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Monthly Archives: March 2014

Anti-social media behaviour…

Some foul language…

I’m not a hockey fan. I don’t hate hockey – it’s just that I don’t follow it, that’s all. The sport holds no interest for me and I sure won’t be wetting myself if Ottawa doesn’t make the playoffs.
I should say though, that as a true Canadian, strong and free, I did play hockey as a kid but I quit when I was about 14.
Why?
The hockey parents.
Plain and simply, most of ‘em were (and probably still are) malignant assholes. They’d howl and yowl like World War Two klaxons at their kids (and quite often at other people’s kids) like it was an NHL final or something.
I mean, it was friggin’ house league, for Christ’s sakes! Who gives a shit? There were no scouts in the stands watching any young Bobby Orrs or Wayne Gretzkys out there. Did they think that screaming like senseless banshees at their ankle skating kid was going to get them signed?
Hey arseholes – shut the fuck up and let them have fun.
As I grew older, my interest in hockey waned and I moved on, discovering that playing music was far, far cooler than scoring goals.
Okay…I understand the zeal hockey fans have for the game, but often I find that the fervour, the enthusiasm, the goddamn obsession that those fans have for the damn game is really quite frightening.
You know the kind of fan I mean – the one draped in the oversized jersey of his favourite team, sprawled in his lawn chair, buried in snow up to his knees in front of his house, a can of beer spilling over his right fist and holding a misspelled sign in his left begging passing motorists to “Honk yor horn for the (insert team name here)” usually punctuated with whoops and grunts.
(By the way, car honking should never be wasted on showing support for your favourite hockey team – it should be saved for the idiot in front of you who doesn’t know how to use his goddamn turn signal.)
I get it – you love your team. Good for you.
This maniacal devotion however can, and often does, turn some of these well-intentioned fans into some of the biggest douchebags on the planet.
The other day I came across an article about the Toronto Maple Leafs. As I said earlier, I’m not a hockey fan, so normally any articles about hockey (or just sports in general) wouldn’t interest me but the headline caught my eye:
“April Reimer, wife of Maple Leaf James Reimer, attacked on Twitter…”
Sorry, what?
I read the article.
It began by saying that April Reimer, the spouse of Maple Leaf goaltender James Reimer spent the weekend fighting off attacks on Twitter about her husband’s recent play.
What…the…fuck?
What is this shit?
What in the name of God is the thought process going on here?
Is there even a thought process going on here?
What kind of knuckle dragging, mouth breathing imbecile would post an attack against the wife of an athlete of a team he supposedly cheers for?
I’ll tell you – the kind of imbecile who thinks that by wearing team colours and watching a game or two makes him a hockey genius.
The kind of imbecile who thinks that face painting is art.
The kind of imbecile who has never worn a jockstrap in his life and calls phone-in shows with all kinds of moronic drivel that, in his insignificant brain, passes for expert advice for coaches and GM’s.
The kind of imbecile who has never even laced up a skate and couldn’t find a puck even if it was wedged up his ass sideways.
Unfortunately, imbeciles with access to social media who think that they’re brilliant are everywhere – as if one finger typing and managing to keep drool from falling on the keyboard by sucking it back in is somehow brilliant.
Hardly – the fact of the matter is that they are bullies and should be bitch slapped nine ways to Sunday for being the idiotic shitheads they are.
I have a few questions for these idiotic shitheads:
What makes you think that your fatuous opinion is important anyway?
What makes you think that shitting on your favourite team makes you a great fan?
What makes you think that your gutless attack on an innocent person is a good idea?
What makes you think that being a completely classless sphincter is clever?
What makes you even think?
Now, what makes me think my opinion on this is worth the read?
Well, although I don’t watch hockey, I have played it in the past which means I’m already up on most of these sofa bound turds. For another, I certainly would never post any bullying horseshit about the spouse of a player on the team I’m supposed to be a fan of.
That in itself should be enough.
Of course, this kind of douchebaggy rubbish is not relegated to hockey – not by a long shot. Sports fans have been shitting on the home team in every sport ever since Cro Magnon man kicked a rock between Neanderthal man’s legs about fifty thousand years ago.
You have to wonder if some of these sports fans thought processes have even progressed since then.
It seems that in some cases the cave man still exists – only he’s clothed in his team’s colours…

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My Pet “Pee”ve…

Okay – fair warning: this post happens to be about bodily functions. If you are easily offended by these things (even though you do them every day), then move on…nothing to see here….

Fair waring…

Some naughty language too…

I’ll admit it – I’m not a people person.

When I go out, I like to get things done quickly and with very little human contact. Let me buy what I need, pay for it and then get the hell out of the store as fast as possible. Small talk is not wanted nor appreciated – if you want to talk about the weather, find a meteorologist.

And speaking of annoying small talk, on to one of my pet peeves (accent on “pee”) -conversations in public washrooms when I’m trying to urinate.

What is it about public urinals that make everybody suddenly become Marc Anthony at Julius Caesar’s funeral?

Seriously – what makes you think I want a coffee klatch at that precise moment? I’m busy trying not to soak my shoes – please, for the love of God, shut up.

And knock off the goddamn whistling too.

And another thing…why do some people feel the need to take the empty urinal RIGHT NEXT to mine when there is a multitude of empty pissers just waiting to be used?

It’s unbelievable.

I used to loathe using the bathroom at my former place of work because of Dave (not his real name.) If Dave should happen to come in while I was watering the plants, he would, without fail, pass by all the empty urinals, take the one right next to me and begin a conversation.

Without fail.

Dude, there are five other empty pissers and four stalls to choose from and you take the one right next to me? WTF?

It’s out of order – the protocol, I mean, not the urinal.

He’d unzip, fiddle around until he found it, and then smile at me. “Great game last night, eh? Did you catch it?”

Of course I didn’t – I was too busy trying to come up with inane talking points in case someone wanted to blather on to me while peeing…

He’d then drone on about the Ottawa Senators and in between sputtering farts, would wax eloquent about their power play.

I’d just stare straight ahead and count the tiles on the wall.

There were 36, by the way.

And it was far worse if I hadn’t started to pee before he came in. Even if my bladder were at the point of rupture, it would succumb to stage fright and refuse to yield a single drop. It would be no use. I’d wait about 20 seconds, exert a sigh of frustration rather than one of satisfaction and then zip up, pretending that I’d finished. I’d then wash my hands, exit, then hide around the corner, waiting for him to leave. Once he was gone, I’d rush back into the can before the dam inevitably burst.

Did Emily Post ever write anything about bathroom etiquette? A pee parlay is one thing, however, there is one particular annoyance that for me takes the (urinal) cake…

The other day I needed to relieve myself. I was hoping to hold it until I got home, but thanks to the patented, god-awful shitiness of the drivers in this town, I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t make it. I was forced to use the public facilities.

Resigned to my fate, I hung my head and entered the bathroom.

Seeing the wall of empty urinals (oh, thank Christ– no vacuous hockey talk!) I happened to choose the one nearest the stalls.

Just as I start to empty my bladder, I heard it.

It was small, almost imperceptible, yet horrifyingly ubiquitous.

Someone passed wind. In the stall next to me.

It sounded like someone had stepped on a mouse – quick, high pitched and a little frightened.

How did I not notice the shoes peeking out from under the door? A terribly unfortunate lapse of judgement on my part.

Fuck me.

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

A few seconds later, he became a little hard to ignore. (For those with really delicate sensibilities, please stop reading…)

It was like the baked bean scene in “Blazing Saddles” come to life. I swear, there were less explosions during the Battle of Britain in 1940.

Goddamn it, dude…

Panic overtook me as the realization of my biggest bathroom fear washed over me.

If he finishes before I do, I’ll see him and actually have to acknowledge him.

You know, that uncomfortable and embarrassed moment when you come face to face with the guy that just assaulted your ears and sinus passages.

Here’s my question – why, in God’s name why, when you’ve committed an atrocity like the one committed right next to me, can’t you wait until I’ve exited the scene of the crime? Guess what? I don’t want to see you dude. I don’t even want to know that you walk the friggin’ planet. It’s like witnessing a mob hit, for gawd’s sakes. Please don’t let him notice me and let me escape with my life.

I needed an immediate course of action. I had to complete my business asap and get the hell outta there before the Abominable Shitman discovered me.

I went into overdrive and began to power piss. Body tensed and with a vengeance, I fired a vicious stream into the urinal puck.

It was as if I was putting out a forest fire in Algonquin Park. The splash back was prodigious, but I sure as shit (pun intended) wanted to be outta there before Vincent Van Go-for-a-Massive-Dump was done with his odoriferous shitsterpiece.

I swear to God, it was the longest piss ever. Wars were fought and won in less time. If I could have cut off the stream I would have but it’s damn near impossible. Guys, you know you just can’t do it. It friggin’ drips everywhere and by everywhere I mean all over the front of your pants and down your leg.

Why the hell did I have that extra Pepsi? I wasn’t even thirsty, for chrissakes…

Racehorses don’t piss this much!

Finally my bottomless bladder was voided and I began to zip up. It was then I realized that I hadn’t even taken a breath since the Vesuvian eruptions next door started. I considered bolting the bathroom without even washing my hands when I heard the flush.

Nooooooooo!

 The door opened and Gaseous Clay lumbered out. It was so awkward – he just turned the whole area into a mini Yucca Flat nuclear test site and now he’s buckling up next to me at the sinks.

He tossed me a vapid smile – “Oh man, I really gotta lay off the cabbage rolls, huh?”

Cabbage rolls…good God…truly, a Poolitzer prize winning statement.

How in God’s name am I supposed to respond to that?

“Um, actually the cabbage rolls give off a nice piquant aroma that you really can’t get from eggplant or brussel sprouts…”

“Oh, it’s not that bad – my eyes are only watering a little bit…”

“Didn’t notice – by the way, I always gag after I have a piss…”

Instead, I gave him a quick nod and with my lungs convulsing, I quickly shot out of there like Kim Kardashian looking for a sale on extra large yoga pants.

As I said before, I’m not a “peeple” person.

And I think it goes without saying that I’m not a “poople” person either…