To start off I'm gonna blame this all on the weather and more specifically the friggin' end of April snowstorm. For some reason I thought that today would make the perfect day to spray paint my mailbox, but with the state of the weather, the genius in me figured the best place to do it would be in the garage with the door closed (you know ... 'cause it was cold out). All I've got to say is there are definite gaps in my memory of today's events and the whole house stinks ... well ... like a paint factory. Damn you crappy weather and rusty mailboxes ...
It's a plague ... a blight. It's a horrible blight of epic proportions ... known as ... the little dog. Like the onslaught of the boy band, it seems that nowadays everyone and their friggin uncle has to have one of those googly-eyed, teeny-tiny little turds and is determined to show it off by bringing it absolutely everywhere. I'm just gonna lay it out there. For the record I hate little dogs ... No, No, No, I FUCKING hate little dogs!!! I'm not exactly sure of the genesis of these emotions. It's not like I had some traumatic childhood mauling buy one of those rodent-like little varmits, in fact, the one time that a morsel of me felt the back of a dog's throat, it was a huge, respectable german shepherd. Even though I was getting my ass chewed off I remember thinking something like, "Man that's a bad-ass dog." I know it probably came out as, "Ahhhhhhh !!! Mommmmy!!!!", but I'm sure that's what I was thinking... at least in retrospect. Little dogs just suffer from a severe lack of respect. Sure, just about everyone thinks they're cute, but we all know that at any moment we could just snuff them out like a dirty cigarette. They know it too, and that gives them an icky vibe of distinct patheticness. That's why they're so friggin' yappy and jittery, they're either trying way too hard to make themselves useful or they're worried about getting stepped on. They're almost like having a real dog, only easier ... kinda like a goldfish that walks.
People then amp up the level of pathetic by dressing these little turds in all sorts of demeaning outfits, (even calling them outfits is demeaning ... might as well dress them in slacks and a cardigan). I'm surprised that they don't spend more of their time trying to off themselves. "Pekingese in tiny sailor suit jumps from train bridge ... suicide note found written in miniature dog biscuits..." Then there are the poor dudes that gotta take them for a walk. Nothing says manliness like dragging around something on a leash that weighs less than a good morning dump and carting around a tiny bag of its tiny shit.
Almost nothing says YUMMY like a weekend of cinematic violence, vehicular destruction and sugar overload. Friday I checked out the movie Kick-Ass, on Saturday I went to the Monster Truck Spectacular and then I finished up the weekend by cramming bucket loads of maple syrup covered food into my sugary pie-hole at a sugar shack. The weekend was loud, visually active and smothered in maple bacon. Throw in a barcalounger and some naked chicks and I think it would have been a glimpse into heaven. I won't go into a review of the movie, instead I'll just say that it was kick-ass ... ... ... HA HA HA HA ... ... ... HA HA HA ... ... ... HA HA ... ... ... HA ... ... ... H ... ... ...A ..............
This next few lines are gonna be of the homer variety.
The Monster Truck Spectacular took place at the Olympic Stadium with an attendance of 45,000 and some change. The predominant gender attending the event was obviously male but I will say the ladies did fill enough of the seats to make it noteworthy. Looking around me at the various members of the audience in my section, I noticed a grand showing made by the tramp stamp and the mulletish hair style. Now supposing that say 1/4 of the attendance was female, and then throw in some + or - and % calculations and crap, I would say that there was about 8000 tramp stamps and about 20000 mullet or mullet-like hair helmets. With a supposed average tramp stamp size of 32 square inches and an average mullet area of 64 square inches, that would make 256,000 square inches of tramp stamp and 1,280,000 square inches of mullet in attendance. Or I could have completely fucked up the calculations...
Another thing I noticed was that the Canadian national anthem was sung entirely in French. Something I've got to admit I’d never heard before. Like everyone, I've heard it sung in both official languages, but WOW, no English whatsoever. I couldn't sing along to the back half of the song 'cause my hearing, understanding and singing at the same time talents seemed to have diminished for some reason.
Bacon, maple syrup and other stuff that's filler ... Stuff in face ... Repeat until nausea ensues...
This past weekend was one of those "couple 'o' days" that screamed low key. The order of the weekend was ... nothing. (O.K., the wife and I ended up cleaning some junk outa the basement for a few hours but I’m hoping not to count it as "something I did last weekend."
On Saturday morning I did get rousted by my buddies to join in the "2nd Memorial Attempt At Getting Some Exercise Thingy". It went well ( nobody had to carry me ). We (mostly I just tried to survive) managed to hike (mosey) for 8.5 km ( I'm counting every foot/meter ) in like 2 or so hours. Then we celebrated by ordering deliciously disgusting steak and cheese subs for lunch ( The delivery guy even dropped a "Whoa dude! That's a whole lot of food.") It was a very yin/yang moment for the boys.
Topics of conversation included Paul Simon and the fact that he (well ... his music and more specifically the Graceland album) apparently has the ability grow on a person ... kinda like the onset of herpes. There was also the chat about Hervé Villechaize and how, in certain instances, he could increase one's manhood. And ohhhh yeah, the subs...
I figured today was a good day to throw my two cents into the ring. So here we go ...
First off, I don't overly give too much of a shit what happens in Tiger's private life. It obviously doesn't affect me in any sort of way (other than a few chuckles and the jealous watching the rich guy burn sort of thing) and so, at the end of the day, if I can't see it on t.v. or the internet, it really doesn't matter who he's bangin'. I do have an opinion though, mostly 'cause I try not to live under a rock and Tiger and his saucy story are pretty much everywhere. This is kinda how I see it ... He was born, he got very good at something, made lots of money, got really famous, made some more money, married out of his attractiveness level, made even more money, felt entitled and then he banged a whole bunch of chicks. It's happened before with other people and it will certainly happen again. He's a guy. The whole money/fame thing is just the most effective way for him to get into hot chicks' pants.
Is it me, or does Tiger look like a guy that just lost his favorite toy ... or boobies ... The three questions that are asked by Earl Woods in the commercial can be pretty much answered by the line: " I love dirty naked chicks!"
I also found it rather funny and just a bit ironic when Billy Payne, the chairman of Augusta National, bitches about how "Tiger disappointed us all" and how "he forgot that with fame and fortune comes responibility". This is ridiculous coming from a guy who heads a golf club that is chock full of very rich and probably very influential people who only let African-Americans join in 1991 and who still won't let women into the club. You can almost see what's going through his head, "See, I knew if we let the blacks through the gate we'd be puttin' up with this sort 'o' crap. On top of everything he's a Buddhist too, what in tarnation are we goin' to have to put up with next?" "Gollllllly!!! If we only had some more Jacks and Arnolds then everything would just be as right as rain."
You know when people yell," Get in the hole", after Tiger tees off. I guess that's gonna have a whole new meaning now ...
I have to admit it was the headline that got me: " Rat found dead in alley in rat-free Alberta". Rat-free Alberta? Who knew? It's not like rat-free was something emblazoned on any of the province's vacation brochures. My parents have lived in Alberta for going on 6 years now and for some reason this information is kinda kept under wraps. Is it an ugly period in Alberta's history that the locals keep to themselves? When did this rodent genocide take place?
I know that rats don't do very well in popularity contests but to snuff them out completely seems harsh and impressive all at the same time. In a province with a healthy dose of cow shit and cereal products it must have taken some extremely motivated individuals to rid the land of the sneaky rodent. A Rambo Pied Piper perhaps... The rat-free moniker seems to be some serious business to the Albertan government 'cause they gave this suspicious rat death the full-on C.S.I. treatment. They've even gone so far as to set up monitoring for the area where the offending corpse was found and a rat hotline (pun included). Rats: wanted dead or alive.
For a brief change I'm gonna fire a nugget of seriousness across the bow.
Currently, my wife is reading Theoren Fleury's autobiography, Playing With Fire. Every once in a while she'll read to me one of the interesting facts or crazy 'adventures' that strike her as extraordinary. She's also read to me some of the awful shit that was inflicted on him by his then coach Graham James. As ugly as they may be on their own, the events in the book were given extra weight by the recent revelation of James' pardon by the National Parole Board for his conviction for the sexual assault of two of his teenaged players.
That just fucking blows...
"A pardon can make it easier for a convict who has turned their life around to get a job and travel abroad. The board says that helps not just the offender, but society." WOO HOO... Honestly, I don't give a shit. Really ... are we worried about putting a crimp in James' vacation plans?
It would be nice to be a little bit more eloquent with respect to this story but I suspect that this was the kind of reaction most people had when they heard about this crap. I realize that, at the end of the day, nothing in this story affects me personally but the whole idea of the amount of, and ease that, pardons are handed out does nothing but take another chunk out of the confidence we have for our government systems. Or any fucking system if I think about it.
The family went to a friend’s house for the first official BBQ of the season. Now that I'm in my 40's it somehow seems less wrong to spring some happy wood because of a lovingly prepared rib steak.
In stark contrast to the 'feastival' on Saturday night, Sunday morning saw a sincere effort, on my part, to give the exercise thing a whirl. I went to a local park with a couple of friends, one who is a weekly runner, one who is training to try a 10 KM run and another who may be classified as doughy, like myself. After trudging up and down a hill for about a baker's dozen times, I came to the not-so-startling realization that I'm way, way left of being in shape. I also got to see a nice, scenic spot where I can plan a heart attack.
Topics of weekend conversation included: how to make hamburger patties with your ass, the million dollar idea known as the "iboob" and the continuing discussion of how to set up the worldwide infiltration of the Horsecoq brand.
I'll finish up my trifecta of movie previews with one that could possible be the heart-warmer of the year. Eat a big bag of gristle and enjoy.
On the one hand I can get behind the whole bizarreness of the idea, the whole pushing the 'weird and stupid' envelope kind of thing. Then again, there's the instant and huge, you gotta be fucking kidding me reaction, that rushes over you like a fat kid gunning for Easter chocolate. "What kind of twisted motherfucker?" Just sort of keeps rolling around in your head. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when the writer or whatever was pitching this idea to the dude with cash ... "O.K., O.K. so there are these two chicks right. Umm ... Then their car breaks down ... Don't worry it gets better ..."