I read an article the other day dealing with children being spanked having lower IQ’s than children who were not spanked. Believe it or not I can read even though multi syllabic words still offer me great dif-fi-cul-ty. It is hard to write when I have to stop and clap out the syllables but I do my best.
The article itself was blah and rife with ‘what about’s’ and ‘says who’. What really caught my attention were the comments about the article. No math was applied to deriving the percentages but I would say with a 10 % accuracy, 85%-90% of the comments were pro spanking. When I say ‘pro spanking’ I do not mean that all of those people wanted a league or association to judge or teach proper techniques in spanking. Nor do I mean there is an amateur spanking league and all the respondents/commenter’s wanted to move up to the big show of professional spanking. Even though I would train hard in order to beat the bejeezus out of random whiney children, this is not to be-yet.
The majority of the comments were well written and grammatically correct which leads me to believe no one from Belle River responded and the average comment writer was fairly well educated. The few ‘anti-spanking’ comments seemed to be written from atop some ethereal pedestal. You could almost see the frizzy haired, jesus sandaled granola swilling peaceniks who wrote these comments dancing around an organic fire singing KumBaya all naked and hirsute and smelling like Patchouli and BO.
I can, to some degree see the children who belong to these wanna be Hippie posers. I imagine that they are the people who bring their long oily haired ilk to everything, including your home, when they were not invited in the first place. They show up, open the gate to your rear yard and let the children go batshit crazy (or act normal for their standards). They play bumper mower with your lawnmower and wheelbarrow. Chase the dogs with your weed whipper and throw firewood and pruning shears into your pool. Nothing is left untouched. Your favourite dirtbike/motocycle/car that you wipe down with a diaper every Sunday is violated by popsicle juice and the darts you thought were hidden. Your dogs that would stand their ground against a rabid Grizzly cower under bushes or the patio. You are questioned about your choice in beer and asked to provide ‘vegetarian’ barbecue for them because red meat and chicken give Little Tommy the trots. It wouldn’t be a problem but 10 year old Tommy was never forced to accept toilet training and he can’t stand wearing diapers and they ‘Don’t want to have an incident!’ on your brand new carpet.
The pendulum swings both ways in discussions like these. I am not grubbing for money to do research so I think I can be pretty objective on this topic. I have a suspicion that the simple word of ‘spanking’ automatically evokes images of drunken Goliath parent’s savagely beating their children for breathing too heavily. MY experience in spanking comes from seeing it and listening to parents talk about it. I have seen tiny women give their prescious children a swipe on the backside. I have seen very large people give their children a pat on the bum to get their kids attention. Never have I witnessed a parent using what I would deem ‘excessive’ force on a child. Once I saw a woman smack her child in the face. This woman was quickly threatened by an elderly gentleman who promised to do the same to her if she ever struck her child in the face again. I truly believe that the average parent would never want to hurt their child mentally or physically. I do think that an unruly kid should be subject to a swift smack on the bum or have their grubby little hands smacked when they are doing something or taking something when they shouldn’t. Don’t scar the child but get their attention and force them to listen to you. They are children and should do your bidding.
There were certain ‘rules’ in our family when I grew up.
1) NEVER LIE
2) Elbows off of the dinner table
3) Chew your food with your mouth closed
4) Do as you are told
5) Always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’
6) Open the door for women and elderly people
7) Never wear a hat into a building
8) NEVER EVER LIE
9) Don’t start what you can’t finish
10) You can question the rules when you pay rent
As a kid (I once was a kid believe it or not), every once in a while something would get me so wound up or excited that I would get on my parents nerves. After two verses of, ‘if you don’t settle down you are going to be sorry!’ I was usually very sorry. This usually ended up with me sitting in a car alone or being grabbed by the back of my neck and led around like a blind person. I had my mouth washed out with soap on many an occasion for using, shall we say, advanced linguistics not suited to an eight year old. The worst was the parental follow up to my trying to lie. I don’t know if any of you have done this but in my childhood mind, if a story went on and on and on with confusing twists and turns and poor character development there was no way possible mom or dad would ever figure out I was lying. Good theory until Pops Grizzly growled and would say, “ I am only going to ask you once…” - Always the negotiator and tactician he wouldn’t finish his words before I admitted I was lying. Down in the basement..crack crack crack –lesson learned.
It is simple discipline. I needed direction- I got it. My father never wanted to spank me and he never caused any physical harm. Was I scared of the man? Damn Tootin’! When he spoke, did I listen? Always. What bothers me about some of the lawn apes today is that they are allowed to do whatever they want whenever they want. I don’t know if it jealousy or not but if I had ever spoken to my mother the way I hear kids today talk to their parents I would have been killed – by my mom and then my dad, and then my mom again.
I remember my friend’s fathers and ‘The Look’. Every father seemed to have ‘the look’. IF you got ‘the look’ it meant shut up and calm down. The Look was usually tied into a dad growl. This was a tone, usually low and gravelly that, much like Pavlov ringing a bell, was used to convey that boundaries were being crossed that should not be crossed.
I don’t hear the dad growl or see the ‘Look’ anymore. I do see the look of despair and the vacuous stare of men who could only wear a smile if they saw God’s hand holding a cocked pistol coming out of the sky to end their misery.
I strongly believe the average male is all for spanking except for the following reasons;
1) Our Hippie parents told us spanking was bad
2) Our Hippie teachers told us it was bad
3) Our wanna be Hippie wives won’t let us spank our children.
4) Everyone wants us to use logic and reason on toddlers.
Why I think this is wrong;
1) & 2) Our generation never got to smoke dope and have ‘free love’. Our generation got to deal with AIDS, MADD and ‘The War Against Drugs’. It seems our parent’s generation had too much fun and they didn’t want to share so they imposed all this crap on us.
2) Our wives don’t like conflict (except with us) so they forbid us from spanking or talking sternly to children. Even though you agreed to have children together and the understanding was there that spanking may need to be used- the deal changed as soon as Junior was born. You lost your rights – end of story!
3) You cannot use logic on a toddler. Toddlers do not understand the Laws of Physics. Toddlers believe trains can talk and fly. Unicorns are real, and a bath towel cape will make you impervious to injury. How the holy hell can you calmly discuss the disadvantages of trying to fly by jumping off of the roof to a Five year old who’s suited up with his Impervious bath towel and his flying footie pajamas? A little kid sees a piece of candy at the checkout and wants it real bad. Said little kid throws a temper tantrum after mom calmly explains to him that candy will deteriorate the enamel on his teeth and cause him dental problems later in life. Temper tantrum continues. That kid doesn’t give a rat’s ass about tooth decay or enamel. HE wants that piece of candy and is going to cry and whine until he gets it. Just say no! Like you did to sex and drugs in the 80’s and 90’s! It was easy for you back then, what has changed?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
For My Friend
I had said in my previous post that I had never been prouder of Bob the Dog. I was wrong.
Lori spent all day Friday over in Michigan at a veterinary clinic with Bob. All tests were inconclusive of his conditions but the vet gave him a cortisone shot and prescribed him several medications to help ease the swelling in his head.
We both spent Friday night on the floor just petting Bob and talking to him. He whimpered a few times as he struggled to stand up. When he did manage to stand up his balance was shot. When we fed him that night we had to hold his dish up to him and help him balance so he could eat. Bob slept through the entire night.
I left work early on Saturday morning. Lori was sitting beside him petting him and telling him he was a good boy. He knew I was there and tried to get up but just didn’t have the strength. I sat down and petted him. Lori and I agreed it was time. She called the vet clinic.
When we arrived one of the girls who works there, almost in tears, ushered us into an examination room. The vet, a caring soul, came in, offered his condolences and sedated Bob. Bob sniffed around the room, bumping into everything for about ten minutes before his legs started to give out. I picked him up and placed him on the table.
Lori talked to Bob the entire time. Bob was Lori’s dog. Bob was Lori’s guardian and would do anything to protect her and make sure she was always safe. On many occasions the little goof would look at me with curiosity and wonder if the hug I had given Lori was ok or not. In his own oafish way he would push his way between us if he thought I was hurting his best friend. On occasions too often to count this typically happy go lucky mutt would turn into a cross between a full grown lion and a werewolf if any other dogs or animals came too close to Lori for his liking.
Eventually the vet came back and proceeded with required steps to free our friend from his pain. With a slight yelp, the deed was done. Lori held his head and spoke calmly to Bob as he began to pass. Lori did not cry. I was proud of her for that. I think she didn’t want her friend to worry about her as he always did as he crossed the river to his next life. I stood strong as I petted and talked to Bob as he fell to sleep. I began to break down when I felt his heart beat slowing down and then disappear.
I think I was close to panic and worry that I had done something I shouldn’t have. Possibly I cut his time short and didn’t let a miracle come his way. I know our friend was in pain and I did what I would want done to me.
The house was quiet on Sunday as the 9 year old ‘puppy’ we loved was not there lumbering around and chasing his toys all over the house. I missed his light snoring on Saturday night. I never thought I would miss him getting in my way whenever I was doing anything outside. I did. Bob broke up any monotony by being a goofy older dog with the heart of a puppy. I know Lori is still sad. She took Bob in when he was abandoned and never let anything bad happen to him. Beauty and the Goofy Beast.
I hold solace in the fact that Bob is now free. There are no fences to stop him from chasing the squirrels he held as his nemeses. All the ditches are full of muddy water and all the bean fields give him cover as he bounds through them tirelessly looking for something to chase. And everyday he can do it again.
I am proud of Lori for being there and taking care of her friend till his time was up. I am proud of Bob for teaching me some patience, for sitting down beside me on the stairs and just staring off into the distance, not wanting to disturb, but being there in case I needed to pet him.
I hope Bob watches us from wherever he is. Guarding and caring for us as he always did.
For Bob the Wonder Dog April 2000 – May 23rd 2009
Happy Hunting.
Lori spent all day Friday over in Michigan at a veterinary clinic with Bob. All tests were inconclusive of his conditions but the vet gave him a cortisone shot and prescribed him several medications to help ease the swelling in his head.
We both spent Friday night on the floor just petting Bob and talking to him. He whimpered a few times as he struggled to stand up. When he did manage to stand up his balance was shot. When we fed him that night we had to hold his dish up to him and help him balance so he could eat. Bob slept through the entire night.
I left work early on Saturday morning. Lori was sitting beside him petting him and telling him he was a good boy. He knew I was there and tried to get up but just didn’t have the strength. I sat down and petted him. Lori and I agreed it was time. She called the vet clinic.
When we arrived one of the girls who works there, almost in tears, ushered us into an examination room. The vet, a caring soul, came in, offered his condolences and sedated Bob. Bob sniffed around the room, bumping into everything for about ten minutes before his legs started to give out. I picked him up and placed him on the table.
Lori talked to Bob the entire time. Bob was Lori’s dog. Bob was Lori’s guardian and would do anything to protect her and make sure she was always safe. On many occasions the little goof would look at me with curiosity and wonder if the hug I had given Lori was ok or not. In his own oafish way he would push his way between us if he thought I was hurting his best friend. On occasions too often to count this typically happy go lucky mutt would turn into a cross between a full grown lion and a werewolf if any other dogs or animals came too close to Lori for his liking.
Eventually the vet came back and proceeded with required steps to free our friend from his pain. With a slight yelp, the deed was done. Lori held his head and spoke calmly to Bob as he began to pass. Lori did not cry. I was proud of her for that. I think she didn’t want her friend to worry about her as he always did as he crossed the river to his next life. I stood strong as I petted and talked to Bob as he fell to sleep. I began to break down when I felt his heart beat slowing down and then disappear.
I think I was close to panic and worry that I had done something I shouldn’t have. Possibly I cut his time short and didn’t let a miracle come his way. I know our friend was in pain and I did what I would want done to me.
The house was quiet on Sunday as the 9 year old ‘puppy’ we loved was not there lumbering around and chasing his toys all over the house. I missed his light snoring on Saturday night. I never thought I would miss him getting in my way whenever I was doing anything outside. I did. Bob broke up any monotony by being a goofy older dog with the heart of a puppy. I know Lori is still sad. She took Bob in when he was abandoned and never let anything bad happen to him. Beauty and the Goofy Beast.
I hold solace in the fact that Bob is now free. There are no fences to stop him from chasing the squirrels he held as his nemeses. All the ditches are full of muddy water and all the bean fields give him cover as he bounds through them tirelessly looking for something to chase. And everyday he can do it again.
I am proud of Lori for being there and taking care of her friend till his time was up. I am proud of Bob for teaching me some patience, for sitting down beside me on the stairs and just staring off into the distance, not wanting to disturb, but being there in case I needed to pet him.
I hope Bob watches us from wherever he is. Guarding and caring for us as he always did.
For Bob the Wonder Dog April 2000 – May 23rd 2009
Happy Hunting.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Bob the Wonderdog
Bob the Wonderdog
This last week has really made me think about a lot of things. Last Saturday Lori and I came to realize that our dog Bob has some type of neurological disorder that is causing him to go blind and have seizures.
I can honestly say that I have been in tears a few times watching the poor dog constantly circle to the left, bump into things and lose his balance. It’s very hard to have to watch my friend lose what I may call his dignity.
I have never been prouder of the big orange goof. Not once has he cried or yelped. Not once has he stopped trying to carry on with his life. Even though he can’t see he finds his food and water and does not stop being ‘Bob’.
I can’t help but wonder what drives him to keep going. Every time he hears a sound he wants to get up and protect Lori and myself. The medication he is on really knocks him out but he still gets up and does his best to patrol the house and make sure we are safe.
I find I am trying to get home from work earlier. I miss not seeing Bob come to the door with his tail wagging and his chew toy in his mouth. This is Bob’s offering to Lori and I. I miss seeing the clod run like a deer and bound off the patio to make sure the backyard is safe. We now have to help him down the stairs and make sure he doesn’t fall into the river behind our house.
I want to be home and make sure my friend is as comfortable as possible. I know he is confused now and wondering what is happening. I’ve found myself lying on the floor next to Bob with his head across my left shoulder just talking to him so he knows I am there. I have never felt so peaceful when I know he is asleep and his soft nasally breath slows down.
There are no other words to describe the feeling. Love and loyalty. From Bob to us, and, from us to Bob. All of this for food, water, a roof over his head and a pat on the head.
It hurts to watch this poor dog have seizures. It hurts more to know that after he has stopped I think he feels bad for what he has done and tries to lick my face as if he is trying to say he is sorry. Exhausted and barely able to move he wants me to know he is sorry.
All I can do is hope. I will keep just talking to Bob and petting him until his time comes. I pray that it is peaceful and I pray that I can be there petting him and softly talking to him.
This last week has really made me think about a lot of things. Last Saturday Lori and I came to realize that our dog Bob has some type of neurological disorder that is causing him to go blind and have seizures.
I can honestly say that I have been in tears a few times watching the poor dog constantly circle to the left, bump into things and lose his balance. It’s very hard to have to watch my friend lose what I may call his dignity.
I have never been prouder of the big orange goof. Not once has he cried or yelped. Not once has he stopped trying to carry on with his life. Even though he can’t see he finds his food and water and does not stop being ‘Bob’.
I can’t help but wonder what drives him to keep going. Every time he hears a sound he wants to get up and protect Lori and myself. The medication he is on really knocks him out but he still gets up and does his best to patrol the house and make sure we are safe.
I find I am trying to get home from work earlier. I miss not seeing Bob come to the door with his tail wagging and his chew toy in his mouth. This is Bob’s offering to Lori and I. I miss seeing the clod run like a deer and bound off the patio to make sure the backyard is safe. We now have to help him down the stairs and make sure he doesn’t fall into the river behind our house.
I want to be home and make sure my friend is as comfortable as possible. I know he is confused now and wondering what is happening. I’ve found myself lying on the floor next to Bob with his head across my left shoulder just talking to him so he knows I am there. I have never felt so peaceful when I know he is asleep and his soft nasally breath slows down.
There are no other words to describe the feeling. Love and loyalty. From Bob to us, and, from us to Bob. All of this for food, water, a roof over his head and a pat on the head.
It hurts to watch this poor dog have seizures. It hurts more to know that after he has stopped I think he feels bad for what he has done and tries to lick my face as if he is trying to say he is sorry. Exhausted and barely able to move he wants me to know he is sorry.
All I can do is hope. I will keep just talking to Bob and petting him until his time comes. I pray that it is peaceful and I pray that I can be there petting him and softly talking to him.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Las Vegas- Part Dos.
Las Vegas- Part Dos.
Likely I am flawed in my Logic, but if you can’t afford a baby-sitter-chances are you can’t afford to be in Vegas. Who brings their the children to Vegas? Morons.
Vegas tried to be kid friendly by making amusement parks at the casinos. It didn’t work. Vegas was designed for gamblers. Not strollers and rides on the god damn spinning Tea Cup. ‘Mommy mommy, I frew up my buffet on the Pirate Ship! I want more cotton candy!’ What the hell is going on? Oh and being hungover at a breakfast buffet and having adorable little Johnny keep cutting in front of me, and touching and coughing on everything just turns my arterial screw one notch tighter. Shut up and eat your pancakes you little turd. You are four years old and nobody cares what you have to say so quit talking and squirming and sit there – peacefully.
I can’t get mad at the kids as much as I want to. I do feel the desire to slap the parents around though. What are you thinking? Or not thinking? Drunk, chain smoking, sleep deprived people trying to enjoy or lose themselves for a weekend do not want to trip over your kids, or have to hear them screaming when we are eating.
Parenting Tips From a Childless Contractor ( Some Comments stolen from other rants)
1) Your child is special- to you and you alone
2) It is not cute listening to your child belt out Barney songs at the top of his or her lungs in any restaurant. Thank the gods that civility still reins or your little tone deaf soprano would be wearing risotto and osso bucco and possibly scalding hot coffee
3) When I am on vacation and there is any type of bar or cooler around filled with delicious alcoholic drinks, do not even consider asking me to, ‘Tone it down’, or ‘watch my language,’ or ‘Please put some clothes on!’ there are children around! They are not my children. I have enough sense to know people like me will likely be at the places I go to. Be prepared for little Billy and Samantha to be well versed in hydraulic power and the word ‘fuck’.
4) I know it is a sign of the times but please teach your child some table manners.
5) I reserve the right to yell at your child if they mouth off to me. Your child will know fear by the time I finish.
6) Your child is not ADD or ADHD or any other AD_____. They get away with so much that they have not learned to focus. Proper beatings will cure your child of ADD or any other Bull-hit disorder they may contract.
7) IF you say your child has ADD most people think your kid is retarded. Unless they have to read books upside down and backwards- your child does not have ADD.
8) If your child is hyperactive-tie them to the lawn mower and have them push cut the entire neighbourhoods lawns. After a week or three of this they will learn not to be so hyper.
9) Children will eat whatever is put in front of them. If they do not like what is being served they are welcome to not eat and go to bed hungry. They will eventually eat. It shouldn’t take more than 3-4 days for the child to finally admit they are hungry and come to their senses.
10) A size 9 or greater boot is a great way of getting and keeping a childs’ attention.
Back on the Street
When I trip over your child, swear and fall into a flower bed, please have enough sense to run away or at least sashay away at a moderate pace. There will be swearing and possibly overstated posturing.
Who on gods green earth thinks it could possibly be a wonderful place for a child on the streets of Las Vegas at 1:30 in the morning? Really. What trailer park did you just roll out of ?
I also need to ask why you have to walk down the centre of the sidewalk. You make it impossible for anyone to get by you and you generally move one half of the speed of people who only possess an IQ of 75.
Here’s another idea. Take your kids to Circus Circus. There is an amusement park there. When it closes at 9 or 10 pm – go back to your hotel – and stay there.
I don’t think I am the only person who thinks you are retarded for bringing your children to Las Vegas. I do think I am the only person who will go out of my way to write about it.
Enough With the Kiddies
The second day in Vegas is usually spent at a trade show. Something glamourous like ‘CONEXPO,’ or ‘World of Concrete.’ The shows are huge and usually take two days to see every piece of crap being offered. Companies will try the sex appeal thing by hiring over chested bimbos running around in spandex with rock drills or caulking guns in their hands. I am ok with this. It takes away from the monotony of seeing Asians climbing over every display with cameras and tape measures. Pretty subtle those Asians are.
My favourite display was the pneumatic hammer display where the sales team got the crowd ooohing and awing that there breakers had a lot of energy and where still light enough for even small women to use. Not to my surprise up came a tiny little woman from the crowd to ‘test’ the product.
Here is the blow by blow.
‘Mrs Tiffany Ballbreaker grabs the breaker in both hands and is impressed with the size of the shaft. She mockingly does curls with the breaker and decides to get down to business. Oops, you have it upside down there Tiffany, there you go, pointy end down sweetie, that’s right. Outfitted with a hard hat, safety glasses and earplugs she’s ready for work. One more set of earplugs please, Mrs. Ballbreaker thought they were Chiclets.
She places the point on the concrete slab and pulls the trigger. The sound resonates thru the show area. It sounds like 10 machine guns spraying the area with cover fire. Tiffany holds on to the surging beast. She is being shaken and rattled and pushed around as the hammer bites into the concrete. It appears that resonance has been located and Tiffany’s breasts are the metronomes. The pulsing of the breaker has dislodged her breasts from her bra and the sizable endowment that Mrs. Ballbreaker possesses is starting to dance to another drummer. I imagine if her shirt was off, the movement of her breasts would resemble two single bladed windmills turning in unison. Thud. She has broken of a large piece of the concrete slab. Tiffany releases the trigger and slowly puts the breaker down. She asks for a cigarette and if the company builds a breaker that knows how to mow the lawn. Sorry Mrs. Ballbreaker but you’re going to have to keep the fat ass you married.
Juvenile? Yes. Good, cheap entertainment? Hell yeah.
I stop for a $5.00 bottle of water and a cigarette and I have the opportunity to people watch. It is easy to see that everyone, except the North Americans are dressed in business casual. The North Americans are dressed in the typical white trash ensemble. There is a time and a place for shirts that say, ‘I am Here about the Blowjob.” This isn’t the place. Women wearing tank tops and showing off their tattoos seems to be the norm. God Help us all.
Most of the people here simply want free stuff. Hats, pens and rulers are their mission. Logically they could have stayed home, saved the $90 entrance fee and bought pens and rulers but what do I know.
Enough for today. I start to walk back to my hotel or at least some off the main drag beer joint for a happy hour pick me up. I refuse to wait in line with contractors for a ‘free’ shuttle bus ride back to my hotel. Contractors are an unruly and untrustworthy bunch. After a couple ‘pops’ I slowly walk back to my hotel. Ahhh! Air conditioned splendour. A quick shower feels great.
I meet up with my brother and we both head off to the ‘Steakhouse’ at Circus Circus. Feeling rather spiffy in our sport coats we are seated right away. People in ball caps, torn jeans and t-shirts mumble about my brother and I getting seated right away as we pass. In my head and possibly with my outside voice I think or say- ‘Douchebag’ as I pass. These restaurants never used to let anyone in if they were not wearing at the minimum a sport coat. Now they seem to let anyone in due to the economic climate. The restaurants still give preferential treatment to people who don’t look like they just rolled up to the doors in a Winnebago.
This is another way of life that annoys the piss out of me. What the hell is wrong with at least putting on a dress shirt and a pair of pants without holes in them when you go to a nice restaurant? What manner of fiendish turd could possibly think it is ok to wear a god damn NASCAR hat in a restaurant? Beat up running shoes? I can see the holes in your sock ya ass! I am sorry but the friggin’ soup here costs ten bucks and if you have only one drink you are still not escaping this place for under $75.00 per person. If you have enough money to eat here, chances are you have enough money for socks. Moron! And please take of your fucking hat. Nothing screams loser as much as a loser who won’t take off his loser hat inside any building let alone a nice upscale dining establishment. Oh I know you want to be seated over in the nicer part of the dining room, but you will have to notice that everyone over here isn’t dressed like a trailer park turd. You will sit over in the turd area with the rest of the turds. Maybe I am somewhat elitist in matters like this, but I know damn well the people with manners, common sense and traditional values are pleased with me as I sit over in the nice area of the dining room. And get your fucking elbows off the table! You sir are the Turd King!
I do have the advantage that my wife is very pretty so when we go into places, any places, I generally go unnoticed. On the slim chance the waiter may talk to me I want to look presentable. Put a suit on, impress your wife or girlfriend. Actually look at the wine menu, and touch your chin like you are pondering a very important decision. Say please and thank you like a human being. Don’t be a lazy crap weasel and present yourself like you just rolled out of bed and decided to grace everyone with your stylish flip flops and ‘Who Farted?’ t- shirt. Loser!
Resuming our dinner we order our dinner and drink a few glasses of wine while we BS each other. Our meals come out and I swear to Neptune that I have half a cow on the plate before me. OH MY GOD! I have found the best prime rib I have ever had in my life. Sorry mom but this one has yours beat. Barely able to finish we roll out of the restaurant in the bloated euphoric state that can only be enhanced by cont’d drinking and gambling.
END PART 2
Likely I am flawed in my Logic, but if you can’t afford a baby-sitter-chances are you can’t afford to be in Vegas. Who brings their the children to Vegas? Morons.
Vegas tried to be kid friendly by making amusement parks at the casinos. It didn’t work. Vegas was designed for gamblers. Not strollers and rides on the god damn spinning Tea Cup. ‘Mommy mommy, I frew up my buffet on the Pirate Ship! I want more cotton candy!’ What the hell is going on? Oh and being hungover at a breakfast buffet and having adorable little Johnny keep cutting in front of me, and touching and coughing on everything just turns my arterial screw one notch tighter. Shut up and eat your pancakes you little turd. You are four years old and nobody cares what you have to say so quit talking and squirming and sit there – peacefully.
I can’t get mad at the kids as much as I want to. I do feel the desire to slap the parents around though. What are you thinking? Or not thinking? Drunk, chain smoking, sleep deprived people trying to enjoy or lose themselves for a weekend do not want to trip over your kids, or have to hear them screaming when we are eating.
Parenting Tips From a Childless Contractor ( Some Comments stolen from other rants)
1) Your child is special- to you and you alone
2) It is not cute listening to your child belt out Barney songs at the top of his or her lungs in any restaurant. Thank the gods that civility still reins or your little tone deaf soprano would be wearing risotto and osso bucco and possibly scalding hot coffee
3) When I am on vacation and there is any type of bar or cooler around filled with delicious alcoholic drinks, do not even consider asking me to, ‘Tone it down’, or ‘watch my language,’ or ‘Please put some clothes on!’ there are children around! They are not my children. I have enough sense to know people like me will likely be at the places I go to. Be prepared for little Billy and Samantha to be well versed in hydraulic power and the word ‘fuck’.
4) I know it is a sign of the times but please teach your child some table manners.
5) I reserve the right to yell at your child if they mouth off to me. Your child will know fear by the time I finish.
6) Your child is not ADD or ADHD or any other AD_____. They get away with so much that they have not learned to focus. Proper beatings will cure your child of ADD or any other Bull-hit disorder they may contract.
7) IF you say your child has ADD most people think your kid is retarded. Unless they have to read books upside down and backwards- your child does not have ADD.
8) If your child is hyperactive-tie them to the lawn mower and have them push cut the entire neighbourhoods lawns. After a week or three of this they will learn not to be so hyper.
9) Children will eat whatever is put in front of them. If they do not like what is being served they are welcome to not eat and go to bed hungry. They will eventually eat. It shouldn’t take more than 3-4 days for the child to finally admit they are hungry and come to their senses.
10) A size 9 or greater boot is a great way of getting and keeping a childs’ attention.
Back on the Street
When I trip over your child, swear and fall into a flower bed, please have enough sense to run away or at least sashay away at a moderate pace. There will be swearing and possibly overstated posturing.
Who on gods green earth thinks it could possibly be a wonderful place for a child on the streets of Las Vegas at 1:30 in the morning? Really. What trailer park did you just roll out of ?
I also need to ask why you have to walk down the centre of the sidewalk. You make it impossible for anyone to get by you and you generally move one half of the speed of people who only possess an IQ of 75.
Here’s another idea. Take your kids to Circus Circus. There is an amusement park there. When it closes at 9 or 10 pm – go back to your hotel – and stay there.
I don’t think I am the only person who thinks you are retarded for bringing your children to Las Vegas. I do think I am the only person who will go out of my way to write about it.
Enough With the Kiddies
The second day in Vegas is usually spent at a trade show. Something glamourous like ‘CONEXPO,’ or ‘World of Concrete.’ The shows are huge and usually take two days to see every piece of crap being offered. Companies will try the sex appeal thing by hiring over chested bimbos running around in spandex with rock drills or caulking guns in their hands. I am ok with this. It takes away from the monotony of seeing Asians climbing over every display with cameras and tape measures. Pretty subtle those Asians are.
My favourite display was the pneumatic hammer display where the sales team got the crowd ooohing and awing that there breakers had a lot of energy and where still light enough for even small women to use. Not to my surprise up came a tiny little woman from the crowd to ‘test’ the product.
Here is the blow by blow.
‘Mrs Tiffany Ballbreaker grabs the breaker in both hands and is impressed with the size of the shaft. She mockingly does curls with the breaker and decides to get down to business. Oops, you have it upside down there Tiffany, there you go, pointy end down sweetie, that’s right. Outfitted with a hard hat, safety glasses and earplugs she’s ready for work. One more set of earplugs please, Mrs. Ballbreaker thought they were Chiclets.
She places the point on the concrete slab and pulls the trigger. The sound resonates thru the show area. It sounds like 10 machine guns spraying the area with cover fire. Tiffany holds on to the surging beast. She is being shaken and rattled and pushed around as the hammer bites into the concrete. It appears that resonance has been located and Tiffany’s breasts are the metronomes. The pulsing of the breaker has dislodged her breasts from her bra and the sizable endowment that Mrs. Ballbreaker possesses is starting to dance to another drummer. I imagine if her shirt was off, the movement of her breasts would resemble two single bladed windmills turning in unison. Thud. She has broken of a large piece of the concrete slab. Tiffany releases the trigger and slowly puts the breaker down. She asks for a cigarette and if the company builds a breaker that knows how to mow the lawn. Sorry Mrs. Ballbreaker but you’re going to have to keep the fat ass you married.
Juvenile? Yes. Good, cheap entertainment? Hell yeah.
I stop for a $5.00 bottle of water and a cigarette and I have the opportunity to people watch. It is easy to see that everyone, except the North Americans are dressed in business casual. The North Americans are dressed in the typical white trash ensemble. There is a time and a place for shirts that say, ‘I am Here about the Blowjob.” This isn’t the place. Women wearing tank tops and showing off their tattoos seems to be the norm. God Help us all.
Most of the people here simply want free stuff. Hats, pens and rulers are their mission. Logically they could have stayed home, saved the $90 entrance fee and bought pens and rulers but what do I know.
Enough for today. I start to walk back to my hotel or at least some off the main drag beer joint for a happy hour pick me up. I refuse to wait in line with contractors for a ‘free’ shuttle bus ride back to my hotel. Contractors are an unruly and untrustworthy bunch. After a couple ‘pops’ I slowly walk back to my hotel. Ahhh! Air conditioned splendour. A quick shower feels great.
I meet up with my brother and we both head off to the ‘Steakhouse’ at Circus Circus. Feeling rather spiffy in our sport coats we are seated right away. People in ball caps, torn jeans and t-shirts mumble about my brother and I getting seated right away as we pass. In my head and possibly with my outside voice I think or say- ‘Douchebag’ as I pass. These restaurants never used to let anyone in if they were not wearing at the minimum a sport coat. Now they seem to let anyone in due to the economic climate. The restaurants still give preferential treatment to people who don’t look like they just rolled up to the doors in a Winnebago.
This is another way of life that annoys the piss out of me. What the hell is wrong with at least putting on a dress shirt and a pair of pants without holes in them when you go to a nice restaurant? What manner of fiendish turd could possibly think it is ok to wear a god damn NASCAR hat in a restaurant? Beat up running shoes? I can see the holes in your sock ya ass! I am sorry but the friggin’ soup here costs ten bucks and if you have only one drink you are still not escaping this place for under $75.00 per person. If you have enough money to eat here, chances are you have enough money for socks. Moron! And please take of your fucking hat. Nothing screams loser as much as a loser who won’t take off his loser hat inside any building let alone a nice upscale dining establishment. Oh I know you want to be seated over in the nicer part of the dining room, but you will have to notice that everyone over here isn’t dressed like a trailer park turd. You will sit over in the turd area with the rest of the turds. Maybe I am somewhat elitist in matters like this, but I know damn well the people with manners, common sense and traditional values are pleased with me as I sit over in the nice area of the dining room. And get your fucking elbows off the table! You sir are the Turd King!
I do have the advantage that my wife is very pretty so when we go into places, any places, I generally go unnoticed. On the slim chance the waiter may talk to me I want to look presentable. Put a suit on, impress your wife or girlfriend. Actually look at the wine menu, and touch your chin like you are pondering a very important decision. Say please and thank you like a human being. Don’t be a lazy crap weasel and present yourself like you just rolled out of bed and decided to grace everyone with your stylish flip flops and ‘Who Farted?’ t- shirt. Loser!
Resuming our dinner we order our dinner and drink a few glasses of wine while we BS each other. Our meals come out and I swear to Neptune that I have half a cow on the plate before me. OH MY GOD! I have found the best prime rib I have ever had in my life. Sorry mom but this one has yours beat. Barely able to finish we roll out of the restaurant in the bloated euphoric state that can only be enhanced by cont’d drinking and gambling.
END PART 2
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Vegas-Not My Town
Vegas – Not My Town. (Part One)
Let’s start off by saying that anyone who says ‘Vegas – my town!’ should be punched really hard in the throat. It’s not your town, Shooter. Big Wheel. Shut your mouth. You are a drone like the rest of us who ended up there for whatever reason. You fly in, get herded to your hotel, gamble, gawk at the waitresses and lose your cash like the rest of us. Jack-Ass!
Landing in a Strange Place
Landing in Las Vegas is always an interesting experience. It seems that violent weather patterns are attracted to me. That and the fact that Northwest Airlines deliberately puts only pilots with no depth perception at the controls of every flight I have ever taken with them.
I am awoken by thump of my head thwapping off the window as the plane ascends and descends violently as we fly over the mountains that surround Las Vegas. Lurching and jarring and staggering like an Irishman trying to walk home on a slanted street ten minutes after the pub has closed, the plane is talking to us. I pray that this is the little plane that could.
With my hands wedged between my legs I prepare for landing. The plane slams down on the run way. I can hear hydraulic fluid being forced violently through the landing gear as the plane slams down again. Fortunately my hands being wedged in my crotch have kept my testicles attached.
Idiocy Runs Amuck
As we taxi, limp or crawl to the gate people stand up and try to get their bags down from the overhead compartments. My head is now balanced with two lumps that resemble small breasts. One lump from being awoken, the other from the tiny lady who has dropped her 75 pound carry-on bag right on my noodle.
Try as I may I cannot understand why I have to wedge my briefcase or knapsack in front of me and be uncomfortable all flight while these people insist on carrying half of their worldly possessions in one carry-on bag and why their bags get priority.
By the time we get to the gate the aisle is full of people anxious to de-board the plane and lose their money. Several people get sucker punched as people race to put their jackets on in the tight quarters. Some people from the back of the plane decide it is better if they push their way as far forward as possible causing further confusion and cramping the aisles. Understand, I would be all for this if I was on the plane with the Swedish Bikini Team and said members kept getting pushed into my lap, but this isn’t the case as tremendously overweight people flounder and wriggle for pole position in the ever clogging aisle. Bum cheeks the size of café tables are thrust toward me while dreams of never ending buffets dance through these walrus’ tiny minds.
IF you have no respect for nylon or polyester clothing –fly to Las Vegas. These materials are used in clothing that is asked to restrain tremendous loads, contain dynamic forces that cannot possibly be qualified by any engineering formula known to man. Mountains of Sara Lee stretched flesh crashing against millimetres of cloth that fights to contain the loads applied to it. Stylish –no. Flammable-yes. Worthy of our respect for sheer strength – definitely.
As the masses of morons run to get off the plane I patiently wait. Those who didn’t bring steamer trunk sized carry-ons onto the plane with them and are destined for the baggage area still kick and punch their way off, if only for the opportunity to stand for an extended period at the baggage carousel.
Bristling With Energy
I trudge up the plane way and am greeted with neon signs of epileptic quality. Signs requesting my presence at a multitude of places that want to get to know me, drink with me, eat with me and take me on tours. Girls in bikinis or with fuzzified woman parts stare seductively at me from their posters while lions and elephants play violins in the background.
A brain fart later I realize, while watching the masses from every ethnic background march through the airport, Las Vegas is powered entirely by static electricity. Lumbering people wearing nylon track suits shh shh shh to and fro in the frantic scurry to get someplace. Hairdos get larger and shoelaces levitate as the inner thighs of robust people slam nylon against nylon as they traipse thru the airport. Unbeknownst to us the floors of the airport have electrical grids that grab hold of the static energy and whisk it to the Las Vegas power grid. Technology at work.
DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?
After sucking back a cigarette I stand in line for a cab. An hour or two later a cabby with some strange head dress calls me Mr Dude Guy and flatly points out that he has a bad back. I load my luggage in the trunk and I am zoomed away to my hotel. I am constantly amazed by taxis. Rattling and shuddering our way down the Vegas corridors in cars that should not be on the road I am thrown from side to side as the driver throws the Crown Victoria into a hairpin turn thirty five miles per hour. Wear my seatbelt and pray to the god of asphalt for my arrival unscathed.
If you ever doubt the robustness of Ford vehicles – go to Vegas and be mystified by the abuse these vehicles can withstand.
Are You Checking In?
In a line, again, at the hotel I wait to fork over my credit card. ‘Next’ – which is me, I am greeted by an attractive woman who barely speaks English. Usually this would bother me that I have to repeat myself 3-4 times but this girl is honestly trying (and she has a cute butt).
Why do they ask if you are checking in? No I thought this was line for the roller coaster. This isn’t the line for a Nathan’s hot dog? Of course I am here to check in. I think the fact that I have boarding passes in my shirt pocket and luggage may have tipped you off.
The Room
When in Vegas I don’t care what room I get as long as it is clean. A few times I have had rooms with great views of the strip that I enjoy for about thirty seconds. Most times I have a great view of a wall or the parking structure. If I am lucky I get a view of an exhaust fan. This view usually helps me determine if the hotel is well maintained or not by the amount of squealing that emanates from the exhaust fan.
Bed-check. Shower-check. I am good to go.
The Strip
For those of who didn’t know, most of the casinos on the strip are designed to discourage you from leaving them once you have entered. This is done quite simply by placing the gaming areas at least 1.34 miles from any accessible street. The casinos also insist on allowing small children in strollers to be placed strategically in your way to dissuade you from even moving. I am fairly certain that these are not real children but rather animatronic dolls that are capable of smelling really bad. I think they manufacture them in Japan because the likeness to a real child is outstanding.
I walk through Caesar’s Palace (which is neither owned by Caesar or looks like a palace). The Forum shops are in full bloom. I can get anything I want or need here. Brookstone for an electric ass scratcher and Victoria Secrets for a bra that lifts and separates. Everything a person with no brain and too much money needs. And only for 35% more than I would pay for the same item at home.
I can understand the breakdown of the name ‘Forum Shops’. There are a lot of shops contained in the Forum Shop area. But I do believe the Forums in Roman times were places where people discussed and debated things for the betterment of their lives. There is no debate in the Forum Shops. The price is the price and retail is all they know. Being one half Italian and one half Scottish these principles do not sit well with me. Give me something. 5%,10%, a dirty look or lollipop. I will not pay retail. These clerks are sales people that don’t know how to sell. Do I need an electric ass scratcher? No I do not. Do I want an electric ass scratcher to make my ass scratching experience that much more enjoyable? You bet. But you need to sell me on just how unfulfilled my life will be without one. There is no sense in these people of when they are going to lose a sale. No connection between me and the product they are hawking. As soon as the words ‘I don’t know’ come out of my mouth I am already picturing myself walking away. Last ditch effort – knock the price down by $10.00. You got me! I am the proud new owner of a Surabachi Multi –Position, Variable Speed Ass Scratcher with kung fu grip and a special setting for ‘spank’. How did I survive without this product?
I walk the 16 miles to the strip and decide I am thirsty. A thirst only beer will quench. I gallop into Wild Bill’s, or whatever the Barbary Coast is called now and treat myself to an eight dollar beer. The most expensive Budweiser I have ever had to drink (excluding the beers I paid for which caused me to damage my car after they were consumed).
What the holy hell? Eight dollars for a beer and you honestly think I feel obligated to tip you? Don’t smile at me like we are old war buddies Mr. Bartender. You are nothing but a beer shlepping whore and should be treated as such. WHORE! JERK!
Head down and tail between my legs I make my way away from the strip in search of cheaper libations and a place that hasn’t had its atmosphere sterilized. A place where nobody knows my name and never wants to but we can all sit around the bar and simply Guy Nod to let each other know that we are all friends.
I locate a place called Ellis Island. My wife told me about this place and we were there several times but my internal compass was leading me in the wrong direction. $1.00 drafts and $2.50 for bottles of anything else. Utopia with really bad tile.
I proceed to drink my face off, play Single Deck 21 with the assistance of a lovely dealer from the former Yugoslavia. At this point the beer is free because I have had four and with the assistance of my dealer I am up forty five bucks. Drinking and 21 do not go hand in hand as the casinos frown upon mathematically handicapped people such as myself removing my pants, underwear, socks and shoes at the tables. I don’t know what I was thinking but this plan would only work if I was playing twenty and one third Single deck.
For seven dollars I get a steak, potatoes, salad and a vegetable. I used to question whether or not eating beef from cows grown in a nuclear reactor was safe but that all falls to the wayside as the slab of medium rare meat is hurled at me by a saucy waitress from Venezuela, or the Phillipines.
Over-served and over full I wallow back up to the Strip and head for the Imperial Palace to play my favourite game – ‘Spot the Hooker’. There are variants of this game with the main one being ‘Is That a Woman?’
Powerful cosmic forces are at work in the lonely desert that surrounds Las Vegas. The waitress and women of the night (and day in Vegas) appear to have been bolted together in some sweat shop on the outskirts of nowhere. Lips that looked like they have been stung by killer bees, eyes pulled back so tight you can nearly see the backs of their heads, breasts that appear to have been bolted on and that defy the laws of gravity. All done with the intention to look better and turn a quicker buck. Life in a fast city has worn these women down and turned them into haggard and hard looking women. Even the lights designed to hide the truth cannot mask the toughness and hard living these women have participated in.
Bored of my game I wander the strip and slowly inch my way back to my hotel. I am handed business cards for professional women for hire by what I can only assume are Mexican immigrants and likely illegals. Stuffing the cards in my pockets for mischief making when I get home I stumble over a stroller and bounce off a retaining wall in front of Harrah’s. It is one thirty in the morning and some lunatic, feeding her kids sugar is right in the middle of the sidewalk.
Let’s start off by saying that anyone who says ‘Vegas – my town!’ should be punched really hard in the throat. It’s not your town, Shooter. Big Wheel. Shut your mouth. You are a drone like the rest of us who ended up there for whatever reason. You fly in, get herded to your hotel, gamble, gawk at the waitresses and lose your cash like the rest of us. Jack-Ass!
Landing in a Strange Place
Landing in Las Vegas is always an interesting experience. It seems that violent weather patterns are attracted to me. That and the fact that Northwest Airlines deliberately puts only pilots with no depth perception at the controls of every flight I have ever taken with them.
I am awoken by thump of my head thwapping off the window as the plane ascends and descends violently as we fly over the mountains that surround Las Vegas. Lurching and jarring and staggering like an Irishman trying to walk home on a slanted street ten minutes after the pub has closed, the plane is talking to us. I pray that this is the little plane that could.
With my hands wedged between my legs I prepare for landing. The plane slams down on the run way. I can hear hydraulic fluid being forced violently through the landing gear as the plane slams down again. Fortunately my hands being wedged in my crotch have kept my testicles attached.
Idiocy Runs Amuck
As we taxi, limp or crawl to the gate people stand up and try to get their bags down from the overhead compartments. My head is now balanced with two lumps that resemble small breasts. One lump from being awoken, the other from the tiny lady who has dropped her 75 pound carry-on bag right on my noodle.
Try as I may I cannot understand why I have to wedge my briefcase or knapsack in front of me and be uncomfortable all flight while these people insist on carrying half of their worldly possessions in one carry-on bag and why their bags get priority.
By the time we get to the gate the aisle is full of people anxious to de-board the plane and lose their money. Several people get sucker punched as people race to put their jackets on in the tight quarters. Some people from the back of the plane decide it is better if they push their way as far forward as possible causing further confusion and cramping the aisles. Understand, I would be all for this if I was on the plane with the Swedish Bikini Team and said members kept getting pushed into my lap, but this isn’t the case as tremendously overweight people flounder and wriggle for pole position in the ever clogging aisle. Bum cheeks the size of café tables are thrust toward me while dreams of never ending buffets dance through these walrus’ tiny minds.
IF you have no respect for nylon or polyester clothing –fly to Las Vegas. These materials are used in clothing that is asked to restrain tremendous loads, contain dynamic forces that cannot possibly be qualified by any engineering formula known to man. Mountains of Sara Lee stretched flesh crashing against millimetres of cloth that fights to contain the loads applied to it. Stylish –no. Flammable-yes. Worthy of our respect for sheer strength – definitely.
As the masses of morons run to get off the plane I patiently wait. Those who didn’t bring steamer trunk sized carry-ons onto the plane with them and are destined for the baggage area still kick and punch their way off, if only for the opportunity to stand for an extended period at the baggage carousel.
Bristling With Energy
I trudge up the plane way and am greeted with neon signs of epileptic quality. Signs requesting my presence at a multitude of places that want to get to know me, drink with me, eat with me and take me on tours. Girls in bikinis or with fuzzified woman parts stare seductively at me from their posters while lions and elephants play violins in the background.
A brain fart later I realize, while watching the masses from every ethnic background march through the airport, Las Vegas is powered entirely by static electricity. Lumbering people wearing nylon track suits shh shh shh to and fro in the frantic scurry to get someplace. Hairdos get larger and shoelaces levitate as the inner thighs of robust people slam nylon against nylon as they traipse thru the airport. Unbeknownst to us the floors of the airport have electrical grids that grab hold of the static energy and whisk it to the Las Vegas power grid. Technology at work.
DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?
After sucking back a cigarette I stand in line for a cab. An hour or two later a cabby with some strange head dress calls me Mr Dude Guy and flatly points out that he has a bad back. I load my luggage in the trunk and I am zoomed away to my hotel. I am constantly amazed by taxis. Rattling and shuddering our way down the Vegas corridors in cars that should not be on the road I am thrown from side to side as the driver throws the Crown Victoria into a hairpin turn thirty five miles per hour. Wear my seatbelt and pray to the god of asphalt for my arrival unscathed.
If you ever doubt the robustness of Ford vehicles – go to Vegas and be mystified by the abuse these vehicles can withstand.
Are You Checking In?
In a line, again, at the hotel I wait to fork over my credit card. ‘Next’ – which is me, I am greeted by an attractive woman who barely speaks English. Usually this would bother me that I have to repeat myself 3-4 times but this girl is honestly trying (and she has a cute butt).
Why do they ask if you are checking in? No I thought this was line for the roller coaster. This isn’t the line for a Nathan’s hot dog? Of course I am here to check in. I think the fact that I have boarding passes in my shirt pocket and luggage may have tipped you off.
The Room
When in Vegas I don’t care what room I get as long as it is clean. A few times I have had rooms with great views of the strip that I enjoy for about thirty seconds. Most times I have a great view of a wall or the parking structure. If I am lucky I get a view of an exhaust fan. This view usually helps me determine if the hotel is well maintained or not by the amount of squealing that emanates from the exhaust fan.
Bed-check. Shower-check. I am good to go.
The Strip
For those of who didn’t know, most of the casinos on the strip are designed to discourage you from leaving them once you have entered. This is done quite simply by placing the gaming areas at least 1.34 miles from any accessible street. The casinos also insist on allowing small children in strollers to be placed strategically in your way to dissuade you from even moving. I am fairly certain that these are not real children but rather animatronic dolls that are capable of smelling really bad. I think they manufacture them in Japan because the likeness to a real child is outstanding.
I walk through Caesar’s Palace (which is neither owned by Caesar or looks like a palace). The Forum shops are in full bloom. I can get anything I want or need here. Brookstone for an electric ass scratcher and Victoria Secrets for a bra that lifts and separates. Everything a person with no brain and too much money needs. And only for 35% more than I would pay for the same item at home.
I can understand the breakdown of the name ‘Forum Shops’. There are a lot of shops contained in the Forum Shop area. But I do believe the Forums in Roman times were places where people discussed and debated things for the betterment of their lives. There is no debate in the Forum Shops. The price is the price and retail is all they know. Being one half Italian and one half Scottish these principles do not sit well with me. Give me something. 5%,10%, a dirty look or lollipop. I will not pay retail. These clerks are sales people that don’t know how to sell. Do I need an electric ass scratcher? No I do not. Do I want an electric ass scratcher to make my ass scratching experience that much more enjoyable? You bet. But you need to sell me on just how unfulfilled my life will be without one. There is no sense in these people of when they are going to lose a sale. No connection between me and the product they are hawking. As soon as the words ‘I don’t know’ come out of my mouth I am already picturing myself walking away. Last ditch effort – knock the price down by $10.00. You got me! I am the proud new owner of a Surabachi Multi –Position, Variable Speed Ass Scratcher with kung fu grip and a special setting for ‘spank’. How did I survive without this product?
I walk the 16 miles to the strip and decide I am thirsty. A thirst only beer will quench. I gallop into Wild Bill’s, or whatever the Barbary Coast is called now and treat myself to an eight dollar beer. The most expensive Budweiser I have ever had to drink (excluding the beers I paid for which caused me to damage my car after they were consumed).
What the holy hell? Eight dollars for a beer and you honestly think I feel obligated to tip you? Don’t smile at me like we are old war buddies Mr. Bartender. You are nothing but a beer shlepping whore and should be treated as such. WHORE! JERK!
Head down and tail between my legs I make my way away from the strip in search of cheaper libations and a place that hasn’t had its atmosphere sterilized. A place where nobody knows my name and never wants to but we can all sit around the bar and simply Guy Nod to let each other know that we are all friends.
I locate a place called Ellis Island. My wife told me about this place and we were there several times but my internal compass was leading me in the wrong direction. $1.00 drafts and $2.50 for bottles of anything else. Utopia with really bad tile.
I proceed to drink my face off, play Single Deck 21 with the assistance of a lovely dealer from the former Yugoslavia. At this point the beer is free because I have had four and with the assistance of my dealer I am up forty five bucks. Drinking and 21 do not go hand in hand as the casinos frown upon mathematically handicapped people such as myself removing my pants, underwear, socks and shoes at the tables. I don’t know what I was thinking but this plan would only work if I was playing twenty and one third Single deck.
For seven dollars I get a steak, potatoes, salad and a vegetable. I used to question whether or not eating beef from cows grown in a nuclear reactor was safe but that all falls to the wayside as the slab of medium rare meat is hurled at me by a saucy waitress from Venezuela, or the Phillipines.
Over-served and over full I wallow back up to the Strip and head for the Imperial Palace to play my favourite game – ‘Spot the Hooker’. There are variants of this game with the main one being ‘Is That a Woman?’
Powerful cosmic forces are at work in the lonely desert that surrounds Las Vegas. The waitress and women of the night (and day in Vegas) appear to have been bolted together in some sweat shop on the outskirts of nowhere. Lips that looked like they have been stung by killer bees, eyes pulled back so tight you can nearly see the backs of their heads, breasts that appear to have been bolted on and that defy the laws of gravity. All done with the intention to look better and turn a quicker buck. Life in a fast city has worn these women down and turned them into haggard and hard looking women. Even the lights designed to hide the truth cannot mask the toughness and hard living these women have participated in.
Bored of my game I wander the strip and slowly inch my way back to my hotel. I am handed business cards for professional women for hire by what I can only assume are Mexican immigrants and likely illegals. Stuffing the cards in my pockets for mischief making when I get home I stumble over a stroller and bounce off a retaining wall in front of Harrah’s. It is one thirty in the morning and some lunatic, feeding her kids sugar is right in the middle of the sidewalk.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Back in the Day Part 2
Back in the Day Part 2 The Pussification of the Masses
It is my firm belief that we are on a downward spiral and have been for quite a while. With every new generation we seem to see society deteriorate in some manner.
Think about it for a second. I can’t speak for the women folk , but will try to generalize my argument and make it as non defendable as possible.
Our grandfathers’ generation(s) were tough SOB’s. These are the guys who were around during World War 2. They were all for killing whoever the enemy was in order to have peace. When they were done stomping the guts out of the enemy they came home and had all this pent up energy from not being able to kill anyone anymore. So they built roads and buildings, created motorcycle gangs, and raised families.
My dad’s generation was born during the war. He was 8 years old when the war ended but even he wanted to go over and stomp on the guts of the ‘enemy’. Dad wasn’t a baby boomer so he missed out on being a hippie, growing his hair really long and smelling really bad. I am thankful for this everyday. I cannot imagine a world where the Dean boys’ names would have been Earth, Wind and MoonBeam. I got beat up enough for the name I have now (at least I blame my ass kickings on my name).
Dad’s generation aspired to be as tough as the soldiers who returned from the war, but it is difficult to prove how tough you are when there is no one available to legally kill. So instead they played hockey with out shin pads, football without helmets and ran around with really bad haircuts. Don’t get me wrong – they were tough as nails. I did not know what a band aid was until my second year of high school. Anytime we got cut or broke a bone out came a rag and the duct tape. ‘Bite on the end of this stick while I reset your leg’. ‘When I was kid we used leaves and weren’t allowed to bite down on a stick. Sticks were saved for killing dinner and firewood!’ I know I was a disappointment to my father for not being as tough as he was. He told me several times and continues to do so every day. For my thirty fifth birthday he bought me a red dress and on the card he wrote – ‘To my least favourite daughter –I am disappointed that my genes were passed on to you. Wear this dress while you play in traffic. SIGNED Hopefully not your real father!’
Dad’s generation got off pretty lucky. There was money to be made if you had the brains and the balls to step up to the plate and work hard. Our generation did not fare so well. By the time we were in high school it wasn’t cool to be tough. We were asked to ‘share our feelings’ and ‘not be afraid to cry’ and ‘give a hoot –don’t pollute.’ I’m sorry but it is very difficult to be raised to be a warrior and then be asked to be a whiner. When we played sports you didn’t get hurt. You may have broken a bone but you skated to the bench. When you took a puck in the pills that was hard enough to break your cup –you didn’t cry. You ‘walked it off’ or ‘iced it down.’ We were raised to play fair but to win. No-one came in second. If you didn’t win you were the loser. But noooo! We are the generation that has to learn the metric system and ‘share.’ This sucks!
We got tagged as Generation X. I prefer to think of it as the ‘I Don’t Dance’ generation. The guys who danced were supposed to be subject to scorn and ridicule. Not only was not dancing not cool, the guys who did dance were allowed to wear parachute pants and adorn their heads with Flock of Seagulls haircuts. When did the world go completely insane? Those guys were to be labelled at a minimum and their sexuality was always to be questioned.
At least we didn’t grow up with the ‘Everyone Gets a Trophy’ generation. Little Tommy just placed dead last – here’s a trophy you fat little bastard. What the hell is up with that?
Does this lunacy permeate upward or downward? Does the ‘special’ kid who collects boogers and chalk dust get ‘A’s’ even though he doesn’t know his own name? Please tell me if I am wrong but when did ‘Hugging’ become a class, was it the 90’s?
The suckiness factor for us increases as the years roll on. When we were in our twenties we were supposed to be caring and gentle and not afraid to cry. Now, it appears that women have changed their minds-again. Women want a modified version of the Pussified male. Caring and gentle are ok but they don’t like the crying. It reminds them of their bi-polar college room mate. No, no more crying. But you better be gentle unless they tell us otherwise. And you better be caring- especially about her family.
The Pussified Male Version 1.0
Simply put, we were raised to be a wolverine but were told to be Richard Simmons by the time we were sixteen years old.
The Pussified Male Version 1.1
We get to kiss the southbound end of a northbound mule because Version 1.0 is ‘whiny and cries a lot’ Version 1.1 is not allowed to cry unless he is given permission to do so. Example – funerals for members of her family.
The Pussified Male Version 1.2
This is the soon to be updated version. Caring and gentle, No crying, housework, yardwork, vacations and any other ‘need’ the woman wants. This globally includes being non judgemental, politically correct and caring to the needs of every woman (as long as it isn’t that whore Meghan from work!)
What the Fuck Just Happened?
I went from being ignorant to being ignorant and intolerant. Why do I not get to be and say what I want? Why am I being censored? If someone is an asshole I reserve the right to call him OR her, an asshole. Queer is a perfectly acceptable word. ‘That dude is queer!’ IT fits. It serves a purpose.
There are days that I wish I could just say screw it and be a tolerant person. It’s just not in me though. I don’t say things because I am mean. I say it because it is my truth. I didn’t ask for your permission to say something, because I refuse to agree just for the sake of being non-confrontational. When and where did I miss the train that went to the place where we all have puppies and chase butterflies and rainbows in a beautiful valley? You can try to make me get on that train but I am very sure that me screaming like a little girl while you drag me up the steps is not politically correct.
My Translations
Homosexual – queer, gay, likes the same sex, dresses well and knows more than 8 colours
Metrosexual- queer, gay, has really nice nails – has not come dancing out of the closet yet.
Lesbian – female, gay, acceptable to all males as long as they are hot, in reality they are usually chubby women with weed whipper haircuts, enjoy golf and wearing sleeveless flannel shirts.
Political Correctness – plagiarized – the leftist belief that you can pick a turd up by the clean end.
Enlightened – willing to force their beliefs down others throats with fanatical zeal.
And who the hell ever said you were supposed to be friends with your parents? Thanks for that. I’m supposed to go and share my feelings with a man who only shed a tear once when he was 10 because he had to shoot his own dog? Thanks for queuing me up for that embarrassment. When we are older we can be friends with our parents- not when we are kids.
If the truth was told I think I would have preferred being brought into a generation that was more clear cut. 1950’s man or 1990’s child. I don’t want to share my feelings-they are mine so piss off. If I do cry I want there to be a tangible reason like a hammer or a drill press. I want the freedom to care about what I think is important, be it, bunnies and butterflies or big block engines.
I am hopeful that Pussification of Masses comes to end. I would like a world where we can do and say what we want and if it bothers someone that person can say, ‘I really don’t like enjoy being called a retard but I appreciate your candour!’ rather than person call the ACLU and launch a federal review of my right to say what I want.
It’s ironic that we are supposed to be open and enlightened to the beliefs of others yet we feel bad about telling our own truths for the fear of hurting someone else’s feelings.
Be honest. Be yourself.
It is my firm belief that we are on a downward spiral and have been for quite a while. With every new generation we seem to see society deteriorate in some manner.
Think about it for a second. I can’t speak for the women folk , but will try to generalize my argument and make it as non defendable as possible.
Our grandfathers’ generation(s) were tough SOB’s. These are the guys who were around during World War 2. They were all for killing whoever the enemy was in order to have peace. When they were done stomping the guts out of the enemy they came home and had all this pent up energy from not being able to kill anyone anymore. So they built roads and buildings, created motorcycle gangs, and raised families.
My dad’s generation was born during the war. He was 8 years old when the war ended but even he wanted to go over and stomp on the guts of the ‘enemy’. Dad wasn’t a baby boomer so he missed out on being a hippie, growing his hair really long and smelling really bad. I am thankful for this everyday. I cannot imagine a world where the Dean boys’ names would have been Earth, Wind and MoonBeam. I got beat up enough for the name I have now (at least I blame my ass kickings on my name).
Dad’s generation aspired to be as tough as the soldiers who returned from the war, but it is difficult to prove how tough you are when there is no one available to legally kill. So instead they played hockey with out shin pads, football without helmets and ran around with really bad haircuts. Don’t get me wrong – they were tough as nails. I did not know what a band aid was until my second year of high school. Anytime we got cut or broke a bone out came a rag and the duct tape. ‘Bite on the end of this stick while I reset your leg’. ‘When I was kid we used leaves and weren’t allowed to bite down on a stick. Sticks were saved for killing dinner and firewood!’ I know I was a disappointment to my father for not being as tough as he was. He told me several times and continues to do so every day. For my thirty fifth birthday he bought me a red dress and on the card he wrote – ‘To my least favourite daughter –I am disappointed that my genes were passed on to you. Wear this dress while you play in traffic. SIGNED Hopefully not your real father!’
Dad’s generation got off pretty lucky. There was money to be made if you had the brains and the balls to step up to the plate and work hard. Our generation did not fare so well. By the time we were in high school it wasn’t cool to be tough. We were asked to ‘share our feelings’ and ‘not be afraid to cry’ and ‘give a hoot –don’t pollute.’ I’m sorry but it is very difficult to be raised to be a warrior and then be asked to be a whiner. When we played sports you didn’t get hurt. You may have broken a bone but you skated to the bench. When you took a puck in the pills that was hard enough to break your cup –you didn’t cry. You ‘walked it off’ or ‘iced it down.’ We were raised to play fair but to win. No-one came in second. If you didn’t win you were the loser. But noooo! We are the generation that has to learn the metric system and ‘share.’ This sucks!
We got tagged as Generation X. I prefer to think of it as the ‘I Don’t Dance’ generation. The guys who danced were supposed to be subject to scorn and ridicule. Not only was not dancing not cool, the guys who did dance were allowed to wear parachute pants and adorn their heads with Flock of Seagulls haircuts. When did the world go completely insane? Those guys were to be labelled at a minimum and their sexuality was always to be questioned.
At least we didn’t grow up with the ‘Everyone Gets a Trophy’ generation. Little Tommy just placed dead last – here’s a trophy you fat little bastard. What the hell is up with that?
Does this lunacy permeate upward or downward? Does the ‘special’ kid who collects boogers and chalk dust get ‘A’s’ even though he doesn’t know his own name? Please tell me if I am wrong but when did ‘Hugging’ become a class, was it the 90’s?
The suckiness factor for us increases as the years roll on. When we were in our twenties we were supposed to be caring and gentle and not afraid to cry. Now, it appears that women have changed their minds-again. Women want a modified version of the Pussified male. Caring and gentle are ok but they don’t like the crying. It reminds them of their bi-polar college room mate. No, no more crying. But you better be gentle unless they tell us otherwise. And you better be caring- especially about her family.
The Pussified Male Version 1.0
Simply put, we were raised to be a wolverine but were told to be Richard Simmons by the time we were sixteen years old.
The Pussified Male Version 1.1
We get to kiss the southbound end of a northbound mule because Version 1.0 is ‘whiny and cries a lot’ Version 1.1 is not allowed to cry unless he is given permission to do so. Example – funerals for members of her family.
The Pussified Male Version 1.2
This is the soon to be updated version. Caring and gentle, No crying, housework, yardwork, vacations and any other ‘need’ the woman wants. This globally includes being non judgemental, politically correct and caring to the needs of every woman (as long as it isn’t that whore Meghan from work!)
What the Fuck Just Happened?
I went from being ignorant to being ignorant and intolerant. Why do I not get to be and say what I want? Why am I being censored? If someone is an asshole I reserve the right to call him OR her, an asshole. Queer is a perfectly acceptable word. ‘That dude is queer!’ IT fits. It serves a purpose.
There are days that I wish I could just say screw it and be a tolerant person. It’s just not in me though. I don’t say things because I am mean. I say it because it is my truth. I didn’t ask for your permission to say something, because I refuse to agree just for the sake of being non-confrontational. When and where did I miss the train that went to the place where we all have puppies and chase butterflies and rainbows in a beautiful valley? You can try to make me get on that train but I am very sure that me screaming like a little girl while you drag me up the steps is not politically correct.
My Translations
Homosexual – queer, gay, likes the same sex, dresses well and knows more than 8 colours
Metrosexual- queer, gay, has really nice nails – has not come dancing out of the closet yet.
Lesbian – female, gay, acceptable to all males as long as they are hot, in reality they are usually chubby women with weed whipper haircuts, enjoy golf and wearing sleeveless flannel shirts.
Political Correctness – plagiarized – the leftist belief that you can pick a turd up by the clean end.
Enlightened – willing to force their beliefs down others throats with fanatical zeal.
And who the hell ever said you were supposed to be friends with your parents? Thanks for that. I’m supposed to go and share my feelings with a man who only shed a tear once when he was 10 because he had to shoot his own dog? Thanks for queuing me up for that embarrassment. When we are older we can be friends with our parents- not when we are kids.
If the truth was told I think I would have preferred being brought into a generation that was more clear cut. 1950’s man or 1990’s child. I don’t want to share my feelings-they are mine so piss off. If I do cry I want there to be a tangible reason like a hammer or a drill press. I want the freedom to care about what I think is important, be it, bunnies and butterflies or big block engines.
I am hopeful that Pussification of Masses comes to end. I would like a world where we can do and say what we want and if it bothers someone that person can say, ‘I really don’t like enjoy being called a retard but I appreciate your candour!’ rather than person call the ACLU and launch a federal review of my right to say what I want.
It’s ironic that we are supposed to be open and enlightened to the beliefs of others yet we feel bad about telling our own truths for the fear of hurting someone else’s feelings.
Be honest. Be yourself.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Simple Trip to the Grocery Store.
In Case You Were Wondering: An ongoing case study of things that shouldn’t be a big deal, but somehow manage to annoy me to no end.
Chapter 1: A trip to the Grocery Store
Every few months I look into the fridge and realize, “Hey! I need some groceries,” and “Mutated broccoli is fun to watch while it beats up blobbified apples, but corralling it, killing it and disposing of it is a real pain in the butt.” If I could figure out how to keep the light in the fridge turned on with the door closed, I could video the flora death matches and make a few bucks.
Off I Go
Every time I pull into the grocery store parking lot, I get ‘The Fear’. Not the same ‘Fear’ I get from my wife, but a ‘Fear’ nonetheless. I swear that as soon as people get into any parking lot, the side blinders they use to drive down the freeway become #10 welding shades.
This is no ordinary circus. This is a multi-generational extravaganza. The cast of characters in this ballet of bad driving ranges from new licensees, to very old and possibly dead people. I think ‘zombified’ is the correct faux word.
Categorized Inflictors of ‘The Fear’
1) Small ladies driving large SUV’s, full size pick up trucks, and even motor homes. I wince every time I see these people bumping and pushing their monster trucks into parking spaces designed for a Toyota Yaris. Newsflash: If you need a rope ladder to climb into your vehicle, and the seat raised a foot from the floor just so you can see between the dash and the steering wheel – your vehicle is too big for you. Those ‘thingies’ you hit and call speed bumps may actually be people you have run over. You wouldn’t know though because all you can see on your rear view mirror is your backseat or the roof of your vehicle. Newsflash: If you can’t reach the rear view mirror of your vehicle without standing on the seat – your vehicle is too large for you and your little T-Rex arms.
2) Young or new drivers. A little tidbit of knowledge for you: The yellow painted areas on the pavement where people walk across from the store to the parking lot – that is called a ‘cross walk’. It is pretty standard practice to stop at a cross walk when people are crossing at one. Honking your horn, driving through the painted area and flipping people off are not standard operating procedures.
3) Elderly drivers. Driving down the center of the parking aisles while being passed by people pushing shopping carts should be indication enough that you are moving far too slow and annoying other people. And please explain the random stopping and reversing manoeuvre? I have witnessed an elderly woman attempt to park inside a shopping cart coral. She must have thought the covered parking was reserved for her. After several failed attempts, she drove to another parking spot. This being Windsor, I can imagine that small foreign cars were to blame for her inability to wedge her Buick into the cart coral.
4) Other. I become scared whenever I hear the sound of metal and concrete grinding together in a symphony of stupidity. We have all seen or heard this at some point. I refer to this method of parking as ‘Driving by Feel’ or ‘Parking by Sound’. All I can say about these types of drivers is that Darwin was really Wrong.
I am Just Getting Started.
After dodging vehicles in the parking lot, I find myself watching in awe and amazement as some of the brighter people in the store attempt to separate the shopping carts right inside the door of the store. Furiously pulling and jerking at the carts trying to free one of these decrepit left-turning carts from the sea of scrap that has accumulated in the cart area. At the proper (or improper) angle, sometimes the people appear like monkeys in a tree: masturbating furiously, as if their life depended on the outcome. I slowly wade through the mass of retardation, people who can’t separate a cart, people who can’t decide if they want a big cart or a small cart, and other people who just seem to think that at any moment something wonderful will happen to them if they just stand, in the way, of people trying to get their grocery shopping done.
If I have the luck to find a cart that has not been welded to another one, I always enjoy hearing other guys (the monkey guys) try to explain why they cannot free a cart. It is the same excuse that I use when someone asks me to work on their car:” I used to work on the engine of my car, but all these ‘things’ and computers just baffle me now!” or “I used to know how to separate shopping carts, but these new ones must have bigger wheels or something, and you must have to lift them a different way!” Yeah. Okay, dumbass!
Through the Door
Why, why, why do people feel the need to block doors and talk to people about stupid crap? Don’t pretend you don’t know what you are doing! You see us waiting, being patient because you are being a douchebag. And pull up your fat ass kid’s stupid-looking pants!
Three things you can do when you find yourself in this predicament:
Be Canadian and wait patiently.
Kindly ask Douchebag and Fat Family to move their cart.
Be me and just push your way through. No warning. No Regrets. Be sure to tell them ‘Suck my Ass!’ when they bitterly squeal ‘Excuse Me!’ Then call them a Douchebag.
I Know What I Want
Being a guy, I can honestly say that if it involves having to shop, I won’t go unless I know what I need. Shopping is not a sport or activity. If it was, there would be helmets, sticks and a mouth guard involved. Full contact jewellery shopping – Yeah! Bowling for fat people in the aisles – Alright! I go the grocery store because I need food and I know what I want. Get in, get out. Like a cat burglar. But Nooooo! I get stuck behind some 90-year-old Armenian woman who has to pinch, squeeze and fondle every strawberry or string bean. Come on, live a little. Grab the entire quart basket and jam it into you cart.
Welcome to the Deli Counter. We are now serving Number Stupid!
What is so hard about taking a number when you walk up to the deli counter and then waiting until your number is called? I have seen women (I think they were women) actually cry at the deli counter. “I have been waiting longer than that man and you served him first!” Did you take a number? Did you see the little red light clock/counter thing? Did you see anyone else take a number? You don’t deserve deli. You are too stupid to live, let alone enjoy any type of deli. Oh, let me guess: you want fresh bologna? Get out of the store, retard.
Oh the Hopelessness!
Is it inherently difficult to keep your cart on one side or the other of the aisle? Don’t look at me like I’m some rampaging lunatic when I push your cart out of my way. I don’t even say ‘Excuse me’ anymore. There is no point. I will just have to say it again in the next aisle because Navigator-Driving Nancy will not and cannot learn to keep her cart out of the way of others.
Again with people blocking the aisles talking about things that make me want to vomit. Get out of the way! You are ignorant and stupid and I can’t believe you were smart enough to find the grocery store, let alone wander around it unsupervised.
A Horizontal Side Note
I have noticed that ‘large’ people usually never hang around the produce section of the store. Bread, boxed meals and frozen foods – that is where you see the highest concentration of large people and their Amigo Lard Ass Transporters (ALAT for short). I am pretty sure that they purchase things based on the length of time it will take to cook them. Toast is quick. Does it take longer to put Macaroni and Cheese in the microwave or boil water? It is faster in the microwave, but I have to stand up out of my ALAT. For the love of all that is holy, please put all the high starch, fatty, salty pre-made stuff on the higher shelves. The savings in medical costs keeping this stuff out of reach of ALAT people alone would buy books for a few dozen schools every year.
Cell phones? Really? You came here with no list and no clue? Thank you for talking loud enough for everyone to hear you, also. If I have to hear you say ‘snoogums’ or ‘pookie bear’ one more time, I will shove that phone up your ass. That shouldn’t be a problem for you though since it is obvious that your head is nestled up there anyway.
The Finish Line
Does anyone find it disturbing that we are willing to stand in line for a very long time and pay exorbitant sums of our money to do it? It’s much like going to Cedar Point. It costs a lot, you have trip over strollers and stupid people everywhere, but there are no rides (except for the conveyor at the check out – it is actually a lot of fun to ride, but they don’t stand up too well to the weight of someone my size. It was kind of embarrassing waiting for the fire department to arrive and free my coat zipper from the internal workings also).
If one more smiley eighteen-year-old tries to lead me over to the self checkout and starts explaining how this futuristic nonsense works, I swear to something sacred I am going to blow a gasket. ‘Let me help you, Sir!’ It felt like she was leading an old dog into the unknown. Unhand me, you little trollop! I understand your strange machine. I only followed you because I thought it was Lap Dance Day.
Paper or Plastic ?
Has anyone ever said ‘neither?’ I would like something in satin with ruffles if you don’t mind. Put the groceries in a bag, you twit, and never ask me that question again.
I absolutely refuse to bag my own groceries at the checkout. I want the chestily endowed lady to bend over as many times as possible, so me helping limit her bending just isn’t an option.
Run For Your Car
Do I have a target painted on my back? Really, how come I would feel safer tap dancing through a mine field than pushing a cart back to my car? Rear view mirrors don’t lie and if you are physically incapable of rotating your neck fifteen or twenty degrees, then please don’t think doing 6000 rpm neutral drops into reverse is the proper method of exiting a parking spot. And don’t roll down your window and scream at me while I am laying in the fetal position underneath your car hoping all three testicles are still where they are supposed to be.
To Safety
Groceries are loaded, and I have not maimed anyone backing out of my parking spot. Be a dear and get your fat ass and mentally challenged looking kids out of the way. Holy Hell, it’s the same fat ass who kept blocking me in the aisles inside. It must be their mission in life to slow people down. People can’t be that dumb…or can they? Traffic is trying to move, but you just slowly lumber and jiggle your behemoth behind down the center of the parking aisle.
Where is my tack hammer?
Chapter 1: A trip to the Grocery Store
Every few months I look into the fridge and realize, “Hey! I need some groceries,” and “Mutated broccoli is fun to watch while it beats up blobbified apples, but corralling it, killing it and disposing of it is a real pain in the butt.” If I could figure out how to keep the light in the fridge turned on with the door closed, I could video the flora death matches and make a few bucks.
Off I Go
Every time I pull into the grocery store parking lot, I get ‘The Fear’. Not the same ‘Fear’ I get from my wife, but a ‘Fear’ nonetheless. I swear that as soon as people get into any parking lot, the side blinders they use to drive down the freeway become #10 welding shades.
This is no ordinary circus. This is a multi-generational extravaganza. The cast of characters in this ballet of bad driving ranges from new licensees, to very old and possibly dead people. I think ‘zombified’ is the correct faux word.
Categorized Inflictors of ‘The Fear’
1) Small ladies driving large SUV’s, full size pick up trucks, and even motor homes. I wince every time I see these people bumping and pushing their monster trucks into parking spaces designed for a Toyota Yaris. Newsflash: If you need a rope ladder to climb into your vehicle, and the seat raised a foot from the floor just so you can see between the dash and the steering wheel – your vehicle is too big for you. Those ‘thingies’ you hit and call speed bumps may actually be people you have run over. You wouldn’t know though because all you can see on your rear view mirror is your backseat or the roof of your vehicle. Newsflash: If you can’t reach the rear view mirror of your vehicle without standing on the seat – your vehicle is too large for you and your little T-Rex arms.
2) Young or new drivers. A little tidbit of knowledge for you: The yellow painted areas on the pavement where people walk across from the store to the parking lot – that is called a ‘cross walk’. It is pretty standard practice to stop at a cross walk when people are crossing at one. Honking your horn, driving through the painted area and flipping people off are not standard operating procedures.
3) Elderly drivers. Driving down the center of the parking aisles while being passed by people pushing shopping carts should be indication enough that you are moving far too slow and annoying other people. And please explain the random stopping and reversing manoeuvre? I have witnessed an elderly woman attempt to park inside a shopping cart coral. She must have thought the covered parking was reserved for her. After several failed attempts, she drove to another parking spot. This being Windsor, I can imagine that small foreign cars were to blame for her inability to wedge her Buick into the cart coral.
4) Other. I become scared whenever I hear the sound of metal and concrete grinding together in a symphony of stupidity. We have all seen or heard this at some point. I refer to this method of parking as ‘Driving by Feel’ or ‘Parking by Sound’. All I can say about these types of drivers is that Darwin was really Wrong.
I am Just Getting Started.
After dodging vehicles in the parking lot, I find myself watching in awe and amazement as some of the brighter people in the store attempt to separate the shopping carts right inside the door of the store. Furiously pulling and jerking at the carts trying to free one of these decrepit left-turning carts from the sea of scrap that has accumulated in the cart area. At the proper (or improper) angle, sometimes the people appear like monkeys in a tree: masturbating furiously, as if their life depended on the outcome. I slowly wade through the mass of retardation, people who can’t separate a cart, people who can’t decide if they want a big cart or a small cart, and other people who just seem to think that at any moment something wonderful will happen to them if they just stand, in the way, of people trying to get their grocery shopping done.
If I have the luck to find a cart that has not been welded to another one, I always enjoy hearing other guys (the monkey guys) try to explain why they cannot free a cart. It is the same excuse that I use when someone asks me to work on their car:” I used to work on the engine of my car, but all these ‘things’ and computers just baffle me now!” or “I used to know how to separate shopping carts, but these new ones must have bigger wheels or something, and you must have to lift them a different way!” Yeah. Okay, dumbass!
Through the Door
Why, why, why do people feel the need to block doors and talk to people about stupid crap? Don’t pretend you don’t know what you are doing! You see us waiting, being patient because you are being a douchebag. And pull up your fat ass kid’s stupid-looking pants!
Three things you can do when you find yourself in this predicament:
Be Canadian and wait patiently.
Kindly ask Douchebag and Fat Family to move their cart.
Be me and just push your way through. No warning. No Regrets. Be sure to tell them ‘Suck my Ass!’ when they bitterly squeal ‘Excuse Me!’ Then call them a Douchebag.
I Know What I Want
Being a guy, I can honestly say that if it involves having to shop, I won’t go unless I know what I need. Shopping is not a sport or activity. If it was, there would be helmets, sticks and a mouth guard involved. Full contact jewellery shopping – Yeah! Bowling for fat people in the aisles – Alright! I go the grocery store because I need food and I know what I want. Get in, get out. Like a cat burglar. But Nooooo! I get stuck behind some 90-year-old Armenian woman who has to pinch, squeeze and fondle every strawberry or string bean. Come on, live a little. Grab the entire quart basket and jam it into you cart.
Welcome to the Deli Counter. We are now serving Number Stupid!
What is so hard about taking a number when you walk up to the deli counter and then waiting until your number is called? I have seen women (I think they were women) actually cry at the deli counter. “I have been waiting longer than that man and you served him first!” Did you take a number? Did you see the little red light clock/counter thing? Did you see anyone else take a number? You don’t deserve deli. You are too stupid to live, let alone enjoy any type of deli. Oh, let me guess: you want fresh bologna? Get out of the store, retard.
Oh the Hopelessness!
Is it inherently difficult to keep your cart on one side or the other of the aisle? Don’t look at me like I’m some rampaging lunatic when I push your cart out of my way. I don’t even say ‘Excuse me’ anymore. There is no point. I will just have to say it again in the next aisle because Navigator-Driving Nancy will not and cannot learn to keep her cart out of the way of others.
Again with people blocking the aisles talking about things that make me want to vomit. Get out of the way! You are ignorant and stupid and I can’t believe you were smart enough to find the grocery store, let alone wander around it unsupervised.
A Horizontal Side Note
I have noticed that ‘large’ people usually never hang around the produce section of the store. Bread, boxed meals and frozen foods – that is where you see the highest concentration of large people and their Amigo Lard Ass Transporters (ALAT for short). I am pretty sure that they purchase things based on the length of time it will take to cook them. Toast is quick. Does it take longer to put Macaroni and Cheese in the microwave or boil water? It is faster in the microwave, but I have to stand up out of my ALAT. For the love of all that is holy, please put all the high starch, fatty, salty pre-made stuff on the higher shelves. The savings in medical costs keeping this stuff out of reach of ALAT people alone would buy books for a few dozen schools every year.
Cell phones? Really? You came here with no list and no clue? Thank you for talking loud enough for everyone to hear you, also. If I have to hear you say ‘snoogums’ or ‘pookie bear’ one more time, I will shove that phone up your ass. That shouldn’t be a problem for you though since it is obvious that your head is nestled up there anyway.
The Finish Line
Does anyone find it disturbing that we are willing to stand in line for a very long time and pay exorbitant sums of our money to do it? It’s much like going to Cedar Point. It costs a lot, you have trip over strollers and stupid people everywhere, but there are no rides (except for the conveyor at the check out – it is actually a lot of fun to ride, but they don’t stand up too well to the weight of someone my size. It was kind of embarrassing waiting for the fire department to arrive and free my coat zipper from the internal workings also).
If one more smiley eighteen-year-old tries to lead me over to the self checkout and starts explaining how this futuristic nonsense works, I swear to something sacred I am going to blow a gasket. ‘Let me help you, Sir!’ It felt like she was leading an old dog into the unknown. Unhand me, you little trollop! I understand your strange machine. I only followed you because I thought it was Lap Dance Day.
Paper or Plastic ?
Has anyone ever said ‘neither?’ I would like something in satin with ruffles if you don’t mind. Put the groceries in a bag, you twit, and never ask me that question again.
I absolutely refuse to bag my own groceries at the checkout. I want the chestily endowed lady to bend over as many times as possible, so me helping limit her bending just isn’t an option.
Run For Your Car
Do I have a target painted on my back? Really, how come I would feel safer tap dancing through a mine field than pushing a cart back to my car? Rear view mirrors don’t lie and if you are physically incapable of rotating your neck fifteen or twenty degrees, then please don’t think doing 6000 rpm neutral drops into reverse is the proper method of exiting a parking spot. And don’t roll down your window and scream at me while I am laying in the fetal position underneath your car hoping all three testicles are still where they are supposed to be.
To Safety
Groceries are loaded, and I have not maimed anyone backing out of my parking spot. Be a dear and get your fat ass and mentally challenged looking kids out of the way. Holy Hell, it’s the same fat ass who kept blocking me in the aisles inside. It must be their mission in life to slow people down. People can’t be that dumb…or can they? Traffic is trying to move, but you just slowly lumber and jiggle your behemoth behind down the center of the parking aisle.
Where is my tack hammer?
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Back in the Day
Back In the Day
It has come to my attention that the two, possibly three people who read this blog and the crap contained herein and possibly on heroine, who may have interesting things to write about but either don’t:
1) want to write
2) have time to write
3) know how to write – at all!
I want to start a blog where anyone can write in with a quip or query. I have know idea how to do this so don’t get all uppity on me or I will have to get all whacky on your badonkadunk!
The first kick at the can will involve stories from my/our past. Hence the name, ‘Back in the Day.’ Please put on your tinfoil helmets and hit us with a quirky blast from the past. It can have something to do with a blind date where either you or the blind date had horrible gas (and since your date was blind he/she could not see you pointing at the old guy on the other side of the theatre aisle). Maybe it was one of those cutesy things that little kids can only get away with saying. Regret is great thing to, in hindsight, joke about.
Instalment Number 1 – January 7th 2009
There are very few things I regret, as long as alcohol isn’t involved. One of the things I regret is not standing up to a bully when I was in the 4th grade. Let’s call this bully – Dave. Dave was a friend of mine for half of my school life (since grade 2). One day Dave and I were no longer friends. At lunch recess Dave beat the holy hell out of me while everyone drank there Allen’s apple juice and waved there Star Wars lunch pails like Marching flags. At afternoon recess Dave decided he had not finished the job and decided to go for round two. In a spinning vortex of dust and spastically thrown punches I ended up getting Dave in the Mother of all headlocks. If I could hold on for fifteen more minutes I would only have to outrun Dave to the doors and back into class. Unfortunately this was not to be. Dave was a lot bigger than I was and could easily lift me up and fall on me, several times.
I ended up with swollen eyes, a bloody nose, some blood from one of my ears and a ringing sound that lasted for a couple of hours. My teacher sent me to the bathroom to clean up and then to the principal’s office to rat out the other person. I never did rat Dave out. Not out of pride. Simply out of fear. Jungle Gym Justice.
When I got home my mom sent me to my room and demanded that I tell her who I had gotten into a fight with. I knew the school had called her and informed me that I would be dining with the rest of the ‘tards in detention until I fessed up, came clean, joined the system and played ball. I didn’t talk. Even at that age I knew I would be standing before the Man in roughly two hours.
If you have ever been in the same situation you know that the waiting is the worst punishment. Every minute ticked by agonizingly slowly. What would happen? Maybe I should write my will and leave my hockey cards and clean underwear to my brothers. Who would witness my will and would it be legal? Oh God why have you done this to me? I haven’t seen Athens yet and I am only halfway through the latest Hardy Boys book.
I heard the dog bark and the door swing open. My heart raced and I knew I was going to be killed within minutes. I heard a shrill voice instructing my father to deal with his youngest son. I swore I heard her say she wasn’t too old to have another child and she never liked me anyway. Boom boom boom. My heart was jumping through my mouth as my dad trudged up the stairs. I don’t remember the door opening. I just remember levitating down to the basement and standing in front of dad’s office desk. I do remember his door closing and me thinking that I had had a good run. Nine years wasn’t too bad. Dad’s heavy breathing and squeaky chair brought me back to reality.
Knowing that flames and death rays were going to shoot out from his face I braced myself and made peace with the gods.
‘Your mother is very upset with you right now!’ he said calmly. I opened my eyes and I wasn’t being destroyed by death rays OR fire. ‘She wants you to tell the principal who beat you up.’ I tried to clarify that I had been in a fight and not just ‘beaten up’. His voice went a little deeper and he said, ‘by the looks of you, I figured you got jumped. But if you say it was a fight you were in then it was a fight.’ ‘Did you at least win the fight?’ he asked me solemnly. For reasons still not known I broke down. Gasping for air and an answer I said “No. I didn’t win either fight.’ His chair tilted forward and I was told to stop crying. He leaned back in his chair and began to talk. ‘I understand why you won’t tell us who you got into a fight with. I wouldn’t tell either if I was you. I will inform the principal that you won’t tell and I think you only deserve a few days detention. I do suggest that you take care of things yourself or whoever you have been fighting with will keep coming after you. Go upstairs and eat dinner.’
I walked upstairs and sat at the dinner table. Dad walked in about three steps behind me. Mom started in on me and was quickly told to let it go by dad.
I spent three lunch hours in the hooskow with the bad elements of D.M Eagle Public School. Nose-pickers. Biters. Ankle kickers. Nut kickers. Biting nut kickers! Three days of retards and bullies. That will teach me a lesson.
The next few months were spent looking behind me. Pushes into lockers, punches through crowds the same sort of behaviour dad had warned me about. It got really bad when Dave’s cronies began taking shots at me. Funny thing about guys who want to be tough – they never think about tomorrow.
We all used to play hockey together on Saturday mornings. Dave was a puck hog and wasn’t a very good skater. His cronies weren’t blessed with the ability to skate very well either. Now was my time to shine. I didn’t take Dave out; I worked on his cronies and slowly showed them that I could pick them apart. After a few weeks of hockey the cronies left me alone and Dave’s attacks dissipated. I still remember waiting for the next attack that never came.
Years went by and we all hung out with new friends and did different things.
I got shipped off to a Catholic high school for grade 9 and 10. I hated the place but I made some friends. I don’t remember what year it was but Dave showed up at the same high school. He was dressed up like a punk rocker. He was possibly only an inch or two taller than me now and he had the physique of a fat ass baseball player, minus any biceps.
Dave still had a big mouth and I watched several times as he got his ass kicked by multiple city kids. I remember he looked at me once while he was getting his ass whooped. He wanted my help, like we were still old buddies. I wouldn’t help him. I was mad that every time there was a fight it ended up being a brawl. I so badly wanted to kick his ass that I refused to help him, gain his trust, and kick his ass when he was vulnerable.
A few weeks after his arrival, Dave was gone. Transferred to another high school.
Thirty years later I still dream of the day I see Dave again. There he is in the grocery store minding his own business. KRACCK! I kick his mop out from under him. BANG! The sound of his head bouncing off his wheeled mop bucket as I shame him with his mop and mop like cleaning accessories. ‘Remember me douche bag!’ I scream as I chase him around the produce section with his dust pan.
I don’t know what became of Dave and frankly I don’t care. I can thank him for helping teach me to stick up for myself. I can probably despise him for turning me into a bully when I was physically capable of it. The only thing I do know is I wish I had stood up to Dave. Actually gone after him until he was tired of getting into fights with me. I wish I had tagged him every opportunity I had to let him know that I wasn’t afraid of him and I was/am stupid enough to keep coming after him. Bullies aren’t bad. Bullies are bullies. I think they actually do some good. Given the chance they can teach the rest of us to stand up for ourselves-which in itself is pure pride.
That is the first ‘Back in the Day’ quip. If you have a story to tell please send it to me. I will post it without your name if you like.
It has come to my attention that the two, possibly three people who read this blog and the crap contained herein and possibly on heroine, who may have interesting things to write about but either don’t:
1) want to write
2) have time to write
3) know how to write – at all!
I want to start a blog where anyone can write in with a quip or query. I have know idea how to do this so don’t get all uppity on me or I will have to get all whacky on your badonkadunk!
The first kick at the can will involve stories from my/our past. Hence the name, ‘Back in the Day.’ Please put on your tinfoil helmets and hit us with a quirky blast from the past. It can have something to do with a blind date where either you or the blind date had horrible gas (and since your date was blind he/she could not see you pointing at the old guy on the other side of the theatre aisle). Maybe it was one of those cutesy things that little kids can only get away with saying. Regret is great thing to, in hindsight, joke about.
Instalment Number 1 – January 7th 2009
There are very few things I regret, as long as alcohol isn’t involved. One of the things I regret is not standing up to a bully when I was in the 4th grade. Let’s call this bully – Dave. Dave was a friend of mine for half of my school life (since grade 2). One day Dave and I were no longer friends. At lunch recess Dave beat the holy hell out of me while everyone drank there Allen’s apple juice and waved there Star Wars lunch pails like Marching flags. At afternoon recess Dave decided he had not finished the job and decided to go for round two. In a spinning vortex of dust and spastically thrown punches I ended up getting Dave in the Mother of all headlocks. If I could hold on for fifteen more minutes I would only have to outrun Dave to the doors and back into class. Unfortunately this was not to be. Dave was a lot bigger than I was and could easily lift me up and fall on me, several times.
I ended up with swollen eyes, a bloody nose, some blood from one of my ears and a ringing sound that lasted for a couple of hours. My teacher sent me to the bathroom to clean up and then to the principal’s office to rat out the other person. I never did rat Dave out. Not out of pride. Simply out of fear. Jungle Gym Justice.
When I got home my mom sent me to my room and demanded that I tell her who I had gotten into a fight with. I knew the school had called her and informed me that I would be dining with the rest of the ‘tards in detention until I fessed up, came clean, joined the system and played ball. I didn’t talk. Even at that age I knew I would be standing before the Man in roughly two hours.
If you have ever been in the same situation you know that the waiting is the worst punishment. Every minute ticked by agonizingly slowly. What would happen? Maybe I should write my will and leave my hockey cards and clean underwear to my brothers. Who would witness my will and would it be legal? Oh God why have you done this to me? I haven’t seen Athens yet and I am only halfway through the latest Hardy Boys book.
I heard the dog bark and the door swing open. My heart raced and I knew I was going to be killed within minutes. I heard a shrill voice instructing my father to deal with his youngest son. I swore I heard her say she wasn’t too old to have another child and she never liked me anyway. Boom boom boom. My heart was jumping through my mouth as my dad trudged up the stairs. I don’t remember the door opening. I just remember levitating down to the basement and standing in front of dad’s office desk. I do remember his door closing and me thinking that I had had a good run. Nine years wasn’t too bad. Dad’s heavy breathing and squeaky chair brought me back to reality.
Knowing that flames and death rays were going to shoot out from his face I braced myself and made peace with the gods.
‘Your mother is very upset with you right now!’ he said calmly. I opened my eyes and I wasn’t being destroyed by death rays OR fire. ‘She wants you to tell the principal who beat you up.’ I tried to clarify that I had been in a fight and not just ‘beaten up’. His voice went a little deeper and he said, ‘by the looks of you, I figured you got jumped. But if you say it was a fight you were in then it was a fight.’ ‘Did you at least win the fight?’ he asked me solemnly. For reasons still not known I broke down. Gasping for air and an answer I said “No. I didn’t win either fight.’ His chair tilted forward and I was told to stop crying. He leaned back in his chair and began to talk. ‘I understand why you won’t tell us who you got into a fight with. I wouldn’t tell either if I was you. I will inform the principal that you won’t tell and I think you only deserve a few days detention. I do suggest that you take care of things yourself or whoever you have been fighting with will keep coming after you. Go upstairs and eat dinner.’
I walked upstairs and sat at the dinner table. Dad walked in about three steps behind me. Mom started in on me and was quickly told to let it go by dad.
I spent three lunch hours in the hooskow with the bad elements of D.M Eagle Public School. Nose-pickers. Biters. Ankle kickers. Nut kickers. Biting nut kickers! Three days of retards and bullies. That will teach me a lesson.
The next few months were spent looking behind me. Pushes into lockers, punches through crowds the same sort of behaviour dad had warned me about. It got really bad when Dave’s cronies began taking shots at me. Funny thing about guys who want to be tough – they never think about tomorrow.
We all used to play hockey together on Saturday mornings. Dave was a puck hog and wasn’t a very good skater. His cronies weren’t blessed with the ability to skate very well either. Now was my time to shine. I didn’t take Dave out; I worked on his cronies and slowly showed them that I could pick them apart. After a few weeks of hockey the cronies left me alone and Dave’s attacks dissipated. I still remember waiting for the next attack that never came.
Years went by and we all hung out with new friends and did different things.
I got shipped off to a Catholic high school for grade 9 and 10. I hated the place but I made some friends. I don’t remember what year it was but Dave showed up at the same high school. He was dressed up like a punk rocker. He was possibly only an inch or two taller than me now and he had the physique of a fat ass baseball player, minus any biceps.
Dave still had a big mouth and I watched several times as he got his ass kicked by multiple city kids. I remember he looked at me once while he was getting his ass whooped. He wanted my help, like we were still old buddies. I wouldn’t help him. I was mad that every time there was a fight it ended up being a brawl. I so badly wanted to kick his ass that I refused to help him, gain his trust, and kick his ass when he was vulnerable.
A few weeks after his arrival, Dave was gone. Transferred to another high school.
Thirty years later I still dream of the day I see Dave again. There he is in the grocery store minding his own business. KRACCK! I kick his mop out from under him. BANG! The sound of his head bouncing off his wheeled mop bucket as I shame him with his mop and mop like cleaning accessories. ‘Remember me douche bag!’ I scream as I chase him around the produce section with his dust pan.
I don’t know what became of Dave and frankly I don’t care. I can thank him for helping teach me to stick up for myself. I can probably despise him for turning me into a bully when I was physically capable of it. The only thing I do know is I wish I had stood up to Dave. Actually gone after him until he was tired of getting into fights with me. I wish I had tagged him every opportunity I had to let him know that I wasn’t afraid of him and I was/am stupid enough to keep coming after him. Bullies aren’t bad. Bullies are bullies. I think they actually do some good. Given the chance they can teach the rest of us to stand up for ourselves-which in itself is pure pride.
That is the first ‘Back in the Day’ quip. If you have a story to tell please send it to me. I will post it without your name if you like.
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