Here goes the Man Card.

Since no one else will broach this topic I will. Fabric Softener. I like it. There. I said it.
I knew what it was when I was a kid but I never saw its benefits until I was married, (I also had no clue about thread counts for sheets. My sheets in university were pretty much jute that had been washed...maybe).
Here’s the rub. I can’t stand the name of the fabric softener we use, or the picture on it.

WTH is that? Real men, men who were raised with pre 1955 social mores don’t/can’t use a product with a gad damn teddy bear on it. Jeezus! In our language ‘Snuggle’ is 2000 grit sand paper.
Why can’t the makers of these products make them more marketable to my type of upbringing? How about a picture of a 12 year old with a full beard killing a grizzly bear with a school book while walking uphill...both ways...to school in 6 ft of snow? “Tomorrow is another school day! Enjoy your comfy, fabric softened underwear today!”

Or;

Or;

IS it too much to ask? Vikings with chainsaws riding sharks to promote an effeminate product to men who can’t admit they like said product? Please, think of the Neanderthals.

Untitled

Imagine standing in septic water. Behind you is a dirt wall eight feet high. In front of you is another dirt wall, nearly vertical, eight feet high. Your feet have been soaked for days and caked mud covers your wet wool uniform.
No one speaks. It’s absolutely quiet except for the occasional match being struck to light a cigarette and a cough from someone suffering from mild gas inhalation and likely pneumonia to boot.
Your hands would shake from the cold and nervousness if it weren’t for the fact that they were too busy hanging onto a ten pound rifle. You look into the dirt wall and pray the ammunition isn’t faulty.
All you can do is wait and stare into the dirt wall in front of you. You briefly close your eyes. You haven’t slept or had an edible meal in a week. The thought of food is not enjoyable as the scent of blood, death and human suffering waft upwards from the trench floor. It is acrid. It may be the last thing you remember.
A whistle blows and an officer shouts in the distance. You can’t make out the words as the constant shelling has left a ringing in your ears. You’ve been here before you know what the officer yelled. ‘Make Ready’.
You fasten your bayonet to your rifle and check your ammo pouch. The whistle sounds and flares go up. You jump and roll over the top of the dirt wall. Up on your feet you run as fast as you can. Boots covered in mud. You can’t feel your feet. You know they are underneath you but they are numb.
Bodies fall all around you. Don’t think about it. Keep moving. You can feel the German machine guns rattatat tatting a hail storm of sonic lead at you. The light from the flares dies and you fall you into a crater created by a gun that’s sole purpose was to kill you or your enemy. You don’t care. It’s cover. You slog to the far side of the crater.
Your feet sink into the bottom and you fall forward into the carcass of a horse. It smells slightly worse than the trench you hurled yourself over the top of. Fighting for every inch you scramble up the business side of the trench. You peer over the top of the crater. You’re the only person from your squad that has made it this far and is not dead or wounded.
Random flares go up into the air all over the battlefield. You lay splayed out on the bank of the crater. You can hear the bullets scream by. That doesn’t seem to bother you as much as the moaning and screaming of your injured mates laying on the field, crying for their mothers and possibly being blessed by a quicker death as they lay muddied, wounded and alone in a foreign land.
Hours go by as lay on the inner wall of your sheltered crater. Except for an occasional burst of a heavy machine gun. The flares have quit their arched trajectories. You are alone. In the dark.
You need to get back to your trench. Once the sun comes up you are not going to be able to move. If you get back to your trench you may be able to live for at least one more day. All you want is that one more day.
You make your way back to relative safety. Through craters and over corpses. Thankful with every gained foot that the Germans didn’t shell you with Mustard gas. Ahead of you is a soldier from your unit. He is tangled in barbed wire and you can see the moonlit almost reflecting off part of his leg. It’s the blood leaking out from where he got shot. He knows enough to not make a sound. He is still alive.
Slowly and methodically you cut him loose. Now the task of dragging him back to your trench is all yours.
An hour after you cut him loose you push his unconscious body over the edge of your trench and you scurry over the top and are happy to land at the bottom in the septic water. If your friend is lucky he will only loose his leg and not succumb to any type of blood poisoning. A slow painful death.
You lived another day. Maybe if you live through a few more you can go home and see your son who was born a few weeks after you were shipped off to this wretched foreign land. You hate yourself for thinking that far ahead. You’ve seen too much death, too many friends lying in the mud, eyes open on a battlefield where the last visions were of death and a place one could only describe as a living hell. Don’t think too far ahead. You’ve only lived one more day.
Strangely, if you make it to the end and live, sometimes when the cold wind rattatat tats against your shutters as you sit next to your fire alone, all the memories, all the pain comes back. Forever you will see your friends and comrades open eyes as they lay dead in the mud in some awful foreign land.
Never take all the freedom and the life you get to lead for granted. Never Forget the men and women who gave up their lives. Never Forget.

Sex Ed,

Premier Wynne has decided that her parties new sex education bill is awesome and in that bill (somewhere) is the request or demand that children ages 5-6 years old should be taught sex education or specifically what ‘consent’ is. Five and six year olds also need to grow up knowing the difference between ‘rape culture’ and ‘consent culture’.
When I was five years old my biggest hope was to tie my own shoes and not piss my pants at school.
Wynne wants to spend time having teachers dedicate time to teach the difference between rape and consent to kids who think Barney the dinosaur is real, trains can fly through outer space and a dead animal on the side of the road is just ‘resting’ .
Really? A law has to be made and taught to kids who still can’t work out the mechanics of how to blow their own noses? The entire idea makes about as much sense as trying to kick a 400 pound anvil through a swamp.
Why don’t we make them do calculus and tell them if they don’t get the right answers they are going to have their toes smashed with a hammer? It would be about as useful as trying to gently and accurately explain what rape is to a five or six year old.
How would a teacher go about this Herculean task? ‘Little Johnny? Have you ever seen your mommy and daddy “wrestling” under the bed sheets’? ….’ They rassle all the time Miss Jenkins. I think mom loses most of the time. Her screams wake me up so she must be really mad about losing!’

I know I don’t want that kind of information and as far as I’m concerned my parent’s had sex three times-MAX! Scratch that visual from your eyeballs.
Do you know what five year olds should be doing at school? Playing. Playing and finger painting…and learning how to tie their shoes. And not pissing in their pants. That’s it. End. Period. Full Stop.
During her announcement Wynne had two thirteen year old girls with her who had ‘lobbied’ for this new craptacular bill. How the hell does a thirteen year old get to lobby and why the hell are we listening to thirteen year olds? In my humble opinion this was a bad PR move by the Liberals. “Hey here’s some thirteen year old girls who lobbied us for sex education about rape and consent!” Isn’t thirteen years old kind of young for kids to have sex? Sixteen years old is the age of consent in Ontario so anyone under that age is, in reality and possibly by definition being raped or raping if they have sex. Why can this not be taught to our tightly wound youngsters?
I’m not preaching anything religious or saying possibly kids at 12-13 years old should be taught about the birds and the bees/ pregnancy and responsibility- I think it’s a good age to teach them that, but wouldn’t common decency/parenting teach kids that rape is horrible AND teach them that rapists should be shot – okay that last part was all mine but that’s the way I feel about that subject…and pedophiles.
What is truly maddening about this Liberal laid out law is the fact that it has just enough stupidity contained in it to get under a lot of people’s skin AND….wait for it….blind us or draw us into a debate over something that shouldn’t be debated. All the while the real problems with Ontario get to fly under the radar.
Hydro rates, Ontario pension ‘tax’, Billions of dollars lost in scandals and poor business practices, debt, wage gaps, manufacturing loss and on and on ad nauseum.
Let the teachers, school boards and local communities set up their own sex-ed program. Being told what to do and what to believe by a government who is way out of touch with reality is just wrong.
Can we get to business? Can we stop fighting over scraps from the premier’s table? We are supposed be served by our politicians. Not the other way around. Lately our provincial leaders have been treating us like dogs – fake throwing a ball for us to chase and get our teeth into but laughing at us as they look at our balls in the palm of their hands ( Yes, I said Balls), while we play slug it out over issues that aren’t issues.
End the bullshit statistics of employment. Hiring 100,000 people to work for the government is not creating jobs. It’s draining/drained the tax coffers, yet they smile and pat themselves on the back for creating jobs that may actually be jobs but if it isn’t in the private sector and paying taxes-it’s a tax drain.
It’s sad that we allow ourselves to be put in a position that we feel obligated to throw each other under the bus for every idiotic, self serving piece of monkey shit legislation that gets trotted out like a prize pony.
We need a voice that can stay on point. We need someone who can curtly say, “Hey! This latest legislation is a waste of time. Can we figure out how to stop spending money we don’t have? Can we figure out how to attract new businesses to Ontario? “
It won’t happen. We’ve become trained to react rather than think. We’ve become addicted to our own personal wants and needs rather than the common good. We have become selfish assholes. From what I do, see and hear up to this point in my life we deserve what we have.

Update

In early December my co-pilot got really sick. Vomiting, not eating, he couldn't even hold water down. It was a Wednesday or Thursday night around midnight I picked him up, put him in my truck and took him to a 24 hour vet clinic. They gave him something calm his stomach and he seemed to get slightly better until Saturday night. Lori and I stayed with him non stop.
He got horribly pukey again on Sunday night.
On Monday morning I took him into our vet.
They poked, prodded and placed medical devices on the poor mutt in places where nothing should be placed. Not a whimper or a growl. He just sat and leaned his head into my shoulder. The vet wanted to run some blood tests and other tests and get some fluids into the usually slobbery oaf. I left him at the vet clinic and waited to hear back on the tests they could run at the clinic.
Around twelve thirty that day the vet called. She asked to see Lori and I together. My heart just dropped. This is not the kind of thing anyone wants to hear from a vet, doctor, or financial planner.
Lori zoomed over and we were at the vet clinic by two. Just Lori and I standing in an examination room. No Bart. IN walked the vets. Could this scenario get any worse? If you have ever been punched in the nose you may understand the way I know I felt at that very minute I saw the two vets walk in together. My eyes started to water and I know I squinted. The lump in my throat was painful and I placed both hands on the examination table to make sure I kept myself upright and somewhat focused. Lori looped her arm through mine and stood like a pillar next to me. Likely fearful that I was about to have a demon surface through my mouth or just pass out.
Charts and titers and subcutaneous fluid delivery and more numbers with sub categories were flung about like multi sided die at a nerd party on a Friday night (so I hear). I remember only two things from all of this – Bart’s kidneys ammonia levels were 33 times the normal average for a dog his size and another level of kidney output was 4 x normal operating levels. Every piece of bad news that came out of the vets turned my knuckles a shade whiter as all I could do was clamp down on the table and try to listen.
Shortly after, “where’s my dog?” and “What are you saying?” ,the x rays came out. After some discussion about things I know nothing of, one of the vets pointed to a spot on the film. It was one of Bart’s kidneys and from her estimation it was 4 cm longer than the other. The lump in my throat had just gotten larger and I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore. The vets were unsure if El Barto had a severe kidney infection or a large tumour on his kidney(s).
“This isn’t possible! He’s only six years old!” My outright denial would make this all go away.
Not being a vet, for obvious reasons relating to me and academia not seeing eye to eye, I chose a career that was more suited to my mental abilities and disposition. As a contractor we tend to do things differently than, well, normal people. Typically contractors will walk into a room drop some plans and notes on the table tell everyone they’re ‘f-cked’ and list the reasons why. We like to get our audiences attention and keep them listening. We will show you what is wrong and why BUT we usually follow up quickly with a proposed solution and the cost.
Vets need to learn this. Lori and I both thought we were there to put our co-pilot to sleep because of some cursed genetic anomaly or because some asshole left a pail of antifreeze out in the open. Don’t run us through the pain of thinking the situation is hopeless. Tell us there’s a problem but there is hope. By the way- I’m not paying to have your exam table sanded and painted. Take that!
Finally we got to take our Black son home with us. He had lost nearly 10 pounds from his weight in October. Bart was on a regimen of 13 pills a day. Now Bart likes what Bart likes, and if Bart no likee-Bart no likee. Bart does not like pills. We tried the ‘pill cookies’ they sell at Pet Smart-no go. I jammed pills down his mouth, held his mouth shut and rubbed his throat. That dog would sit, with dissolving pills in his mouth, wait for me to take my hand away and spit the pills out. Or my favourite- eat the pills then vomit them out because he refused to eat the low protein food the vet wanted us to feed him. That sure was my favourite.
It came down to this- feed him cookies. Wait. Give him his pills. Sit with him, pretend we were stealing his food out of his dish- at which he would walk in front of us, lay down and try to distance us from the food he didn’t want and wouldn’t eat. We got so desperate to make sure he would take his pills we coated them in cream cheese frosting. Bart really liked that. He also enjoyed being fed cookies all day. He had us trained within 3 days.
Everyday I took that meatbag to the vet where they poked and probed him. Everyday (except one day-Lori wanted the Saturday shift) I sat and held him while they jammed a needle under his skin and let fly with 900 millilitres of room temperature saline. Not one whimper or growl. The technician didn’t even bother with the muzzle after the second day. Everyday Bart was eager to leave and everyday, with 900 millilitres of saline under his skin in a mound that would make Pamela Anderson jealous he got stronger and pulled me to the door with his stupid orange ball or squeaky toy in his mouth with less and less effort.
Between moving into and painting the new house, end of season work madness and Christmas insanity all I could concern ourselves with was trying to make sure the slobbery oaf was getting better. There was not a single day I didn’t take the mutt to work with me. He slept under my desk on the dog bed we bought for him. The first week was rough but when Bart grabbed his orange ball and just sat next to my desk staring at me and wagging his tail, I finally knew he was getting better.
We still don’t know what is/was wrong with Bart. Hopefully the next set of tests will let us know he is healthy again. He is down to two servings of antibiotics per day and he is eating like a lab/mutt should and gaining weight.
There were times I asked myself when is enough. That damn pound mutt was costing us a lot of money. A few people told me they would help out and everyone pretty much never even questioned that Lori and I would keep paying the vet bills until the very end if need be. Why? He’s our co-pilot. My Black son. Fatso. El Barto. Every night when Lori and I sit on the couch and Bart’s enormous fat head blocks my view and he gets the hound dog eye thing going and won’t stop until he is invited up on the couch. I watch him as jumps up and does his multiple spins until he finds the perfect place to lie down where he can place his head on either of our laps and just look up at us. It’s this look that makes me know he’s saying thanks to Lori and to me. I hope he knows that it we’re the ones that are thankful.

MERRY OCD

It has been a long year for me. I have accomplished very little in the way of writing. There are roughly twelve beginnings of Blogs that I started and either dismissed, forgot about or just got to busy to finish. SO here I am. Waiting for my next phone call or email wondering what all the fuss is about. What I see lately is obsession. Obsession to find the perfect gift. Obsession to host a perfect party. Obsession to be the people we should be everyday of our lives. Don’t get me wrong. A little OCD isn’t bad. If I hadn’t obsessed about learning to tie my shoes I would still be wearing Velcro sneakers or sandals with my black socks. Last year was a good OCD year for me. It’s this time of year, for me, that I start to remember all the wonderful things I promised myself I would do. I would work less. Spend more time with family and friends. Work on being calmer and more patient. Get my back waxed, and finally figure out how to use floss without hurting myself. I started off really well but things really slid down the cliff after the third day of that bullshit. Perfection is one of those hazy terms that does not mean the same thing to every person. The notion having a ‘perfect’ party or Christmas Dinner is insane. There will never be a perfect gift. There will be great Christmas Dinners and Great parties and great gifts…but chasing the dream of perfection can be dangerous. I’m not saying don’t try. I’m saying if you wear your self out or get frustrated trying to do anything perfect, well, that thing isn’t perfect. You sacrificed yourself for an idea or perception and if you lose the joy of the moment then you have not succeeded in being perfect. Do yourself a favour this Christmas. Enjoy yourself. Don’t go all OCD because dinner was not served precisely at 630pm. So your mom already bought herself a set of ‘perfect’ oven mitts. Now she has two sets. Your brother had a few too many rye and cokes, tripped over the ottoman and took out aunt Grace. Are they okay? Laugh. Why laugh? Remember you have family. You have food and drinks and a great opportunity to have fun and remember why these people mean so much to you. That’s about the closest thing to perfect I can think of. The notion of Christmas is great. Christmas itself has turned all of us into lunatics. Somewhere at some time we sold out to the consumerism of the season. Shop shop shop. Buy buy buy. Fight with crowds. Fight for parking. Get so worn down that you want to punch the Salvation Army bell ringer in the throat. Why? What’s the gain? We see it happening. We know deep down that’s insane but we keep doing it-which is the definition of insanity. Un stuff your Christmas. Get the whip out and tame the OCD monster. Chase that thing back into its Pandora’s Box. Slam the lid down, wrap that sucker up with chains, lock it and melt the key. Revel at the insanity that is Christmas. Dance a jig with your neighbour. Dance a jig with your neighbour’s dog. Have fun. For the love of all that is Holy relax and enjoy your time with friends and family. My Prozac is wearing off so I must away. Merry Christmas to all!

The Lie

If you ever received a “Christmas Letter”, or been allowed to read one you may already know where I’m going with this. Basically, the Christmas Letter consists of two or three pages of letter paper, double sided print and possibly one or two pictures Scotch taped crudely to the paper. It contains endless run on sentences and fails in its attempt to relay how and what a specific family has been doing since the last time you received the almost identical tome a year prior. What you need to understand is that the Christmas Letter’s intent is to make the writer’s “friends” think her life is wonderful and that theirs sucks. To accomplish this, the writer, typically female, never held a job in her life, highly opinionated and usually wrong about everything she professes to tell people… lies. Now I don’t think the writer knows that she is lying. It’s just that she is so out of touch with reality and blind to real fact that she feels that what she writes is the Holy Gospel of what her and her family have done throughout the last year. Simple interpretation of a Christmas Letter is never easy. As one can never be sure what far away happy place the writer of the letter is in while the letter is being written. It is easiest just to assume that every sentence on the multiple sheets of paper is lie. Examples “This may very well have been our most exciting year to date!” This is a lie. Even if viewed subjectively you know these people are about as interesting and fun filled as dry white toast. “Christie is still a free spirit and we couldn’t be more excited by her intrigue with different cultures.” This is also a lie. Christie has been in and out of rehab since she was fourteen. Currently she is shacked up with a Jamaican Weed King and Oh God please don’t let her get pregnant. “Charlie is still very interested in pursuing law and spends most of his time studying.” False. Charlie can’t stand the sight, thought or sound of his mother so he locks himself in his room. He has taken to rage and has spent multiple months in county lock up for yelling obscenities and flashing the Womens League at that bi-monthly white glove picnics. “Ken is still go go go with the company. He just won’t retire and I really think the Bumble Brothers Stapler Works would go out of business if he retired. He’s very loyal and dedicated.” Ken has been installing the same retainer spring in staplers for 40 years. He hates his job but can’t stand the thought of retiring and having to spend more time with his nattering, never happy wife. Ken also has a great fear of retiring and at some point having to eat dog kibble as sustenance because his wife won’t stop buying crap she doesn’t need with money she doesn’t have. Ken prays for the angel of death to release from his shackles of servitude. “Since my accident I have been working on healing myself. I have found a Shaman healer who has done wonders for me physically and emotionally!” My plastic surgeon’s name is Tonto RedCLoud. He caused my lips to swell up to gargantuan proportions- this was my “accident”. Since I threatened to sue him I have had boob, butt, face, lipo and botox surgeries on the house. Dr. Tonto says I am pretty and that makes me feel good. Generally I feel good when I see a Christmas letter. It makes me realize that although my life isn’t perfect, I don’t have to make crap up in an attempt to elevate myself or drag others down. My crap is my crap and I hope you enjoy a crapless Christmas.

Come Gather Around the Holiday Tree.

We as a continent have given up our spines and have forced ourselves to kowtow to the Birkenstock wearing, granola guzzling twits who have deviously, as a minority, somehow made society feel bad about saying what they want. CHRISTMAS TREE. There I said it. I will continue to say it and be pronounced a heretic until the day I am hung on a, ‘t’ (we can’t say cross can we due to religious inference?) and forced to consume tofu and bean sprouts until I pass into the next phase of my carbon footprint- I likely can’t say, ‘until I die and pass through the Pearly Gates’-that’s radical thinking. You know me; I’m a radical Christian zealot. Oh Christmas Tree. Oh Tannenbaum. Why are you being forsaken? Some self proclaimed righters of wrong have declared you a public menace. Your days as a symbol of the most hopeful day of the year are being whittled away. This may be the first step into madness. Next, inexplicably and without our consent owning a Christmas or Holiday Tree will be a punishable offence. ‘Death by Tofu!’ will be their rallying cry. Save a Tree-kill a human! This is the problem with people that believe that Christmas Trees are now to be called Holiday Trees. If they win their fight, they will move on to having something else banned because it offends them in some way. It will never end and we let it happen. Tell you what. I am offended by their being offended. The offensiveness of their offending is oppressively onerous and off-putting to oafs such as me. Does that mean anything? Nope, but I don’t care. If narrow minded morons can have their say then this narrow minded moron wants his. Does that offend you? Guess what. I DON’T CARE! Christmas Tree-Christmas Tree- Christmas Tree! God- God- God. National Anthem –National Anthem-National Anthem. Have I offended? Hang on to your butts because this pig just grew wings. This Holiday Tree thing is just a small item. It should be a non issue. Matters like this start small. We dismiss them and think, “What jerkass came up with that idea and what jackass politician would listen to them?” Next thing you know something has been banned or deemed inappropriate for all because of the whining of some. They natter. They call and they inundate the powers that be until they get what they want. They cause a rift or a crack. When they get what they want they start on something new. It won’t stop. After a while we sit around with our thumbs up our butts and just give up. Not me. Not this guy. It may be a small revolution but it’s my revolution. I’m saying Christmas. I’m saying Christmas Tree. I don’t usually have a Christmas tree because I spend Christmas in some shit hole Mexican Bar singing horribly butchered Spanglish Christmas Carols but I refuse to let some causist do gooder take away what I believe in. Kiss my hairy butt do gooder. Go eat your tofu turkey under your Holiday Tree you turd of a human being. Maybe I’m exaggerating a tiny bit. Maybe I’m not. I refuse to placate some self righteous do gooder with no clue just to keep the Peace. No way. Not going to happen. We have to fight these people. The, ‘Seasons Greetings’ sayers, the ‘Holiday Tree’ morons must be beaten back to their Fairy Tale World. They must return to their unicorns and Happy Happy Bunnies of LaLa Land. Have I offended you yet? Good. Merry Christmas to All. Vive La Christmas Tree!

And the Story Droned On and On

And the Story Droned On and On Seldom do we run into a person who can tell a good story. A person who can turn the most mundane topic into a pants pissing saga that will never be forgotten. Now, a lot of people think they can tell a story well. Some people even think the stories they tell are interesting. This is not true. Personally, I am horrible at telling stories. I tend to leave out key pieces of information and I use a lot of fluff to buy time while I try to remember how a story goes. Public speaking has never been my forte’. If you’ve ever heard the Sean Connery ‘bar’ joke, I am certain that I tell stories in the same manner. “This guy walks into a bar with a dog under one arm and a 2ft salami under the other….I forget the rest but your mother’s a whore.” Self admittedly I am horrible at re telling stories, anecdotes or witticisms. I wish most people could realize that they suck at it also. Two days ago, an acquaintance somehow managed to capture me in between my just parked vehicle and the fifteen foot dash to my front door. The ensuing story made me want to cut open my stomach and hang myself with my own intestines. It went something like this; Him-Hey. I need to ask you something. Me- Okay Him- Do you know that barn on 42? Me- Maybe. Which one? Him- The one near Paul Thurbengurben’s brother’s place. Me- I don’t know who that is. Him- Sure you do! He’s the guy whose niece who won the pig foot eating contest in Yokelville 27 years ago! Me- I’m drawing a blank. I’m sure I don’t know any of those people or even where Yokelville is. Him- Come on! It’s near Makanudo Heights. On the east side of NeverWannaGoThere River Me- Positive I don’t know where that is. Are we done? I’m hungry and I have to pee. Him- You know where it is. I remember I was loaded with used condoms, lots of drag due to wind resistance, twenty six thousands up front and forty thousand rears pulling fifteen speeds through a modified Fuller with double down ace over jacks split when I first met Eunice. Me- Who the fuck is Eunice? Him- You know Eunice! From north of Makanudo stupid. Her brother Charlie, you know Charlie- he perfected the ground hog no hands breeding technique for the cross breeding of ground hogs. She works at the diner! Me- In Makanudo? Him- You don’t listen. North of Makanudo! Me- what happened to the load of used condoms? Him- Well, that c17 Cat broke a post free and the pre cups lost purchase so I had to kick her in the bum and load up the pyrometer. Me- So, you put the condoms in your bum or you burned them? Him- What are you, stupid. Me- I’m coming to that conclusion, yes. Him- I dropped them off in Utica, at the Wonderball plant near Kirby’s Me-Who’s Kirby? Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Stupid Brooks! Him- Kirby. George’s boy the dentist who juggles cats! Me- Who juggles cats? Kirby or his dad George? Dammit! Him- George is a dentist. Kirby juggles cats. Me- Ahhh! Now we’re getting somewhere. NOTE- by this point I have travelled to places unknown and met people I know but don’t really know and learned more about trucks than I ever wanted to know. I’m hungry and my eyeballs are now sight glasses for the urine building up in my system. Him- So you know the place I’m talking about? Me- No! I don’t any Thurgensons. I don’t know Paul, Eunice, Kirby, Charlie or George. I don’t know where any of the places you mentioned are except for the slim possibility of Utica- and that’s based on the wild guess that we are still in North America. I don’t know how you kick a truck in the bum either. I don’t care either. I don’t care. What do you want? Him- You’re a dick! Never mind. I’ll borrow a 2x4 from someone else. Ass. Son of a bitch! Why can’t you just ask for the damn 2x4? Why do you feel the need to drag my mind through a story that would require a team of code breakers years to decipher. You look at me like I’m mid lick on a dirty window when I don’t know who or what you are talking about when you’re the person who can’t tell a story without having some validation that you aren’t as stupid as people think. You are! Focus. What are you trying to say? Get to the point. The longer you drone on the lower I know your IQ is and that is coming from a guy who thinks the Three Stooges should be in Parliament-even though they’re dead. Simply because you know someone does not automatically guarantee that I know that person. Please believe me when I tell you I do not know the person you mentioned when I say I don’t know. I’m not lying-maybe I should so your asinine, pointless story will end more quickly. Dammit! Now I’ve forgotten what the hell I was blathering on about and what the point of this story is. Oh yeah! Don’t do drugs.

Oh the Humanity-Again

It’s been a long while since I tried to fabricate a coherent thought and vomit it out in written form for the small amount of people who read my blather. Writing while fired up or angry has suited me in the past but I have been told that I am sometimes too simple, too aggressive and not grounded in political correctness. Ahem. Fuck you! Starting with the first thing that I can remember that pisses me off; 1) Our Beliefs – Whether it is our political affiliations, our stance on Gay marriage or basically anything involving society as an actual group with opinions and feelings- Don’t tell me I have to agree with anything. My opinion is my opinion for my own reasons. I don’t have to agree or approve of anything if I don’t truly support it. I was never for or against Gay Marriage for the simple reason – I Don’t Care! I don’t have a dog in this fight and if two same sex persons want to go out and lose half of their belongings if the marriage ends that is their decision-not mine. Join the party pal. But nooooo! If you don’t support Gay Marriage you’re a homophobe, cretin or dinosaur. Maybe you’re all three of those things in no particular order. So you can be an overbearing banner waving causist but I can’t be neutral in my opinion? That sounds fair. “Exaggerated sensitiveness is an expression of the feeling of inferiority. “ Alfred Adler 2) Following up on the last smattering of insults – Gun Control. This is a tough one. If all the guns on the planet were melted down into structural steel we would still, in the name of religion, mental instability or need for over compensation revert to flinging rocks and poop at each other. Maybe if we got rid of religion we wouldn’t have so many guns? 3) Banner Waving Causists- Before you speak I suggest you actually write down what your message is and if you tell me that by doing what you want will save just one life, or that I need to think of the children I will punch you in the throat. Your cause is not necessarily my cause. So don’t call me wrong or misguided for not supporting you. 4) Loud Talkers. Talking loudly does not make you right or even remotely interesting. If you were interesting people would listen to you but as it sits right now you’re not interesting, you’re just loud…and annoying. I’d move across the room but I’d still hear you clearly over there so I will just leave because you are such a needy annoying turd that you have become a fun vacuum that you have sucked any possible enjoyment out of the night, unless of course there was a bet to see if anyone could actually toss a pool ball into your mouth while you’re being loud with a side bet of whether or not you would notice. Takers? 5) Turning signals. Don’t be an ass. Use your turning signals properly while driving. As much as I enjoy testing my mental telepathy as often as possible myself and all the other drivers with a clue would really appreciate your courtesy and common sense by the simple effective usage of your turning signals. 6) Ask the question. We all ask questions. Some of us even ask intelligent necessary questions when faced with a situation we are unfamiliar with. There’s a trick to asking a question- it’s called actually asking the damn question. Don’t dance around the root of your inquiry with supposition. Just ask the question you need or want answered. Translating your ten minute babble session into the real question is pissing me off and making me think you are trying to slide something by me. Just ask the damn question. I also need to add that I really despise being cornered with an onslaught of questions of what I am doing on a certain day at this certain time, with whom, etc, ad nausea. You need help with something? Just ask. Don’t try to coral or guilt me into it. 7) English and Math. Learn it. Live it. Love it. Our society has become so bad at speaking let alone writing our chosen language that we are turning into piss poor communicators. Sure we can all speak but a lot of us don’t speak well enough to convey a point. If there is no point, no moral or no direction to what you are saying then you are just making noise and sucking up oxygen. Using big words where a small word will do makes you look like an ass to the rest of us mouth breathers. Quit being an ass. All through high school I sucked at math. X is a letter, as is Y and has no place in math. I finally figured out why I was so bad at math. There was no application I could find for wanting to know if something was greater than or less than at that time in my life. I now use math almost every minute of every day on things that interest me. Hydraulic pressure, air pressure, volumes, rpm’s, gear reductions, cyclical rates, conversions. These are things I need to know and in my business close enough works for most of what we do. It’s math that can be utilized for an actual use and I enjoy applying it. It disturbs me to see people who do not know how to calculate simple volumes. The type of math the people in construction use everyday for ordering concrete, fuel, materials. If you can’t do the math or won’t even try I hate to say it but enjoy your career in the fast food industry. 8) Move. I don’t care where you move to just get out of the way. You know who you are. You are the people who drive down the middle of the aisles in parking lot looking for that magical parking place that will make all your dreams come true. Oblivious to anyone or anything around you hoard the center of the road waiting for your moment to pounce on the perfect parking place even though a 20 step walk from the near empty part of the lot is right there-20 steps away. No signal. No plan and No clue. You exist solely for your selfish existence and pay no heed to the chaos YOU have created. Move! I’m postulating that these are the same people who block the store aisles with their carts or body’s as if annoying and inconveniencing every person in the store is your right or mission. Hike up your MooMoo, shove another cupcake in your screaming child’s fat face and MOVE! I don’t know whether to pity you because you are stupid or despise you because you are ignorant-and likely stupid. 9) Put down the cell phone! I see you trying to hide the fact that you’re talking on your cell phone while driving. Everyone sees it. We also see how that while doing this you can’t keep your vehicle in its lane. You’re a horrible driver. You would have trouble driving without the cell phone distraction but there you are doing two things you likely suck at. Driving and talking. Put it down and focus what little mental ability you have on arriving home safely so you can ignore your children and place Farmville all night. Another thing- we go out for dinner and you can’t stop looking at your phone. Sorry for boring you jackass. Try a wrist watch if you want to be subtle about checking the time or don’t go out for dinner with us. You know what would be entertaining and lessen your boredom? Me-having a heart attack from chasing you around the restaurant while trying shove your cell phone up your butt. I’ve had a few drinks and I’m willing to give it the old college try. You’re going to look silly pushing on your gut to check or send incoming texts but I’ll be chuckling from my ambulance gurney. Shit head! 10) Please and Thank you. Try it. It is so simple to say thank you when someone holds a door open for you or lets you go in front of them at the grocery store because you only have a few items. Just say, ‘thanks’. Life is easier when we don’t allow the Douchebags and entitlement whores win by being stupid. I feel better, slightly.

And So it Has Begun,

And so it has begun. Christmas Season, 2012.

The first gunshots could be heard in the US on Black Friday as people swarmed into WalMart and other stores with elbows flying, guns a blazin’ and knives a stabbin’!

For what? The next great gadget or toy? Black Friday is a good name but , “Look at the Morons Lined Up in the Cold to buy Crap they Don’t Need”, although not as catchy as Black Friday, better describes the scene.

“It’s a tradition!” interviewees of local broadcasters proclaimed. Tradition? What the Hell is wrong with you? “Well last year I only got stabbed once and merely grazed by a .45 caliber slug. This year I’m going all in and hoping for a full exit 9mm hole on my leg or shoulder!” IF this your tradition, to slug it out in armed combat for a Penelope Pees A Lot Doll, you’re an asshole. Thanks for helping to flush the toilet of humanity.

Let me get this straight. You wait in line for days, to buy crap you don’t need at a price you think is great, with a credit card that is set to explode. I don’t get it. These are things. Gadgets. They are time wasters. Distracters.  

I am the last person on the planet who would ask you to hug, hold hands and sing folk songs around a fire in the belief that World Peace could be achieved by doing so. Unity is great thing but individuality is better.

Observing others has become a bit of a past time for me lately. Over the last few weeks when I venture into the grocery store or drug store or wherever, I have clearly noticed what the Christmas Season does to us. Refraining from tossing shopping carts out of the way from people who block the aisles, I wait. I watch. Like clockwork there is always someone who will be so put out by this older woman who is looking for baking supplies that their arms go up in disgust, their head whips back and the “Tccchhhh!” sound comes screaming out of their noise holes. Ass! She’s 80 years old! Help her put the flour in her cart and shut up. Waiting in line at the video store there is inevitably a person who needs to ask a question that never seems to end. Let it go. If only for the Christmas Season, let it go. So you get home sixty seconds later. Let it go.

This Christmas, take a few minutes to remember what Christmas is about. The spirit of the Season lies in giving and not receiving. Simple acts of kindness are great gifts. Help someone put their groceries in their car. Go visit the older couple whose kids aren’t coming to visit them for Christmas with a bottle of wine. Take the kids and donate even five dollars to the Pediatrics Ward of your local hospital or the Humane Society or whatever Charity you believe in. People will remember these gifts long after the tree is taken down and toys are broken.

Simply being nice to one another, helping where you can, is how we achieve peace. What better time to start than now.

For those of you scratching your heads and wondering what the hell is wrong with me I can say these things;

1)      I am not suffering from trauma to my brain or body

2)      I have every intention of continuing to be a Jack Ass. I am going to be a helpful Jack Ass achieving it by sarcasm, humiliation or other diabolical means.

But I heard him exclaim ... as he rode out of sight,
" Merry Christmas to All ,
  Be nice to each other or I’m coming back to see you with a baseball bat " Or something           like that.   

Merry Christmas to All, and to all, a good night. 

Here We Are

Here We Are.

Tis’ the season, to tolerate crying kids, pissed off adults and horrible parking lot traffic.

I don’t ‘shop’. I don’t like crowds. If I am buying something I like to haggle. These qualities (or deficiencies) in me basically mean that if step foot in a mall, I will spontaneously combust- is it spontaneous if you know it will happen?

My brother has two kids. One boy –whom I call ‘the Boy’, and one niece, whom everyone calls ‘Bob’ for some reason.  When they were little kids Lori and I would split Christmas shopping for them. The “Boy” got Legos, or remote control cars from me. Bob got frilly fru fru dresses from Aunt Lori. It was a great system. It was fun watching the niece and nephew spaz out when they opened all of their gifts. It made Christmas fun. That and the abundance of alcohol my brother and sister in law provided freely.

Now they are hitting their teen years and they both have much more advanced vocabularies than I do. I’m now known as Uncle Caveman. Good old Uncle Caveman.

It’s not as much fun at Christmas now. I can’t buy the boy a pellet gun. The boy wants Airsoft or Paintball gear. That stuff is more expensive and causes less permanent damage than a pellet gun.  Remember the neighbourhood kid with the stutter? He didn’t used to stutter until I got my first pellet gun.  When it comes to Niece Bob I am at a complete loss. I don’t have kids and if I did have kids I am not the type of guy who should raise a daughter.  I’m a little rough around the edges for that adventure. God give her a good sense of humour if she looked like me too, and a lot if razors.

Now the kids want Gift Cards for iTunes, or simple bank transfers to their accounts. I have never transferred funds ‘electronically’ and I am hopeful that I never do. Smug little pishers!

Funny how time changes us. I’m pretty sure we all ‘see’ the same things. We all react differently – or don’t react at all to Christmas circumstances. I see men in varying states of pain during the season to be festive. I  see women getting obsessive about having the perfect Christmas party- I haven’t been invited to any of these parties but I  see it through their windows.  Relax.  Nothing on this planet is ever perfect. Imperfection is the sauce of life.

As machines become more and more efficient and perfect, so it will become clear that imperfection is the greatness of man.
Ernst Fischer

Put the turkey in the oven late-more time to drink and talk. Let the kids peel off their ridiculous sweaters and run rampant. It’s one day. Only one day. So what if all your wine glasses don’t match.  I’d drink wine from a dog’s bowl if I were having fun with friends and family. Triviality. We focus too much on things that are ‘fluff’, They look good. They taste good. There’s uneasiness about the situation though. I better use the right fork and gods forbid I break wind or I will destroy the effort she put into this day. Women! Relax. Have fun. Let all of the foibles of the day guide us. Imperfection is perfection. Glasses will break. Tablecloths will be ruined. Grandma will spill the beans on Mary Sue’s 5-month pregnancy and chaos may occur. Breathe it in. These are the best of times.

We are who we are. We don’t have to know each other. We don’t need to like each other for whatever misconceived notion we hold. One day. One day is all we need. Drink. Laugh. Eat. Joke. Tell Stories. Sit back and think.  Watch the kids run pandemonium gauntlets. Watch cousin Ray’s elbow slide of the mantle midway through his drunken epistle. Smell the burnt whatever erupting from the kitchen. Is it perfect? No. Would you change it for the world? I hope not.

This Christmas I ask that you realize- Christmas will never be perfect. It can’t be. There is no fun if it is. Let it go. Ride the whirlwind. Take it all in and enjoy.

Had not been for the sweetest woman I have ever known I would not know these things to be true. Merry Christmas to all and thank you,  Mrs. Anderson for being and showing me the true meaning.

God Bless.

Tool Chest

I understand mechanical things-to a degree. I understand hydraulics, line speed and pull and how to utilize mechanical forces. I understand foot-pounds and torque- real foot-pounds and torque-not the pissy little stuff motor heads dream about. Applying theoretical outcomes to situations involving smacking object A with large steel object B and timing the moment of panic and running away are part of my repertoire. These are the tools in my tool chest.

If I was a period in time I would have to place myself between the first air breathing slug and the last dinosaur to say, “Ooh! Look at the pretty meteorite!” Extinction for people like me is imminent but we’re a stupid type of person and we will continue our hunch backed, club dragging march to the top of the active volcano.

Understanding technology is not easy for me. I can use a computer and I am thankful for Excel and online porn and all but other than just making the computer make whirring sounds and typing I am at a loss. I don’t ‘install’ things and I pee my pants when an error message pops up. IT was created for people like me. My incompetence with computers supports the employment of people I used to make fun of.

To assure you of how computer ignorant I am, the other day I walked into a video store to return a movie that would not work in our Blu-ray contraption. Video stores are places that rent DVD’s and Blu-ray to people who don’t ‘stream’, ‘pirate’ or ‘download’. Prior to DVD’s and Blu-ray these physical location stores used to rent videotapes of movies on VHS tapes and for a while on Betamax tapes. It was necessary to actually travel to these places and physically take the movie from the store, return home, start the family VHS player by lighting a small fire underneath the hamster powered ‘electricity generator doohickey’, place the tape in the player, hit the play button by walking up to the machine and physically touching and engaging a ‘Play’ button that was usually the size of a Winnebago, sitting down and watching the movie.

So there I stand mumbling through why I was returning the disc to a kid not even half my age. He was a very nice guy. He explained to me that I may need to blah blah blah recognize the device yadda yadda yadda download and upgrade I like blueberry jam so our BluRay player would perform properly at the Copacabana and it is very simple. I have not, in a very long time, wanted to smash a guy’s face in. I really did want to at that moment. “Can I trade the BluRay for a DVD?” I mumbled. ‘Sure but the quality of the DVD compared to I’m a little teapot short and I know you will enjoy this much more on BluRay!’ Remember the scene from Fight Club where Edward Norton pummels the handsome blond dude’s face to the point where he looked like Sloth from Goonies? That was what I wanted to happen to this poor, nice, helpful soul. The look of desperation in my eyes must have finally caught the kid’s attention. He apologized profusely as he handed me the DVD version of the movie and offered me a lollipop and a hug.

A few weeks earlier my nine year old nephew was over and wanted to play PS3. I had trouble switching the thing that makes the PS3 work thru the DVD player. Noticeably frustrated by my lack of knowledge he asked me, “Are you routing an HDMI input from the PS3 to the receiver?” You’re NINE! A) How do you know this? B) I think I’m glad that you are a smart kid.  C) Shut up!  Roughly five seconds after my fifteen minute attempt to get the thing running he got it to work and started a conversation about pixels and picture quality. I ate my breakfast in the garage surrounded by wrenches and power tools. My happy place just wasn’t cutting it that morning so I started a list in my head – Them vs. Me. The results to date although not surprising- have not made me feel very good.

      THEM                                                                               ME

     Young                                                                                 Not

   Clean Cut                                                      Haggard and frightening to small children

   Good Hand-Eye Coordination                       Thankful my hands and eyes still function

   Like School and Learning                  Made teachers very happy when I finally graduated

   Social and friendly                                                        Alcohol required

   Computer literate                                           I can make little rocks out of big rocks

You’d be correct in assuming that list is longer and not in my favour. As I sat in my cave rhythmically tapping to two stones together and scratching myself at undisclosed locations due to bearskin chafing my bare skin, I pondered the future for myself and the kids. Then I had a sandwich.

One major thing divides my generation from the up and comers, patience. I had patience, the lesson of learning and being patient, rammed into my skull as a kid. I am impatient about a lot of things but I know under the right circumstances, patience will pay off most of the time. Especially when the worm turns and you can cram a valuable lesson and invoice up someone or some company’s keester.

In my business you used to start in the trenches making crappy pay, acquire skills and work your way up to less crappy pay and some job security. It was common knowledge that until you had skills and moved up the company ladder you were a cost to the company. The company took you on to train you-at the company’s cost- with the hope that you MIGHT be a productive profitable asset in the future.

Now I get kids who went to Training School to operate heavy equipment who think they just hit the lottery and now just have to sit in the shovel for the rest of their lives. They aren’t taught maintenance, most of them don’t know what a grease gun looks like and some of them get down right indignant when you ask them to clean the tracks of a machine they just buried in the mud. Add to this the fact that most of them do not have field experience. My industry has decided that if I accept a person like this, just out of school, he or she is worth full union rate for that position even though he or she is going to destroy my equipment and not be productive enough. It isn’t right, or maybe I’m just mad that I didn’t grow up at this time. I spent years with a hand shovel throwing gravel fill in behind sheet pile walls. I had thick callouses on my hands to the point that I never wore gloves when I was cutting steel with a torch. It wasn’t about being ‘tough’ it was just the way it was. The only callouses I see now on the next generation is on their disjointed thumbs. Off in their dream world playing video games. They seem to want it all-now-without earning it by learning it. Simple truth- a company will invest time and money into inexperienced person IF that person does not cost the same as an experienced person. They need to apprentice at a lower rate. Companies don’t want to and won’t hire people who can’t produce if they can hire an experienced person who will produce.

‘It’s much more difficult for young people nowadays!’  Bullshit. Trying to pay rent for a piece of crap house, buy groceries and have enough money to take your girlfriend to a movie working for $12.00 an hour was what most of us went through in the late eighties and early nineties. We didn’t have cable or satellite television and  ‘stream’ involved water, fishing, swimming or hiding evidence and ‘download’ was a bad bathroom joke. We got yelled at during work and some of us got a swipe in the back of the head once in a while when we weren’t doing our job or we were being stupid and unsafe. Guys who worked on cars did the work themselves. They didn’t put disco lights, tv monitors and stainless steel exhaust systems worth thousands and thousands of dollars on cars worth five hundred bucks. We had one tv in the house. Two maybe three phones in the house and cell phones, you know the old bag phones that resembled and weighed as much as a cinder block were ‘high fallootin’ gadgets. We sat and had dinner as a family- every night. I believe this was done simply so we were within arms reach of dad while mom, with disgust in her eyes, told everyone that one, (possibly three) of our teachers had called her that night and told her what chaos we had caused in the classroom that day and how unacceptable our behaviour was and how it looked bad to the rest of society. Also note that this was a period in time that teachers would drag- not metaphorically- actually drag you out into the hall and knock you around if you were being a shit. I remember pleading with a few teachers not to call my dad. Anything the teacher could do to me was better than dad and the growly voice of justice.

There is no glass tower for me. I’m too busy to put myself in that position and I don’t do windows. I see and hear about kids not finding work out of university, low pay and horrible hours. Get over it. We did it. They’ll live. Cut the cord.

Kids today know about electronics and gigs and megs and how flush toilets operate. I hope that this continues and there is a market for these skills. It bothers me that advancement through academic learning seems to be the only thing we want from kids now. Some of you may have but not want to admit that your child, well, isn’t very good in school. This shouldn’t bother you. It should motivate you. Find out what your child would be good at. Maybe he or she would be a good crane operator, dozer operator or directional drill operator. These are skills that are needed in Canada. The pay is good and they will get to meet and work with some of the most interesting lunatics in the country. University isn’t for everyone and going to university doesn’t guarantee you a good job. I find it funny that if asked what type of schooling I have, most people look shocked when I tell them I graduated from Michigan State University. I’m a bum. I don’t shave everyday, I wear jeans and work boots everywhere- basically I do summon the vision of a person who was chief window licker on the very short bus. I get to play with large Tonka toys and every day the scenery changes. It’s hot in the summer and bone chilling cold in the winter and I would have it no other way.

Turn off the television! IF you watch the news and believe everything the media says, I’m sure you know that there is a pedophile, a serial killer, a meth lab and terrorist cell all within a one-block radius of your home. It has to be true. They can’t lie or skew facts on the news! Let your kids outside. Let them fall of their bikes or out of a tree. At the rate we’re going everyone is going to be Elmer’s Glue pasty white and have to wear welding goggles outside so their retinas don’t melt if we keep sheltering them so much. Let them fail. Help them back up when they do. Let teachers discipline them when it’s appropriate without fear of parents taking their kids’ side without hearing what happened. Publicly embarrass them when they are rude and pat them on the back when they are courteous without being told. Don’t do their homework for them. Teach them that they need to accomplish goals by themselves. The only good teams are sports teams. Other than that, teams, committees and panels are the tools of Tools. People who can’t accomplish anything like “teams” and “committees”. It’s a simple way to confuse an issue and avoid real work. We have to work together- BUT- we must advance. Kids need to know this. So far my method of yelling and sarcasm has not paid dividends on teaching our youth. I am not the right person for this type of job. I am a dinosaur after all.                                                    

Is It Even a Word? The Torment of Being ‘Unfriended’

Is It Even a Word? The Torment of Being ‘Unfriended’

And so it begins. Again. Is that really a beginning or is that do-over from previous beginnings? Or do we just call it a continuation or a déjà vu of something I have possibly experienced before. Maybe?

Anywho, it is with deep sadness that I, Brooks Dean, have to announce that I have been unfriended from not one, but three people from Facebook. Let me rephrase that whole ‘sadness’ part, because in reality, I only knew one of those people. The other two were acquaintances of someone who knew me, through contact with someone they knew, who thought they knew me. They thought it would be fun to buy the ticket and take the ride. They were wrong. So very, very wrong.

Deep down in my bowels I know it is my fault. I have done something to drive a wedge between me and these people. It could be my lack of sensitivity. A lack of Political Correctness on my part perhaps. Possibly I offend with poopy language and the constant use of the word ‘retard’. I don’t know. I just can’t wrap my fucking head around the whole steamy pile of irrelevant monkey shit.

Somewhere, deep in my soul, I feel bad. Have I scarred these people? Have I ruined the way they will forever view certain situations. Will they forever turn away from Tim Horton’s in the fear that walking in that place may turn them into obese mindless troglodytes? Maybe it’s just horrible gas pains I feel in this deep down place.

The stinky finger of judgment is pointing at me. Have I crossed over the line of ‘joshing around’ and landed with both feet in the world of grown up things? Is it within the realm of possibility that I was unfriended because I’m simply a dancing monkey on a leash and the organ grinder isn’t playing anymore because he’s either dead or in the whore house down the road playing ‘Does this look normal to you?’ with a Thai shemale who doesn’t speak English? I’m betting that’s what it is. The music stopped. The ride ended. Two of the victims got sick from the ride and the third one is holding their hair while they barf into a garbage can. I am hardly palatable to the mature set of society. Hell, most days I can hardly handle being me. Being awesome is tough work. Awesome is the word that best describes guys like me who still giggle when we hear the word ‘poop’, right?

I’m fairly certain all of us, whether we want to admit or not, really want to be liked. At the very least, we don’t want to be disliked and being ‘unfriended’ from the largest social media source in the world reeks of not being liked. I, for one, am offended by the swamp gas reek of this whole thing.

Here’s the kicker! You ‘friended’ me. Would you think that before you go stampeding for the ‘Add Friend’ button you might want to ‘get in the backseat’ with me. See if you like the suspension? Noooo! You just slammed the ‘friends’ thing into drive and headed out on the highway with your foot pinned to the floor boards. I’m the rental car and you drove me like I was stolen. Now, I’m left here with an empty tank, gum stuck to the gear selector (I was unfriended by women, so I assume they don’t know how to drive a stick- I know four women who know how to drive a manual and they are cool in my book!) and crappy club music with too much bass set on every radio preset button.

You tuned into my rants. You possibly even chuckled or saw some truth in my lack reasoning and patience, and then you got sensitive. Somewhere, while we were all enjoying the open road, you got offended by what I said. So offended that you got out of the car. Of course you did it quietly while we were at the gas station buying more beer and Whip-its. The only reason I noticed you were gone was that it was your turn to pay. You ride for free and when it’s your turn to pay you get offended or hide in the bathroom complaining of cramps. I see how it’s going to be. I get it. Non-contributor!

It’s time for another purging. IF I haven’t spoken with you for 6 months or I never read your Facebook updates, it’s time for you to go. Or for me to go. Or for both of us to go. Somebody’s going and it may as well be me. You’re probably busy washing your hair, being self- important and joining every Cause you will never get involved in.

Truthfully, I don’t have 196 friends. I likely know 196 people and I can remember things about them, but to me a friend is someone who can make me look back in time and have a definite memory of them. Someone who made me laugh, helped me out or who is just there at the right time to say the right thing or a memorable thing. Some of the people I consider friends I haven’t seen in 20 years. We’ve spoken on the phone or emailed but I remember these people for something they have done or imparted to me.

Maybe this is paralysis by analysis, but most of the people on my Friends list are friendly ‘acquaintances’. I’ve made you laugh and you have done the same for me. If we met at a party, I’m positive we would become friends-except for those uppity types and the ones I owe money too, of course. We are in the ‘dating’ stages of friendship. We’re friendly and enjoy each others company, but we aren’t going to start passing gas in front of each other just yet. I look forward to the day when we are that close.

So I’ve been ‘unfriended.’ I’ve used Facebook since 2008, I have owned and worn the same underwear longer than I have known the ‘unfrienders.’ And underwear actually serves a purpose. It supports me and keeps me from getting chafed. That’s what friends are for!

So long, riders of my coat tails! You have been reduced to a less useful thing than underwear.

We’re fueled up, we have beer and a dozen cans of Whip-Its and the top is down. It looks like rain ahead so we’ll have to drive really fast! It’s been a hell of a ride so far. Time to go for broke.

A Merry Shopping Trip

It’s been a year since my last shopping expedition to the United States. I didn’t miss it.

For those of you who don’t enjoy my upbeat, ‘everyone wins’ style of storytelling, I will summarize as thus:

ü Woke up, got out of bed in a good mood.

ü Had coffee and breakfast – better mood.

ü Was informed I was going shopping over in Michigan – pouting and whining ensued.

ü Went to Michigan.

ü Shopped.

ü Returned home angry and disillusioned.

Morons! Dolts! Imbeciles! Morons! What better way to spend your day than fighting traffic in parking lots, fighting to get around people in Lil Rascal powered chairs, teenagers who can’t or won’t take their eyes off of their damn cell phones, and husbands dragging their feet like they are reenacting the Bataan Death March. Don’t forget the lame-o’s who just stop dead in their tracks like they just figured out the cure for cancer or really have to readjust their underwear after dropping a stink bomb in the hallway.

Why? Why do people ‘go to’ the mall? Most of them don’t appear to be shopping. They just move slowly and then congregate en masse at the most inconvenient possible time and location. It’s a mall. It’s a place where people who don’t like themselves or have no hobbies or jobs go to feel better about themselves. Buy something nice just for me! That will make me feel much better about being a socially inept outcast! Instead of taking up space in the mall why don’t you take a class or something on Sunday, Dolt!

You’re going Christmas shopping. Here’s a hint: Don’t bring your whiney little snot monster with you. Leave it out in the car or with a stranger. Make the little bastard thankful for something, mainly his life. If I understand this correctly – you are Christmas shopping and you bring your kids. Why? So they can tell you if what you bought them for Christmas was the right colour? At least three times I saw little kids griping and begging for their moms to buy them something right there, right now. One of the little angels had picked up a ‘massager’ at Brookstone and man did he want it. I am pretty sure his mother wanted it too, but this is a Christmas blog so keep your mind out of the gutter. Thinking back on it, she likely did buy the ‘massager’ for little Tommy (wink wink, nudge nudge).

Human Carnage. That’s what I see when I go to a mall. People wanting things they don’t need and things they can’t afford (this is an assumption based on the latest reliable news source around: The Onion). Most kids don’t need more toys. They need a swift kick in the ass. That’s what Santa should give out this year. Swift kicks in the ass. Do you know how many people would line up to play Santa? For free? Jewish people and Muslims would even line up for that. I feel bad for all the winos who would lose gainful employment, but we are talking about Santa freely giving away kicks in the ass here. Of course, some jerk would ruin it by kicking the kids too hard, in the face, maybe. But I’m a pretty quick learner, and would do my best to not kick the kiddies in the face, often…

Luckily Lori is a good shopping partner. She doesn’t allow me to do any shopping, but she also doesn’t make me hold her purse, either. Standing outside of JJill waiting for her and not holding her purse while all the other forlorn husbands turned their heads in shame whilst holding onto their wife’s purses elevated my social standing from zombie hall stander to rock star hall stander.

Outta My Way, Suckholes! We’re done at the mall! We’re leaving! I jubilantly strut down the aisles in glee, pushing Lil Rascals out of my way as I go! So long, Douchers! I’m free!

Jubilation turns to panic as Lori locks the car doors and informs me we are going ‘shoe shopping’. Her evil “moohahaha” laugh tears strips of flesh from my body as she wheels her car in and out of oncoming traffic for dramatic effect.

“Can I wait in the car? Take a nap?” ‘You get out of that car now, or I will make you hold my purse!’ The word ‘purse’ isn’t even finished and I am out of the car and the car door is shut. Surprisingly, Lori doesn’t take very long and the imaginary bamboo slivers under my finger nails recede as quickly as my hairline did. Ahhh! The car doors lock and I am informed we are now going to Target. I can live with that. They sell beer at Target, right?

If you have ever been in a Target store you will notice that some devious bastard has placed the women’s unmentionables in the first section of the store. In that section they always leave the brassieres facing the aisle. Of course, this is not a big deal for a mature person, but it poses a problem for me. To top it off, some sick bastard always leaves the bras that are, well, friggin’ huge exposed for all to see. I try to walk by and think about baseball, but some unearthly force slowly and painfully turns my head towards the largest cupped bra of all of them. With my teeth clenched and silently chanting my mantra, “Shut your mouth, Brooks”. “Shut your mouth, Brooks!” “For the love of God, please don’t say anything, Brooks!” the inevitable verbal poopoo comes flying out of my mouth, “Holy crap! Look at the size of that bra! A person could use that to store basketballs!” Crap, crap, crap! Lori doesn’t hit me while I’m awake. I get *the look* and quickly look down to see what my shoes are doing at that precise moment. I don’t remember much after that, but I must say Target really keeps their floors clean.

One More Stop: Meijer. For those of you unfamiliar with Meijer, allow me to enlighten you. Meijer is like Wal-Mart. Meijer would have its own website dedicated to the people who shop there if Meijer was a nation-wide chain. Meijer is the place you go when you need beer, condoms, shrimp and firearms at three in the morning. Meijer also has a wide array of people wearing sweat pants, pajamas, wife beaters and interesting tattoos. English is not spoken a lot at Meijer. Holding up check-out lines because some person who doesn’t speak English is insisting that their 3-year-old coupon for canned salmon is still valid is commonplace at Meijer. I have only ever seen one Asian person in Meijer. Meijer has Ben and Jerry’s “Pistachio Pistachio” ice cream. I like Meijer.

I am not sure what we bought at Meijer, but getting to see Gummy and Coughy Alice again were definitely the highlight of my day.

The Return Trip. The real excruciating part of shopping in Michigan is returning home. Not because I want to stay in Michigan, but due to the pain of declaring things to the Canada Border Services Agency. The officers are generally nice people, considering they have deal with idiots all day. I just find it annoying that a simple task of paying blood money to our government can become such an agonizing experience because some slack-jawed diddlyboob, who has somehow made it to the cashier, wants to argue about what is charged duty and what isn’t. Urged on by her like minded diddlyboob friend, she digs in her heels and demands again and again why she has to pay duty. When the correct answer is not proof enough, she demands to know why she has to pay duty...again!

With all the money our government has spent protecting our border, one would think they could afford one spring-loaded clown shoe to be shot out of the ceiling at jackasses like this lady. Get Out! You are dumb! Leave!

Finally, we get our blue or yellow paper and we are allowed to leave. Freedom!

Next year, Christmas giving is going to be different. Socks for everyone. Not new socks, just random socks I find in the dryer, at the laundromat, at the beach, etc. I aspire to be *that* person: the person who gives socks. Almost as hated as the idiot who gives advice – about everything. “Merry Christmas, Timmy! Here’s your holey plaid sock!” “But I wanted a puppy!” “My, my, Timmy! Santa would never give you a puppy! You’re eight and you don’t even know how to brush your teeth! No, little Timmy, you’re too stupid to take care of a puppy! In fact, I don’t think you’re smart enough to own a sock!” Yoink! “I almost forgot! Here’s your kick in the ass for being such a smug little bastard!”

Dare to Dream of my Perfect Christmas. Wishing everyone the Best of the Season!

COURAGE

COURAGE

This has been a week that I will never forget. Even if I wanted to I will never let myself forget the strength and courage I saw over a two day period and the weeks that preceded it.

There is no real beginning or end to this and I can only convey what I saw and heard and how I understood the goings on.

Over the last seven weeks, with quiet honour and indomitable spirit, one of my best friends stood vigilant and strong while his beautiful wife succumbed to cancer and was summoned across the river to the Great Ever After.

It wasn’t until last Saturday that I understood how bad things were. I got a phone call from Shawn’s closest friend telling me what was going on. Until that phone call I had stayed away and just kept checking in to see if my friend was doing okay or if he needed any help. I had not gone to visit his wife for fear of being in the way. Sunday passed and I did not know what to do. On Monday I found out things had gotten really bad and Randy and I went to the hospital to be there for our friend. He was tired. He would not sit down. His eyes were controlled but had worry in them. He spoke with clarity and Randy and I knew his concern was for his children. Randy and I visited with Shelley. I held her hand and tried to smile. She said “hi” and faded back into sleep. We left the room and stood by our friend in the hallway.

As the kids approached he never flinched, never wavered. They all went in to say what were likely their last good byes. Randy and I sat in the lounge and waited.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to fix everything but couldn’t do anything. I wanted to drag Shawn away, even for 15 minutes to just get him away and let his guard down. He wouldn’t have gone anyway.

On Tuesday I got a text telling me Shelley had passed away. Shawn was by her side.

I want anyone who reads this to know that I am proud of my friend. He displayed courage, caring and strength in what became an unwinnable circumstance. Not once did I hear him bemoan the situation or give up hope. I cannot describe the strength I saw in Shawn. As usual, he took care of everyone else and held everything together the way he always does.

The black veil of sadness is hitting me. I am sad for my friend. I am sad that this has happened to him, but I know I will never have to worry about him after witnessing the strength he possesses.

There is no doubt in my mind that all of Shawn and Shelley’s friends and family will form the village of support our friend may need moving forward. He may not want it or need it but it will be there if he does.