue pieces splintering off and dissecting my spinal cord.  Trusting their word, I continued to live life, albeit a lot more subdued.  Not that I was B.A.S.E. jumping or racing dune buggies, but my options, I felt, were limited after that.

After finishing treatment from my lovely physiotherapist, Elissa, I was unemployed and left to recover from other injuries sustained from my fall on the job.  Money being limited, I stayed pretty close to home, choosing to live vicarious adventure through heroes and characters viewed on my television set, rather than venturing into extracurricular activities.  I'd still go for walks in the park, with my boy, Monkey, just for a change of scenery, beneficial to him as well as myself, but mostly I stuck close to home.  My back never gave me much issue.  No overindulgence equaled very little, if any, pain and discomfort. 

Winter came, and unfortunately, my snow blower still won't start [*Boycott: Home Depot], resulting with my having to clear my two-and-a-half driveway (meaning I have room for two automobiles across plus space for a small RV).  It's a back-breaking process, excuse the pun.  Lately, with the abundant snowfall we've received, I've opted to only clearing a path from the street to my front door, in addition to the city walk in front of my house.  The last time I tackled that endeavour, was midway last week.  My back had stiffened, but hardly gave me issue.  Yesterday, my sixty-eight year old mother came to my house for supper, but before coming into the house, unbeknownst to me, she took it upon herself to clear a respectable patch of snow and ice and did so in half the time it takes me to do a patch half as wide.

It wasn't until her actions caught the attention of my cat, that I became aware of her actions.  I'm appreciative, but rushed outside to scold her of her actions.  She's sixty-eight years old, for f*ck sake.  A sixty-eight year old, who recently informed me that she requires a hip replacement.  What the f*ck is she thinking?  She reluctantly let go of the shovel and went inside, as I replaced the road salt that had been flung onto my snow covered lawn, an action that should reveal some interesting patterns of murdered grass, come springtime.

We watched a couple movies that she'd not seen before and had, what she described, was a tasty supper, before she left for home.  I laid down on the sofa, like I've done a thousand times before, over my eight year tenure at this address.  I chose a previously recorded show to watch and fell asleep, like usual.  About four hours later, I woke up with a desperate need to pee.  I expected to jump up and rush across the living room, but instead, I experienced a sharp shooting pain down my spine.  A blistering shot that is reminiscent of the early days that followed my initial injury.  There was no mad rush, but a slow painful hobble.

The great deal of discomfort I've felt in the hours that have passed, is unimaginable.  I'm hunched, fighting to straighten up to walk upright.  Sleeping was a little better, being that my mattress is ideal for sore ailing backs, and without a pillow under my head, was able to sleep in.  I'm walking a little more upward than I was last night and with a greater pace.  Getting up and mobilized is incredibly sore, however.  I'm hoping this recent flare-up is due to a sudden and dramatic drop in outside temperature, the barometric pressure wreaking havoc on old injured bones.  Especially, given that I need to go for a physical regarding this new job I'm trying out for.

I don't believe in luck, but I do believe in karma.  I don't know what I did in this life or what anyone could have done in a past life, to deserve as much bullshit as I've endured in this life, but holy f*ck!!!  When is enough going to be enough.