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.

Excuse Me While Take a Powder!

Excuse Me While Take a Powder!

Christmas Time. The time of year when traffic moves slower. People become dumber and children become even whinier. It’s the time of year when I would be willing to smash myself in my man bits with a sledge hammer rather than have to go shopping.

That being said, some manner of shopping is inevitable. Living on a border town and having the Canadian dollar nipping at the heels of the Greenback opens up an entirely new shopping experience for me. Aside from having to cross the border, shopping in the States is a pleasure. The people are just as dumb and slow as they are in Canada but the Americans do this crazy thing I have rarely experienced in Canada.

You know when you walk into a store, there are people that are supposed to help you. These are referred to as Sales Associates. While I was in the states I was approached by one of these ‘sales associates’ and asked if I needed help with anything. I quickly raised my hands in the air and yelled, “ I didn’t steal anything!” After a very uneasy chuckle the sales associate asked me if I wanted to try on the pants I was looking at. She directed me to a change room and instructed me to call her name if I needed and further ‘assistance’. Nervous and confused I hid my wallet in my underwear and tried on the pants. I knew something bad was about to happen. The pants were a little bit snug around my waist, which is a conspiracy against me and all size 35 waist pants I try on. I called the sales associate over and told her that I must have grabbed the wrong size. As I hid behind the door of the changing room she told me she would go get me the next size up. I knew she was lying and the hidden camera in the change room would be taping me standing in the change room nervously scratching my butt and obsessively pulling my socks up. Embarrassment coursed thru my body. Of all the days to wear a thong. About thirty seconds had passed and I was near tears when a soft voice was heard and a pair of pants were lightly placed on top of the change room door. Could it be? Is this really happening? I have heard of this sort of behaviour before. I believe it is called SERVICE! I was so happy that I tried the pants on, liked them, put them back on the hanger and walked out of the change room. I made it about six feet before I realized joy had fogged my brain and the pants I had worn in were on the floor of the change room. I didn’t care. I was feeling something I had never felt before. Satisfaction from shopping.

I paid for the pants and thanked the lovely lady who had ‘helped’ me and decided I needed more of this ‘Service’ thing. I bought more crap than I could ever use but I didn’t care. I was flying high on this crazy rollercoaster drug called Service.

When we crossed the border back into Canada I was on edge. I needed a fix-bad. “Pull into Home Depot!” I screamed. Trembling and shaking I walked into the store to buy a Round Tuit. I walked up and down the aisles looking for my little drug called Service. As I asked other shoppers for Service I began to crash. “Maybe they don’t have ‘Service’ in Canada?” I queried to Lori. “ I saw him. I saw Service. He was wearing a little orange apron!” I shouted as I ran to the end of aisle. With the hope of a young child wanting to catch a glimpse of Santa before he climbs up the chimney on Christmas eve, I jumped out of the end of the aisle and screamed “Service!” with my arms wide open. Service had already disappeared. Lori ran up to me and wrapped her arms around me like a protective loving something. “It’s ok Brooks. I’m sorry I have to tell you this, but there is no Service in Canada- now do up your fly!”

It can’t be. I refuse to believe it is true. I made Lori drive me to Canadian Tire. I walked around aimlessly for an hour. I never found Service there either.

I’ve grown up and matured a lot since last weekend. A lot of thinking has taken place over that time and some of it was done by me. Do Canadians in the service industry exist? Are they simply Hollograms put in place to help defend against shop-lifting? How can so many people possibly suck so bad at sales and SERVICE, in the same store, at the same time, that I could write this much gibberish about Service?

It isn’t just retail stores either. Lumber yards, restaurants and industrial supply houses suck just as bad. If I want to be ignored I will go home and stand naked in front of the television.

Buying anything in Canada is a task. You need one little microscopic screw to finish your masterpiece. You go to the hardware store and you get Igor the Mute janitor or High Pitched Voice Eyes Rolling Girl as your choice for assistance. Neither one knows shit about shit but Igor is somewhat amusing in the adorable way he tries to talk.

In a previous Rant I mentioned running bare ass naked down the aisles of these stores and tackling the Sales Associates. I now realize that this is not possible. You can’t tackle what is not there. I just want to know how the hell I got tazered and thrown out of the store so quickly when I dropped trow and ran into the Power Tools area. Little Ninja Bastards!

You’re not happy with your job. You don’t make enough money. Your boss is an idiot. I get it. I understand. You took the job though. Do your goddam job! Your job is to help customers. Customers come to the store to buy things. It’s really hard to buy things when you can’t find those things. Enter- YOU! The sales associate. Full of life and willing to help. I see you! You can’t hide behind that thing you’re hiding behind! Don’t run away you little bastard! C’mere! Here! Good boy! Where are the toilet Plungers? The industrial size plungers?

It hurts me to say this but when it comes to sales – Canada sucks. Our service industry bites. The US thrives on being able to sell things. Things we don’t think we need. They sell things that don’t even exist over there and we are damn happy to a premium for them. Sales in Canada on the other hand is akin to torture. “I will make you talk Sales Associate person! When and if I ever find you – you will talk!” You can actually hear the theme from Benny Hill playing as you chase down an employee at any big box store in Canada- unfortunately we never get the Sexy Party or the Sales Associate.

IF you are in Sales are there are a few things you should know;

1) I am the customer. I may not be right but I have the money.

2) One sale will lead to other sales. Help me out finding what I need and I will return to your store.

3) Never roll your eyes at a customer. You are there to help the customer- you bitter little fuck!

4) Don’t pretend to be stocking shelves that are full. I know you are trying to hide in full sight but c’mon- you look like a retard pretending to put things on that shelf!

5) I admit I do not know the names of certain hinges or wall anchors. THAT’S YOUR JOB! Don’t look at me like I just fell out of the shortbus. Jerk!

Another service industry Blunder. Life is a negotiation. Get used to it.

When I have to stay out of town in a motel I like to get some value for my dollars. By value, I simply mean the place better be clean, have a shower and no dead bodies under the bed. To me this is worth $50.00 per night. Don’t tell me you are full up and only have the Heart shaped Jacuzzi room full. I can see there are no cars in the parking lot. It is eleven o’clock at night- you aren’t going to get many more people. I want the $50.00 room- not the vibrating $125.00 room. Don’t bullshit me. I know your little crap weasel manager who looks like a ferret with glasses is making you lie to me about rooms being available. Step up-make the sale. Part of something is better than all of nothing sweet cheeks. No? Thanks for your time- go fuck yourself. It’s amazing that when you turn to leave the hotel staff will inform you that a room just opened up and they are dreadfully sorry but there was a problem with the computers. It is usually this point where I keep walking out the door. LIARS! WHORES! I’ll sleep in my truck before I give you lying whores cent one of my money. WHORES! That’ll teach ‘em where the bears shit in the buckwheat! Many a night I have driven back to a construction site and slept in my truck gleeful that I really taught those pricks a lesson!

Brooks’ Tips on Buying a Car

1) Never take your wife with you when you go out to buy a car. I am generally easy to get along with, but when it comes to buying cars, equipment or property I am whirling dervish of a heartless bastard. I don’t care who you are- you will think I am a bigger asshole than I actually am once we sit down and start to deal. I negotiate every day and I know how to get what I want – and if I can’t get what I want I know I can always walk away. It’s not personal. It’s a simple – you have something I am willing to pay X amount of dollars for. IF we meet on the price and the scope of what I want, we are good. If we don’t I walk away. Don’t embarrass your wife when you negotiate – leave her at home.

2) Never ask for things you don’t want or need when you negotiate. “I’ll take the car but you have to put Christmas lights on it and 39 snooker balls in the glove compartment!” Stay on point.

3) Do not be friendly with salespeople. Their job is to suck as much money as they can out of you. You don’t have to be a prick to them but I find it helps.

4) Always be ready to walk away. It’s your money and if you aren’t happy with the deal- you never will be. Walk away if you aren’t satisfied with the deal.

5) Two major character flaws will hurt you when you buy a car or anything – Lack of intelligence and lack of patience. I have neither patience or intelligence so I know what I am talking about. Making a rash uninformed decision will cost you money and you will not be happy afterwards.

6) To help speed up price negotiations and a fair deal remember to take your handgun out of your jacket and place it on the table, barrel pointing towards the salesperson and say, “ I hope you don’t mind, I don’t want that puppy going off by accident like it did the last time I bought a car.” You will have a low low price and no haggling very quickly.

Myths and Rumours

1) All big box stores have teleportation devices for their employees – FALSE. All big box stores have trap doors and underground passageways to give the appearance that the sales associates have ‘disappeared’ into thin air or ‘teleported’ to somewhere other than the place you are.

2) In the rare case that you actually corner a sales associate caution should be used. TRUE! When cornered or asked to answer a question that requires any thought sales associates typically react in one of two ways.

a) The Old Possum Ploy – feigning a heart attack this sales associate will pretend he is dead – right there in the middle of the aisle. Try as hard as you want but kicking them won’t work. Running over to the automotive department for a battery and some jumper cables will not work even when they are attached to their naughty bits. This is the highest form of disciplined laziness.

b) The Old Deaf or Can't speak Trick - just walk away. Peaceful thoughts.

3) Breaking wind after a long night of cheap draft beer and Mexican food, while standing next to freshly captured sales associate is inappropriate. FALSE. Not allowing the sales associate to leave the immediate stinkified area is inappropriate. Funny, but inappropriate.

4) Asking for the store’s manager is a waste of time. TRUE. Do you really think that an effective manager would let his sales associates be so utterly useless? Asking and waiting for the manager to see you is useless. You may as well run around talking to a wheel of cheese for all the benefit of talking to the manager dunderhead will bring.

5) Sending a complaint letter to Corporate headquarters should help the company right? FALSE. Emails sent to corporate never reach the right department simply because this email function on the company’s website was never enabled. Grab your wheel of cheese and start running around again.

Simple But Effective Shopping Tips for Men

DON’T! Men aren’t supposed to be in malls. Malls were designed for women. Women are smaller and typically more agile then men so they can dart in and out of crowds easier and do acrobatic stunts over displays to grab, kick or punch their way to the last whatever thing they want and don’t need.

Alcohol, cars, power tools and firearms are the only items men should shop for. Not the lollygagging/browsing/price comparison shopping thing. Men have internal clocks that allow them only so much time in crowded places other than bars and strip joints. It’s like the longest breath we could ever take. After that – we gotta go or we may die. Shopping for these items is smash and grab guerrilla warfare. Run into the store for vodka, an air filter, a mitre saw and a 12 gauge- run out, gasping for air with Schnapps, valve stems, welding rod and Nerf Gun- doesn’t matter- don’t care. I am done Christmas shopping-enjoy your welding rod. No sales associates required.

Do Not fall for the ‘I need to pick up a few things at the mall. Let’s go together and then we can have lunch!’ trick. A ‘few’ things means the things are very large or there is a lot of them. She needs your pick up truck to fit it all in. She won’t be done picking up her ‘few things’ until the mall closes. Enjoy holding her purse, telling her the ninety five pairs of pants she tries on don’t make her ass look big and the 3 Tic Tacs stuck to the bottom of her purse will have to hold you over until you get home or die of boredom.. You Fool!

Enjoy your Christmas and all the joy it will bring. It will be over soon and returning to work will feel like the best vacation you never had.