Does Mom Chew Your Food?

An advertisement played on the radio this afternoon.  The local soccer association is trying to drum up interest in kids joining a soccer league.  The announcer in the ad spoke of professionals who will teach your kids on how to play soccer.  I thought to myself, "Jeez.  How stupid are your kids that they can't figure out how soccer is played?  Does your mom chew your food for you, too?" 😂 

Here's a ball.  There's a field.  Now run and kick that spotted ball that way (👉 indicate which end of the field is the opponents goal.)  Kick the ball into that obnoxiously oversized goal.  Repeat.  "You can touch the ball however you like, just not with your hands.  You can lick the ball for all I care, just don't lay a hand on it."

Soccer really is a stupid game.  Based solely on it's simplicity.  Run. Kick. Run some more.  And what's up with that damned net?  It's the size of a barn, yet the scores are so god damned low.  I reckon it's the size of the field.  They run and run and run, up and down that enormous field.  I imagine the scores are so low, because everyone is tuckered the f*ck out.  I betcha that the goals were human sized, once upon a time, but the field was SO BIG, that no one was scoring at all.  So instead of making the field smaller, the genius' made the goal net BIGGER and still the f*cking scores are miniscule.

Only thing worse than the game of soccer, are the fans.  NOT all of them.  There's bound to be some normals among the bunch.  I'm talking about the sociopaths who go ape shit out of team loyalty.  I believe when I was a kid, I heard a story about some Brazilian player who f*cked up and the fans went to his house, drug him outside and murdered him.  What the f*ck?  That's f*cking insane.  That's like if I wore a Saskatchewan Roughrider jersey and someone came up to me wearing a Winnipeg Blue Bomber shirt, then they f*cking murdered me.

I wrote a blog many many years ago, on another platform, I believe, where I addressed the stupidness of soccer, citing how this tribe in Africa really wanted to play the game of soccer, but couldn't afford the equipment (the ball).  So they formed their own soccer balls out of dried manure.  It was quite a sight, watching a video of these young African teens running, chasing and kicking these dried shitballs. 😂 I laughed, commenting, "See?  Further proof that soccer is a shit-game."

If I'm not mistaken, somehow I got a lot of soccer-related web accounts (FB, Twitter, etc.) tagging me and following me.  Had to block them all, because... Well.  It's soccer. 🤨

One Word Horror Title: MONDAY

 

Everyone lays claim to hating Mondays.  Everybody from your neighbourhood grocer, to your letter carrier to your favourite cartoon feline, everyone grumbles over Monday mornings.

I've never had much issue with Mondays as I've always felt they sucked every bit as much as every other day that ends with a Y, with exception of November 29th, my favourite day of the year.  That is until about a month ago, when I began my newest work piece, which I'll be stuck with until September, unless I draw a short straw and get stuck with the same Monday morning shift.

Monday mornings, I begin my work at 5:12am, which requires me to get out of bed at about a quarter after four in the morning, in order to get myself mobile and feed the boy.

If I were able to sleep at night, the 4:15am alarm wouldn't be so bad, but as of late, I'm barely getting three or four hours a night.  Last night, I know for a fact that I only had maybe two hours of sleep.  Maybe a couple minutes more, but nothing significant, but I was up and at 'em and as I was walking out the front door, the power in the northern part of the city went out.  Because I park in the garage, I was unable to leave for work.  I gave it about ten minutes, then called work to let them know I would be unable to fulfill my commitment at 5:12am.  So I lost my normal work for the day, but I was still able to work some other routes and that's where my day began to really unravel.

The power came back about an hour later and I rushed out the door, headed to the garage for work.  I arrived a few minutes before 6am, when I was told there was no work available for me, yet, but to call back at 8:30am.  So I returned home and awaited for the allotted time to call.  I was able to get my itinerary over the phone.  The fellow addressing me was of East Indian decent, so I had some difficulty understanding him, which is why I reiterated with him multiple times, to reassure that I would be taking said bus over at this time and place for this duration. Yes. Yes. Yes and yes, is what I heard through the ear speaker on my phone.  I quickly sped to the mall, catching a bus headed downtown, where I caught the shuttle to the garage where I, once again, clarified with dispatch that these were the bus routes for me and that I take them over here and there and this 'n' that.  Again, I was met with confirmation after confirmation.

First I had to take the shuttle van to Confed Mall where I took over the 65 for one lap through Kensington, followed by the race down 22nd Street and finally sliding into the stall downtown.  A lady approached me and asked me to call the #14 to ask them to wait.  I smiled and told her that I was going to be driving that bus in a few minutes, adding that I wouldn't leave without her.

I did one loop of the 14, returning in time to grab a slice of mediocre pepperoni pizza from the Pharmasave, and with about forty-five minutes to spare, I ate my pizza in the driver's lounge.

My next piece was driving 17-3.  Remember that I confirmed the where, what, and when with the dispatch people, not once, not twice, not even thrice, but probably about five times.  So many times that they were probably scoffing at my ignorance when I left their little window.  It's not ignorance that I possess, but an overwhelming level of anxiety.  Members of the dispatch have fucked me over in the past, giving me false information, telling me to take over a route, downtown, when in fact I was supposed to be at the Circle Park Mall terminal and as you've probably already guessed, they fucked me on this one, too.

I was lead to believe that I was supposed to take over Route 17 at 13:20 (1:20pm for you laypeople) at College and Bottemley.  I stood at that stop for nearly an hour when dispatch called and asked where I was?  I told them and that's when I was on the receiving end of a scolding, telling me that I was supposed to be at the Circle Park Mall to take over the bus.  They told me that the bus has been idling there at the terminal for forty minutes and that they were sending a supervisor to pick me up and take me to my bus.  That ride over was not fun, either.  He gave me shit, big time.  He never raised his voice, but he made it abundantly clear that I had messed up and that I'd likely be receiving a reprimand for the mistake.  I explained to him a bunch of times of how I confirmed multiple times with dispatch that I was told to go there to take over.  He told me outright that takeovers for that route is ALWAYS at either the Cope Terminus or at the Circle Park Mall.  He added that this route was his regular run when he was a driver and that's how it's ALWAYS been done.  He really emphasized that "always".

With a 48-minute deficit when I took over, I managed to catch the bus back up to be on-schedule.  When I finished up my shift, any guesses where I traded off the bus with the next driver?  Yep!!  College and Bottomley.  ALWAYS, my ass!! 

I think I'm going to chat with one of the union guys just to get their take on this.  As I said, this has happened a few times and I don't know if anyone else is having problems similar to this, but I don't think I should get a write-up if I'm not really the one at fault. 🤔

.

Fuck that!!!

Lilliputian Injustice

Listening to the radio on the way home from my mom's house.  Radio personality & all around funny man, Greg Beharrell chimed in between the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Collective Soul to mention how wasteful it is for pizza companies to just use the tiny table in their pizza boxes and throwing away all the tiny little chairs.  I took a moment to think about the words that just tumbled out of Mr. Beharrell's mouth and into my ear holes.  The words dancing around inside my cranium, like a pinball on adrenaline.  Bing. Bing. Bang. Boop.  I don't know exactly what the boop was, but it got my creative juices a flowin' and got my fat ass seated in front of my laptop to bring y'all another rousing edition of my Brain Matter.

"Yes!" I muttered to myself and yes, I tend to audibly speak to myself when I'm alone.  All geniuses do and if you don't, then well....  (Insert awkward pause.😳)

"Yes!" I audibly said, as the heavy guitar riff from Collective Soul's Where the River Flows began.  "That is wasteful..., unless..."

Maybe the pizza companies don't just toss out the tiny chairs, maybe the chairs are donated to tiny people.  Tiny people who use and appreciate these free chairs, but seeing as the tables are all absent, used to save the hot melted cheese on pizzas from sticking to the top of the box, instead.

Poor tiny people forced to sit and eat their dinners and their snacks off their laps like the olden days before tables were invented. How many millions of chairs have been given away since the advent of the tiny pizza table?  There's, at least, a pair of chairs to every table and judging from the bulging waistlines of most North American's, there's a f*ck-ton of tiny chairs out there somewhere...  Probably in the dump, because who are we kidding?  Corporate Pizza doesn't give a shit about helping tiny people out.  Tiny people aren't buying giant pizzas.  Tiny people aren't the target audience for such privileges as pizza.

Greg Beharrell has exposed the pizza industry for what they are.  Evil overlords who oppress tiny people who stand at less than two inches.  Greg Beharrell is a good man and we should thank him for bringing this injustice to light.

Bird Brain

"It must suck," I thought, looking up into the sky at a couple of small black birds flying and gliding against the wind, "Being a bird unable to comprehend what that invisible force is preventing it from flight to the south."

"If only," I was conceiving in my mind, " One could be a bird, but with all the intelligence of a human being." 🤔 

Talk about a bird brain. However, the more I sat there, laid back in the deck chair, staring intently on these little birds, I began to surmise.

Then again, these birds have dealt with this invisible menace their entire existence.  I'm sure they've figured out ways to combat the wind.  One needs not understand an opponent's motives in order to thwart the foe.

I sat quietly in that deck chair, my gaze slowly descending from the heavens to the very deck I was perched upon.  "Who's the bird brain now?" 😔

That's Amore?

"When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that's amore!"  Or so it would seem, according to recording legend, Dean Martin.  He goes on crooning about other factors that equate to true love, but he never elaborates on whether it was a professionally-made pizza or a homemade one, crafted by one's mother.  Upon further speculation, I don't know which would be more beneficial to be clobbered in the face with... 🤔  That, however, is not what this blog will be about.  Instead, we're going to meander down the twisted rabbit hole which is the ongoing debate of what is better:  Pizza that is delivered VS a pizza made at home, from scratch.

Every morning I tune in to 96.3 Cruz-FM.  I love listening to the morning show personalities, Clayton Kroeker and Stacie Cooper.  Their banter is second to none.  If you were to look at me when I'm listening to the show, you'll always see a big smile on my face, if I'm not laughing out loud.  They're a great pair and I hope they're on the air forever.  I also, like them because despite my constant texting into the show to relate to whatever the subject is that day, they're always kind and receptive, except that one time...  Just kidding. 😏

As per the usual, I was listening to the show and, admittedly I don't know how they got onto the subject, but nevertheless, they did, and the subject was PIZZA.  Stacie swears that homemade pizza is far better than delivery.  I can't say for certain that this actually happened, but I swear that I heard half the city exclaim in unison, "WHAT?!?"  If that never actually occurred, then Clayton spoke for all of us when he abruptly responded with "WHAT?!?" 😕  They immediately went into a mock trial where each participant defended their claim and I have to give the victory to Clayton, however, I do see some of Stacie's point.

Iron Chef Bobby Flay schleps pizza.

Stacie has been watching cooking shows and loves watching pizza being prepared at home, from scratch, rather than people always ordering in.  I understand the appeal of these shows, as I also watch them, from time-to-time.  The sound of whirring mixers or sizzling frying pans is a guilty pleasure of mine, which I presume is the case for many people.  It's very rarely, however, that I've ever attempted to replicate anything I've seen on TV.  However, listening to the premise of creating one's own pizza pie at home, is somewhat appealing, however, I always factor in the cost, mess and clean-up versus the reward.

There are billboards all over town, advertising one of the local pizzerias.  They boast this "incredible" deal of two large pizzas (12"), a 2L soda pop, a pound of ribs and a half dozen 2-bite brownies for an astounding price of just $68.99.  Yep!!  With tax, that food is well over seventy bucks.  Suddenly, making pizza at home sounds pretty f**king good.  I know your bank account would thank you.

Cheaper to make, perhaps.  Until you get to the grocer only to discover all the ingredients you desire, also cost an arm and a leg.  Practically need to get a second mortgage on the house just to pay the grocery bill.  Suddenly delivery sounds pretty damned good.  Plus, no mess.  Just a greasy pizza box that gets tossed into the recycling bin.  Your bank account may not like too much, but Mother Earth does.

Just look at this monstrosity from a local eatery.  Over an inch of meat and goodness.  May cost the price of your left arm, but there's no way, even on my best day ever, that I'd ever be able to make a pizza like this.

So which is better?  Difficult to say.  Personally, I have to go with the masses and choose delivery over homemade pizza.  As for which is better to get struck in the face with, I'd go with the homemade pie. 🍕

Dean Martin never specified which type of pie struck him in the eye to learn of the love directed at him, but maybe.  Just maybe.  It was a homemade pie, that fell apart immediately as it left the tosser's hand and only a little tomato sauce got in his eye.  That's amore?  A mother's love, perhaps?  I dunno.  That's a secret that went to the grave of the award-winning singer.

Iraqi Balboa

This past week at work, we began our new work pieces.  Every few months, representatives of the union and transit give new options for transit workers to change the routes of what they were doing to do something new.  Many retain the routes that they were doing previous, some even have been doing the same route for years, while others change shit up every once in awhile to keep things fresh and new.  If it were up to me, I would have continued doing the work I'd been doing since the start of the New Year, but fate would have other plans.  While my work was still there in the morning, by the time it was my turn for sign up, it was gone.  I was forced into something new and while I don't very much enjoy my weekday schedule, my Saturdays are da bomb!  It's only for two months and maybe, on my next sign up, I'll get back to what I was doing before, but if not, hopefully, I can keep this Saturday piece.  It's freakin' awesome, if you didn't already know.

So the latter piece of my Saturday, involves driving routes 44 and 45, which all return downtown as the Number 4.  I did a similar run last year, between October and the end of December, only this time, it's not as hectic and I'm not running an Artic (articulating bus) on the route.

On my second run downtown, returning as the Number 4 bus, I arrived at a stop along College Drive.  Mostly because there was a crowd waiting, but in part because this little Muslim boy stuck his arm out, as if he'd just told the crowd to "Hold on! I've got this!"

He was a very mature little boy of what appeared to be less than 5 years old.  He stepped aboard the bus, arms clasped behind his little body, venturing inward, gesturing like he was inspecting the troops.  As if he were a child-version of General Patton. His parent followed, his proud father with a gigantic smile stretched across his face, his mother behind him, with only a Mona Lisa smile.  They were followed by a cavalcade of people.

One of the side-facing seats were up, because a person with a stroller had been in that spot, earlier.  The young Muslim family sat next to the open spot.  Then no sooner had I continued on the route, that I heard the stop request bell go off.  Not once, like you'd expect, but multiples, like you'd hear from a pinball machine. BING! BING! BING!  BING! BING! BING!  This shit just aggravates me, because it's usually an immature person trying to be funny.

I once had a guy on the bus, who rang the bell for every stop, thinking he was being hilarious.  I told him to stop and he'd deny that he'd rung the bell.  "Sir!" I said sternly, "You're the ONLY person on the bus, besides me!"  The dirty young fella looked around and realized that he couldn't hide his guilt."  He continued to pull the cord, until I booted him off the bus.

This situation was different.  It wasn't an immature delinquent trying to be a funny man.  It was the young Muslim child who'd turned the Handicapped alert bell into his own private boxing gym.  The kid had mad skills, for being so young.  He looked like Rocky Balboa going to town on a side of beef.  BING! BING! BING!

I kindly requested that the bell not be pressed unless they were prepared to exit the bus.  The boy's father, his previous huge smile now dissippating turning into a look of embarrassment.  He pulled his son away, while the child's mother lowered to seat to discourage further interaction.

After a couple more stops, I heard that ever-so-familiar BING! BING! BING! BING!  I looked into the rear viewing mirror and saw that the determined young fella was now laying on his back, underneath the now lowered bench seat, hammering on that handi-button, while his panicked parents struggled to pull the stubborn kid out from beneath.

Once we'd arrived downtown, the kid, once more with hands clasped behind his tiny back, strode off the bus, tossing me a glance of approval.

Asinine-one-one

 

Hmm.  How do I say this without sounding like a pervert or idiot?  I have an awesome and talented ass.

"Wait!  What did you say, Jeff?" you're asking yourselves, "A talented.... Ass?"

I was driving for work, today, as I do everyday, listening to the radio through a bluetooth speaker, when suddenly, out of the blue, an alarm cuts in, interrupting the radio broadcast.  I'm instantly annoyed, believing that it's the Emergency Alert chiming in to do a test as it often does at the most inopportune times.  Usually whilst I'm watching television, but in this case it was in the middle of a U2 song.  I pulled over to pick up another passenger, taking the opportunity to check my phone and delete this bullshit emergency tone, when I discovered that my ass had mistakenly butt-dialed 911.

I often carry my phone in my back pocket, always without issues, but today, somehow, my ass managed to unlock my phone, swipe it to get to the main screen, pressed the phone calling option, then dial 9, followed by two 1's.  How this was possible, I haven't got the foggiest of ideas.  Only that it happened.  Not once, but a second time, when I was trying to delete all the calls that my ass was making.

Now when I claim that my ass made the phone call to the Emergency 9-1-1, it wasn't the whole ass, but my left cheek to be specific.  How this was possible, it being necessary to press and swipe multiple times, I don't f**king know.  It baffles me almost as much as it pissed me off.  For the remainder of my day, I kept thinking that emergency vehicles were going to track my phone, but alas, the one thing to go right, this afternoon, was no intervention by police or fire.