Old ladies are dirty pigs.

*Update: July 17/08. Everyone go over to Slicksumbitch to see my guest post today!

Yes, that's correct. Old ladies are dirty pigs. So are young ladies as a matter of fact, but I really don't mind that one at all.

Now, feminazis, before you get your underarm hair in a braid, just let me explain, ok?

Part of my employment responsibilities include care of all of my County small facilities on their own wells. As such, I make the rounds to the 20+ community halls, arena's, and the like every week. My timing couldn't have been worse on the one. You see, I walked into a women's institute meeting.

Local women's institutes are a support group that's a throw back to old times when women didn't have any rights. Such as the rights to vote, to wear shoes, to speak, and to generally live a comfortable life.

Great strides were made by these women then, which is good, except I really wish that the pendulum hung in the middle now, instead of far off in the other direction that make out men to be evil and in need of horrid torture. But I digress.

You see, the women that make up these institutes are also throw backs to those times. I believe the average age was about 106. As I walked into the building, all talking stopped and all eyes were on me."Look!" one shouted. "A man!"

As I walked into the building with my basket full of tools, the front door shut behind me, of it's own accord. You know, like you see in scary ghost horror flicks. "Just here to inspect the water system" I said, moving cautiously forward. It was then I felt a sharp pain in my behind.

I looked at my bum to see a bony hand clamped with vice like strength, attached to someone who could easily have been my great grandma. A toothless maw opened, and said "hello there young man!"

I panicked. I bolted, leaving a swath of jeans in the granny's hands. I saw with dismay that she took them and put them to her face and took a deep inhale. So disgusting. I ran towards the basement door, and salvation, through a sea of reaching and grasping liver spotted hands and the sounds of decrepit cat calls.

I finally made it to the basement door, threw it open, ran inside and closed it behind me. I wedged a few concrete blocks behind it, and finally, I was safe.

I looked down at myself. Half my jeans were gone, my shirt was missing, and I was covered in scratches left by gnarled, yellowed nails. I had to get out of there!

I opened the tiny window and squeezed my way out. Looking around, I could see nobody. Freedom! I got to my feet and ran towards the car and my salvation, when the grand pooba of the grannies stepped out in front of me.
"We paid for you and you're staying!" she screeched, her hand out in a defiant stop gesture. I continued my desparate journey to the car, only to be knocked flat on my ass by an incredibly powerful 86 lb woman.

She straddled my chest, and yelled "Now get back in there and do your job! And get into costume for fucks sake!"

"I don't know what the hell your talking about lady! I'm just a County worker! All I wanted to do was check the water system!"

"You mean you're not from Chipndales exotic dancers?"

"NO!"

"Oh sorry sonny."

The old lady got off my chest and waddled back inside.

That was the bad part of the story. The good? Later that evening, I found $340.00 worth of bills had been stuffed down my undies.

I'm booked to do a women's institute show next week.

I'm too old for this shit.

*Update July 1st/08. Knight from Knights Ramblings asked for a picture of my injury. Here you go, hope you enjoy!
The skill of riding a bicycle is never forgotten. Once you've built the neural pathways in your head, you can always just get on a bike and ride.

That doesn't mean that you can't get rusty, which I found out the hard way yesterday.

A friend of mine called me up and said "hey, let's go mountain biking!" and I said "Great Idea!"

So, I dusted off the old Rockhopper, sped off down the road and met him near his place.

The first thing I'd like to affirm is the extreme benefits of not smoking. I haven't had a cigarette for almost three years now. However, I smoked like a fiend the ten years before that. And for the better part of those ten years, one of my favorite hobbies was mountain biking.

The first ride of the season was the worst. Halfway though I'd be huffing, puffing, trying desperately to get my lungs to inflate from being welded shut from a winters full of tobacco smoke abuse. It was so bad asthmatics were throwing their inhalers at me telling me I needed it more then them. I even got offers of oxygen from those fat old people on scooters. Yea, it was bad.

Not this time around. It's been years since I've been on that thing, and I was peddling away like it was nobodies business, and nary a flung inhaler came my way.

Kiddies, if you are a dirty fag sucker, quit now, right now. Trust me, you'll thank me for it later.

My friend and I hit some nearby trails to test out our prowess. We went in like lions but came out like pussycats. Well, not so much him but me.

See, I had a little accident while trying to ride over a log. It was wet, the ground was muddy, and the log moved under my bicycle unexpectedly. My wheel caught in the log, throwing the bike to the ground. I went with it as my shoe didn't want to come out of the toe clip, and two-hundred pounds of Mike came crashing down hard, gut first into the very (sharp) end of the handlebar.

And it hurt.

Boy, did it ever hurt. I got my foot out of the toeclip, and walked around, limping, clutching my gut, and making the guy hurt face. You know the face, the one where you are hurting like hell but you don't want to show it but you can't help scrunching up your face while you're walking around saying "that stings a little, let me walk it off".
Kind of like that. Except I'm not black. And my teeth are straight. But you get the picture.

Two things happened right at that moment. I was breathing very hard, because I was just jabbed in the gut with a small object with the possible force of a 1969 Buick Roadmaster. And I was in a bitchin amount of pain (I've got a nice bloody circle of torn skin with a really deep bruise, probably on my kidney), I got nauseous.

My buddy was chatting away verbally, and inside I was repeating over and over don't puke don't puke don't puke don't puke don't puke don't puke don't puke....

Never, EVER chant don't puke to yourself when you're feeling sick. That ASSURES you vomit.

And vomit I did. I vomited nicely if I do say so. Not as nicely as this, but it was pretty good if I do say so myself.



After I was done, we decided to call it quits and head back to his place for a beer. I had to fill my now empty stomach with something, didn't i!

There is a moral to this story. I came back learning two things:
1. Quiting those dirty fags was the best thing I ever did
2. I'm no longer an invincible teenager and I need to work into things.

But hey, at least I learned, right?

==============

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I think I saw Osama Bin Laden

I think I saw Osama Bin Laden today.

Seriously, I think I did.

I was driving towards one of the community centres I take care of for work today, and there was a guy approaching me in a crappy little car coming the other direction. He saw me and my car, and pulled over. He was staring at me with a truly terrified look on his face.

And he was the spitting image of Osama Bin Laden.

It didn't register with me until a minute later. I mean, this is Canada, and we have a deep integration of all people of the world in all colours. It's not unusual to see someone of middle eastern descent around here, even in white man hicks land where I live.

This is why I think it was Osama.
1. It looked EXACTLY like him (given, I have trouble differentiating most older middle eastern men with turbans and big beards)
2. He was in Onondaga. If a middle eastern man was to rid himself of a turban and shave his beard, he'd blend in very nicely with the Native Americans on the reserve nearby. He'd look just like an aboriginal man from a distance. Maybe he just hadn't had a chance to shave his beard yet?
3. The fear on his face when he saw me. This one was obvious; thinking about it, I looked like a secret service agent. I was driving a HUGE north American made car, I just had my hair cut so it was short, boxy and officious looking, and I was wearing incredibly dark sunglasses.

Which is why no one has found him in the caves of Afghanistan, he's here in butt fuck nowhere Ontario!

If I see him again, I'll turn him in; but no doubt he's halfway to Kingston by now. Nobody should recognize him there, eh?

Since I've already offended the Muslims, I might as well offend another group of people too. Maybe the two giant angry mobs will kill each other outside my house on their way; each wanting the chance to kill me.

Several years ago, me and my buddy T was sitting in his car, eating some burritos or something. Or maybe it was cat shit; Taco bell and catshit taste pretty much the same.

Anyways, a late model black volkswagon drove slowly by, with dark tinted windows and black bling bling rims. There were two black guys in the front seat. T looked at me, pointed at the car, and said:

Camouflage!

I had to remind him that we were two white guys sitting in a white car.

At which point he said:

Camouflage!

For some reason, I find that shit really, really, really funny.

Anyways, if there's somebody I haven't yet offended, please come visit me at the white house, c/o G.W. Bush. Bring it!

Spazoid's 150!

Yes, that's right folks! Spazoid has hit his 150th post. And like Spazoid's 100th post, he's going to share with you, his gentle readers, all the sick and twisted google searches that somehow brought people to this site.

That's right. There are people more twisted than Spazoid out there. There are people that actually find this pretty fucking tame. Let's see what the google stats brought in, shall we? Here are ten of the most interesting and peculiar searches from the absolute dregs of human society.

1. Can you grind up poop.

Answer: Yes you can. Although poop doesn't really grind, it kind of smushes. Don't ask.

2. Dirty bum after I wipe

Answer: Then wipe again. And again. And again. And...well you get the picture. Or maybe you don't, since you had to google it. It's not rocket science. This is something you should very easily understand... if it's still dirty, you need to keep cleaning. I fear for the human race.

3. Lohan's Beaver.

Looking for a few STD's, hmmm?

4. Pills that make ur shit smell like roses.

Look... I don't know how to break this to you. Shit smells like shit. That's why it's shit. And that's why toilets come with a flusher. If your shit smells worse than normal, get a deodorant sprayer, or maybe start eating human food or something. You know, get a little more fiber in your diet?

5. Space condoms; space penis; space woody; space poo

Buddy, i'm pretty sure condoms, penis's, woody's, and poo would be ALL THE SAME. What, do you think being in a space shuttle changes the properties of you? Maybe you're thinking the lack of gravity will give you a bigger penis, therefor you'd need a bigger condom for your bigger woody? It's just like your big poo.... bullshit.

6. Starbucks is shit.

Preach on brother, preach on!

7. Stuffed pee holes

Are you serious? Obviously, you've never passed a stone. Otherwise, you'd understand that the pee hole is the most sacred of sacred out holes. In ten years, when I'm forty, I'll give up my ass virginity to make sure my prostate is OK. But NOTHING will EVER go up the pee hole, ever. And if you like that kind of shit, you sir, or madam, are a serious fucking weirdo. Even weirder than the guy who wanted to grind up his poo.

8. What is a faggot called in England?

I can't speak for the English, but i'm pretty sure it's 'faggot'.

9. What's a Spazoid.

I'm glad you asked! Have a look around my craptastic blog... you'll figure it out soon enough.

10. Vagina bags

I'm... stumped. So I googled it myself. What I found scared the crap out of me:
Maybe she keeps her bags up in that thing? Hell, she probably keeps a few matched sets of luggage up there! I know one thing that isn't going up there - penises. Really. Hell, if I stuck mine in there it would be followed by my hips, legs, body and head. Hey, at least I'd be warm for the winter!

Hey folks, thanks for reading my crappy blog. Hopefully, I'll be around for another 150 to keep my three readers entertained!

-Spazoid Out.

=========

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You want to look away - but can't.

Have you ever seen something that you just shouldn't be looking at? Something so aweful, so terrible and horrible that you shouldn't be seeing it but you cannot look away?

Like a car crash, or train wreck, or Cher?

That happened to me this weekend.

I was over at a friends house for the fights. During a break, we ended up checking out some video's he had on his laptop - it was actually from a backup file he created from his brother in law's computer.

Some of the videos were funny, some were stupid. Then we saw it.

Yes, IT.

This video was so horrid, so aweful, it was created by Satan to drive us mere mortals mad.

The first time around we didn't know what to do. So we laughed. It started off as a titter, than a giggle, than a laugh, and then a full out tear streaming, belly clutching laugh off.

But it didn't stop. It couldn't stop. He wouldn't let it stop.

I was sitting in my seat on the other side of the room. I heard the click of a mouse, the shuffle of a moving body, the ominous music starting up. I knew what it was, but I looked anyways. It was like I was compelled to look by some unseen force, even though I didn't want to.

I managed to look away. The laptop moved closer, into my field of vision. I put a hand up on one side of my face. The laptop was moved closer yet. I put another hand up, and so on.

Eventually, the laptop ended up right in front of the T.V., with this horrid, disgusting, vile video playing on repeat.

Seeing it again, I think it is the most mentally destructive, most terrifying video ever produced by the minds of man.

I've included it below. Please, if you have a weak stomach or are faint of heart, don't look, turn away now.




So, who thinks the guy is dead?

=============

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Revenge of the Aussie

Last Friday, I had the dubious honour of dinner with family friends. Staying with these friends are two lovely young exchange students, one from Venezuela and one from Australia.

Since my Spanish is as good as my Martian, I elected not to pick on the girl from Venezuala. She might weigh 100 lbs, but I have a feeling she'd be able to Judo my ass into next week. Instead, I asked another Aussie, Miss Milk, about things that I shouldn't (should, hehehe) say to Australians. Miss Milk was nice enough to dedicate an entire blog to it, which you can read here.

Spazoid: So, Miss Aussie, I know someone who's an Australian and...
Miss Aussie rolls eyes
Spazoid: Anyways, she said that there's a word that
Miss Aussie pulls out a dagger
Spazoid: ...that might mean
Miss Aussie pulls back her jacket to reveal fully loaded .45
Spazoid: something different to you than it does to us.
Miss Aussie: What's that?
Spazoid: Fanny pack?
Miss Aussie: Never heard of it.

Thanks Miss Milk!

So instead I did a horrible impression of the crocodile hunter and she told me I sounded British. Figures.

I thought it was over. Miss Aussie had other plans. Later on in the evening, she went to her room and brought back something called vegemite. I've heard of it before, but only in passing. Apparently, vegemite is an Australian staple, something like peanut butter is here.

Let me assure you folks, it was NOTHING like peanut butter. NOTHING. Have a look:

We have something similar here in Canada. It's called AXLE GREASE. That's about the colour and consistency of this stuff. It also smells like death.

The Australians spread it thinly over large hunks of bread and pile cheese on top of it to hide the god aweful smell and flavour of this stuff. I didn't know that. All I remember is Miss Aussie handing me a small spoonful of it to try.

Being the guy I am, I shoved it in my mouth. I went through three different stages of reactions as three separate tastes bombarded my mouth.

Stage one: Salt.
Stage two: The taste of deathStage three: The aftertaste that wants to party past closing time.
After a gallon of water and the iron will not to projectile vomit the contents of my dinner all over Miss Aussies nice clean white sweater, the taste finally went away. I thought that the vegemite was done with me. I was wrong.

See, vegemite is not food. Vegemite is the result of a yeast culture. That's right people, vegemite is plain, pure, simple, unadulterated micro-organism. Let me tell you, it's one hell of a STRONG micro-organism too. The vegemite goal was control over my small intestine, and they were determined to oust the e.coli that resided there. Unknown to me, the battle raged between two strong opponents, pictured below.

The battlefield was my small intestine. As with any war, there was collateral damage to the war field.

When I woke up the next morning, my sphincter was on FIRE! I thought it was because of the unusually large and rich meal I had the night before. I ran to the bathroom and several kilos of raging hot lava erupted into the porcelain bowl, registering somewhere between a fat peoples Pilate's class and Godzilla on the Richter scale.

I thought it was over. The vegemite had other ideas.

I had to drive into the big city that day. I'm the best man in a friends wedding, and we were going to get fitted for tuxedo's. I was to meet him at his house by 9 am. The drive was about an hours long, and half way through my gut started to gurgle.

Gurgle gurgle gurgle. And my foot pressed the accelerator. The speedometer read 110.

Gurgle gurgle gurgle. 115.

Gurgle gurgle. 120.

I got to his house a full half hour earlier than was expected.

Spazoid: Rings doorbell.
Nothing.
Spazoid: Rings door bell again.
Nothing.
Spazoid: Frantically pounds on the door.
Friends finance: You're early! We're still sleeping! Come back later!
Spazoid: Pounding on the door hard enough to make the brick walls buckle
Friend: Opens door... Hey Buddy! Glad you could....
Spazoid: NO TIME!
Friend: Nodding knowingly I'll go get the Lysol air spray. Tp's under the sink.

In the end, the battle raged until Monday. The vegemites put up a fierce battle, but one of their own, a disgruntled traitor that was tired of tasting like death, showed my army of E.Coli another path through the spleen. In the end, the mighty vegemite was defeated, but not before costing me $83.00 in toilet paper.

The moral of the story? If you annoy a teenaged Australian girl, don't accept any food from her.

=============

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I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

As we go threw life, we encounter many, many things that really, really gross us out. I would like to share with you all one such instance.

It was about ten years ago, and I was sharing a place with a couple of other people. One of them was in my program in college, named R. He had a girlfriend, name E. E was over six feet tall, really big boned, and as quiet as a howler monkey. With her size and graces, and thirty or forty pounds of nappy brown hair, she was as close to a female wookie as you can get. As a matter of fact, I happen to have her family photo to share with you all. That's her, front row center.Both of them were really gross people. R had a skin tag on his side the size of a Volkswagon, and she often announced how she liked to chew on it during sex. Gross.

One Friday, I was heading out the door to visit my folks for the weekend. I said my goodbyes to R and E, and headed out the door. I got to the end of the road and cursed myself for forgetting to bring the hockeybag full of dirty laundry that I (by I meaning my mom) was going to do over the weekend. I turned around, parked the car, and let myself into the apartment.

I walked up the stairs, and there, straight in front of me, was E, with one leg up on a chair, inserting a giant tampon into her large dank vagina.

When I say large vagina, I mean big. Below, you will find an artists rendition of her fun hole:

And by large tampon (and here I thought they were all one size), she was inserting one of these monstrosities:I screamed.

She screamed.

I screamed.

She screamed and slammed the bedroom door.

I threw up a little and fell onto the floor into convulsions, clawing at my eyes. The horrid horrid image still haunts me to this day. It was easily the grossest thing I've seen, so gross it put me off vagina for MONTHS.

I hope I didn't ruin your lunch.

-Spazoid.

========

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Why you don't want to live in Canada

I woke up this morning, and this is what I saw outside my house:

Oh good. It's well into March and I get to do MORE SHOVELING. Ever the optimist, my dog rushes outside and buries her head in the snow, probably trying to dig out the half eaten lunch some little turd chucked onto my lawn on the way to school.
But even she got sick of the snow, mustering a classic "WTF is this shit still DOING here still?!?!" look:
In classic dog fashion, she figured that if she tried to kill the shovel, the snow wouldn't come any more. After all, when the snow comes, the shovel is out; if the shovel is dead, maybe the snow won't come?
You'll also notice the accumulation after I was done shoveling. This is 6 minutes worth of pile up. I can't wait to shovel again today! And the five times after it!

You'll notice that the snow is piled about 1/4 of the way up the side of my neighbors house. My plan, if this continues, is to burrow into that pile and stay there until it melts. It'll save heat and hydro (which I'm going through like fucking water).

In November, when this shit first started, I was meticulous. The sidewalks were completely clear, and so was my driveway.

Now, whoever wants to walk past my house gets a path cleared the WIDTH OF MY SHOVEL. And I clear the driveway so that it will be relatively snow less a foot on either side of my truck, so I can gain momentum down the driveway to clear the giant snow hump that is my street.

We're hoping that this will ease up sometime by April.

So, who wants to move to Canada?

=================

Spazoid apologizes for the above life type blog. He knows that nobody wants to hear about that shit, and they would rather hear humorous probably not true stories of comedic observation he usually writes about. He also apologizes for the horrible stupid gross out post that preceded this one. Spazoid is in a bit of a mood. Stay tuned for regularly scheduled programming.

================

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Tag, you're it, again!

High time for High School

A friend of mines oldest boy will be going into high school next year. Like any thirteen year old boy, this one is cocky, arrogant, mouthy, and generally thinks he's man's gift to the world.

Being a big fish in a little pond doesn't help the boys hormonal arrogance, but little does he know that's all about to change.

Not too long ago, I was giving him a ride home from his grandmothers house. I looked at him and said "So, T, you're going into high school next year?"
"Yes."
I then started to laugh. He asked me what I was going on about and I told him nothing, never mind. Well, today, I'm going to tell him, and any other cocky little so-and-so preparing to enter high school for the first time.

Right now you are in grade eight. You are at the top of the school food chain. You prance about like you own the place, and really, the only kids you worry about are other eight graders. Not that you mind them nearly as much as the younger kids do. You use your age, size, and pecking order status to tease them mercilessly. Remember that, because it's important.

Next year, YOU will be the kid.

You are to be the little fish in the big pond. It's going to be a huge culture shock for you. Because you're a cocky little teenager, chances are you'll strut into grade nine like the big shot you used to be.

That will change very quickly, as some or all of the below may and probably will happen:

• You will be locked in a locker
• You will be pushed around
• You will be teased
• Your head will be dunked in a toilet while it is flushed - repeatedly
• The toilet may have been previously used without being flushed
• Your books/clothing/lunch/money will be appropriated
• You will be rejected by girls/boys. Again, and again, and again.
• While walking down the hall, eyes will follow you, fingers will point, and giggles will abound
• Jello will be poured down your pants
• You'll be held down while various hair in and about your body is shaved - unevenly
• Dog poo will "appear" in your locker

You are also new to puberty! Welcome. Your face will soon look like a pepperoni pizza with extra bacon bits, and no amount of face scrubbing will help. Get used to being called names like "pizza face", "crater face", and "freak".

Speaking of puberty, for the boys, it is best not to wear track pants. They don't hide boners very well. As a new comer to puberty, you will find that your nether regions have a mind of their own. It takes a very slight breeze for "junior" to stand at attention, and believe you me, he has a lot of staying power. He generally comes most often when trying to talk to girls, or when you're called to the blackboard to solve a problem. Carry a large book with you even when walking to the blackboard, to try to cover up Mr. Excited. Your higher ups and classmates have a very good memory and will tease you MERCILESSLY given any opportunity.

For you girls, I am SO sorry. The guys have it pretty good compared to you. Generally, they'll get shoved, or punched, or beaten up, and that will be the end of it. The higher grade bullies will move on to the next grade nine poindexter that crosses their path. Boys get bored easily. Not so for girls.

Girls remember things for EVER and for ALWAYS. They are more subtle, instead of beating you physically they'll go for your mental health. They'll try to steal your boyfriend, they'll spread vicious and nasty rumors about you, even if they're not based in reality. Don't be surprised to learn people think your pregnant when you're still a virgin, or you have crabs, herpes or are sleeping with the teacher. Girls play mind games. That is the nature of girls.

So for all of you big bad grade eighters, remember, you're about to become nothing more than pond scum on the shoes of the grade eleven jerks.

Enjoy!

======
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Fibre is your friend?

As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes I have problems. I don't like showing weakness to the eyes of my readers, who I'm sure consider me some sort of great prophet or god. But sometimes, you just have to do what you have to do.

Recently, after having some intestinal issues, I purchased a fibre product. This product was designed to help get things moving. Being the powerhouse that I am, I decided to triple the dose, as I thought a single dose wouldn't do much on my herculean gut. Luckily for me, I have a stalker who follows me around with a camera to chronicle this misadventure. The problems started at work. Lucky for me my underlings are really nice guys, or this could have gotten messy.


Later, when I got home, things really went from bad to worse.


I thought things couldn't have gotten worse. I was feeling ok, so I decided to go out and have some fun. It hit me right there and then, and I just couldn't hold it back. It was so embarrassing, I don't think that church will ever let me back in!

Folks, trust me on this one. Next time, follow the instructions on the package. Don't be a hero. Really, it's not a good idea.

The END product

I hope everyone had a good Christmas. I had an excellent holiday, full of family and friends and cheer. I also received some generous gifts, which I didn't deserve because I'm a huge jerk.

Christmas day was spent with my buddy John and his family. His mother and wife cooked a terrific meal, including my all time favorite, ham. I LOVE pig. The way to my heart is through food, and the way to keep my heart is through pig meat. I don't know why, but this other white meat is just spectacular. If I could only have one, I'd choose pig. I don't care if it meant me going out into the woods with a sharpened stick, I'd get me some pig! But I digress.

Johns house is a dog friendly house, and to that end my puppy Jinx was with me. She LOVES his place, his dog Buddy, and sniffing around his back yard. Accordingly, everyone there loves Jinx, including his youngest daughter Aja. She's slightly bigger than Jinx and spends her time carrying the dog around, which Jinx tolerates very well. As usual, Jinx was a big hit. Everybody was cooing over her, and everyone was FEEDING her.

Here Jinx, have some turkey. Here Jinx, have some cheese! Here Jinx, want a cracker? Have a nice ham bone. Hey Mike, did you know Jinx likes parsnip?

Anyone who is a dog owner knows what happens to dogs when they deviate from their usual diet of kibble, sticks, insects, grass and cat poo. Especially when the food is rich, varied and plentiful. Jinx has a cast iron stomach, but even she has her limits.

Shortly after everyone was finished dinner, she asked to go outside. She was very insistent about it, she had to go NOW! I let her out, and 10 minutes later let her back in. Shortly there after she jumped up on the couch beside me, hung her head over the edge and BLARF! Projectile vomit halfway across the rug! Wonderful. As me and the kid sitting beside me are scooping up runny vomit and vegetable chunks with paper plates, I notice a smell. The smell was very distinct, and was coming from the rear end of Jinx. I look at her bum and yes, there are leftovers all over her rear end. Apparently, vomit was not the only projectile that had come from her that day.

So, as I had the dog tucked under one arm bum end out, and a wet wipe in the other hand, my thoughts naturally wandered to poo, the end products of all end products.

As some of you may recall, some time ago my flawed logic identified pooing as the meaning of life. As such, much of my time is spent thinking about it. After all, if it truly is the meaning of life it does deserve some thought.

There is nothing like a good bowel movement. You feel better, lighter, more energetic and happier. How many of you can honestly tell me a really good poo doesn't make you feel like a million bucks? Just look at your average dog. Slow and mopey till he gets outside. After he's done dropping his load, he comes back in the house and tears around like nothing is wrong on this earth. I truly believe, that if everyone has at least one good bowel movement once a day and EVERY day, there would be much less war and violence on this planet.

But what makes a good poo? There are several things. It must have good volume. It must have the perfect consistency, and it must come out all in one big piece. It must not stink too much, and there should be little or no clean up needed afterwards. Most importantly, it must slide out quickly and with little effort. If it is the perfect poo, your bung hole will flutter with contentment and you'll feel light enough to float for at least the next 30 minutes.

Not every poo is a good poo. One of my least favorite poo's is the wipe forever poo. In this case, you just cannot get clean! Wipe after wipe after wipe, its just as dirty as the last one. Half a roll of toilet paper is spent just getting clean enough to pull up your pants to walk over to the nearest shower.

Then of course there is the movement where a little teeny piece is left. You can feel it there, hanging, refusing to drop, teasing you. You know that if you try to remove it with TP, it'll just make a huge mess all over the place. So there you are, with a itsy bitsy turd hanging off your bum like a butterfly cocoon hangs off a branch, shifting with the breeze. That's where the wiggle comes in. You sit there on the can, wiggling in every direction, left, right, up, down, side to side, doing the modified running man just to get this piece of poo to drop off your bum.

Don't you just hate the phantom poo? You have to go and NOW, and the only thing that comes out is a fart? Just plain old disappointment.

One of the most annoying is the "i'm not done yet". You think you're finished, you clean up, you're just about ready to flush, and BOOM! You sit back down to a poo that says to you "Sorry I'm late, did I miss anything?". This jerk is usually accompanied by two or three more poops that just can't find the accelerator pedal on the highway of the large intestine.

Let's not talk about the diaretic poops.

Of course, there's the floater poo. Those poops that float on the top of the bowl like displaced tree branches, just daring you to try and flush them. "Go ahead" they say, "Just when you think you got us down the bowl, at least one of us is actually hiding, waiting to float up and leave the next person a present".

All in all, please be sure to use a courtesy flush if you're using a guest bathroom. If not to save yourself some embarrassment, at least out of respect for the toilet owner. To those who like to host, please, PLEASE make sure you have LOTS of toilet paper within easy reach! You never know when you or your guests are going to have a wipe forever poop! There's nothing more embarrassing than having to excuse yourself early just because of a dirty bum.

Thank you for reading the above self indulgence. I'd like to dedicate this to my father, who has an appreciation for the finer side of bathroom humour. Stay tuned for public bathroom etiquette!

Poo Coffee

As my loyal and regular reader(s?) know, I recently had a birthday and turned old. Part of any decent birthday is birthday gifts, and this one was no exception. I'm not a particularly needy guy, and I always ask for no gifts. Also, I'm an ass and I don't deserve it. Regardless, every time, I get nice gifts. I think next year I'm going to ask everyone to pitch in and get me a Ferrari, so no one actually bothers getting me anything.

One gift stood out among the rest. My mom's crazy fun friend "S", has an awesome sense of humour, way down low in the gutter, somewhere where mine hangs out. Well, not as low as mine, but she is a 48 year old mom of two. Anyways, we often trade dirty off colour jokes that makes my mom blush and my dog cover her ears. She got me the best gift I've gotten.

Poo coffee.

Seriously. I opened the gift bag, and there was a coffee grinder. SWEET! I love coffee, and now I can buy the good stuff and grind my own. Thanks S! But no, it wasn't over yet. There was still something else in the bag.

It was a bag of whole coffee beans. Cool, cool, she gave me coffee beans to grind up in the grinder. Sweet, right on. But these beans were not Nabob, or After Eight, or anything like that. It was called Luwak Coffee.

Luwak Coffee is something known as animal coffee. Basically, you get an animal to eat coffee beans, then you sort through their poop, wash them off, and sell them to dumbass rich people for $1000.00 a kilogram. This particular animal is called a civet, some sort of weird Indonesian cat. They claim the coffee tastes better, less bitter, the digestive juices take out the bitter or some such.

So, me being the guy that I am, try it. Just for comparison, see below the picture of coffee beans on the top and cat poo coffee beans on the bottom, and note the difference:



Can you see the difference? I can't.

So, I put the cat poo coffee beans into the grinder, ground them up, put them in my coffee maker, and plugged it in. The first thing I noticed was the aroma of coffee mixed with poo. I just love it when my house smells like poo! At the very least, it makes it easy to dump someone. After smelling your poo house, she'll actually dump you. It's done, and SHE looks like the ass, allowing you to date her friends if you wish, but I digress.

I poured myself a cup and took a sip. Yes, there was a coffee taste in there. But there was a much stronger, over powering taste that went along with it. Can you guess what that taste might be?

At a grand a kilo, this is the stuff of rich people. Interesting isn't it. Who else would pay the average man's monthly take home pay for coffee that tastes like poo and consider it a delicacy? Rich people are just grasping at more and more straws to fake superiority, aren't they?

S, THANK YOU. That was the best laugh I've had all year! I'm sorry that I probably won't be drinking any more of that coffee. Well, maybe next time I'm at your place I'll do the brewing. In the meantime, I'm off to purchase some poor man's coffee beans that haven't been digested by an Indian cat first.

I was gonna

...post something a little more comprehensive today. Butt, bean the guy that I yam, I decided to back pedal and shoot this pic into the stinky breeze. Please, by all means, add your reBUTTals.

Boobarella

Yesterday, I spent the day going around and sampling monitoring wells. After the baling machine is set up, that leaves about a 20 minute wait while the well is cleared. In that time, my boss (who was with me) told me a bar story. He has lots of those, most of which I'm sure his wife doesn't know about. Just in case he or she ever reads this blog, all of these stories took place well before he met her, ok?

We were talking about women's boobs. He was telling me about a conversation he was having with a girl on a bar. Five minutes into the conversation, she interrupted him and said "You know, if you're waiting for them to talk, they won't, ok?".

He replied with "What?".

It seems that he had been staring intently at her chest the whole time. Not an indiscriminate glance here and there, he was focused, locked on, homed in, whatever you want to call it. Pretty embarrassing for him, and he did NOT score that night.

I laughed at him, because the best thing he had to say to that was "what". Could you imagine?

Men like boobs. Well, heterosexual men do, although I wouldn't doubt that gay men like man boobs. Yuck! men should not have boobs! That's just wrong. But back to the topic at hand, which are all about women's fun sacs.

I know, all boobs are is some fatty tissue, some milk producing organs topped off with a nipple, but man, they are just great! Little ones, big ones, small ones, large ones, flat ones, puffy ones, hanging ones, pointy ones, ones with giant nipples, ones with tiny nipples, they are all just great.

Well, I can't say all of them are. Some big ugly wrinkly old ones just don't do it for me. But it's surprising how a nice set of boobs can make up for a lot of physical and mental deficiencies.

Ladies, please, if you find a man staring at your boobs, don't get offended. We can't help it, we're very simple creatures and have trouble controlling our more basal urges. Luckily though, we've worked through our "me hit you over head, drag you to cave and make babies" mentality. Haven't done that for at least 10,000 years. If we're staring, take that to mean we find you very attractive and want to get to know you better, ok?

Still, there are boob liars. You know the ones. She walks into the bar. She's got a tight midriff shirt on. Her boobs are the perfect size, the perfect shape, and just sitting there like gravity is no enemy of theirs. The very kind of boobs that should have some sort of award wedged in between them just because they are so perfect. You talk her up, you buy her drinks, she's into you, you can't believe your luck. You take her home. You start making out, and you get her shirt off. After 5 minutes of fumbling around with that stupid fucking bra clasp, you finally manage to get it undone. You expect those perfect orbs, those visions of beauty, those perfect circles of ultimate womanhood to come springing forth.

And.....

WHAP!

They hit the floor like their the shuttle challenger re-entering earths atmosphere. NO! Disappointment!

Come on ladies, it's like us giving you a jewelry box only to find out that there is a candy ring in there. Sure, you would have been happy with the candy ring if that's what you knew you were getting in the first place, but because it came in a nice jewelry box you're now disappointed, and pissed. Of course, being ladies that gives you licence to make us sleep in the couch, because it is a fair and equal relationship, right? Ya ya right!

Oh, guys, don't do this. When you discover they are flatty flat pancakes, don't put them on a plate and cover them with syrup and start laughing. That won't help your chances of getting laid, really. If you have to do that, just use the syrup and imagine the plate. She'll think you're being kinky or some shit that we don't care about.

In closing, I'd like to say that all boobs are presents from god. Should any of my female readers that aren't related to me like to send me a picture of theirs, I will receive it in good will (all though to be warned, it might get put up on my blog).

Love you ladies and your fun bags!

When things go wrong..

Today was going to be a good day. I have the day off work. I was going to replace my front tires and get an allignment (so they didn't wear so quick again). I was going to a party in Toronto. Did I mention I didn't have to work?

The tire place gave me long wear tires (160,000 km) for 90 bucks a piece, then discounted the one tire they pulled off that they could sell as used. Great! Hunky dory.

I then went to Active Green + Ross to get an allignment. Those pricks had open bays but sat my truck outside for 30 minutes before they pulled it in. Forty minutes after that they called me.

"All done, great, I'll pay now" I said, with visions of getting some lunch dancing in my head.

"I'm sorry sir, but your ball joints are gone". Sure enough, they showed me that the ball joints were indeed fucked. That explained why the tire leaned to one side!

I called my mechanic, because I really didn't want these yokels working on my truck. He promised to price out the parts and get back to me. The Active Green + Ross people didn't seem particularly happy that they didn't get to do the work! Fuck em though, I don't let upsellers do major work on my truck.

The mechanic called back and told me it was going to be $379.00 plus tax (14% here in Ontario). That's $432.00. Plus of course the $190.00 I spent on the tirese and installation making it a $622.00 day!

Great. Wonderful. A great day off.

I just checked the bank account. I'm going to be really, really sick of kraft dinner in the near future!LOL

But hey, those are the joys of owning a vehicle. Shit happens and you deal with it. Oh well. I'mm going to have a beer now. Fuck the before noon rule!