I hate them. I realize that they have a purpose, but still hate the fact that I have to go to them. The visitation part is okay, but the service makes me cringe in a way that resembles watching someone get their testicles slowly crushed by a pair of ball cleats. I know that this is going to seem insensitive in light of my recent ordeal, but it’s something that has always bothered me. Mostly it’s all of the praying that drives me crazy. It seems like so many people haven’t learned that praying doesn’t get you anywhere, but they seem to want to keep trying. I don’t know, it just seems like a waste of air to me, but whatever, I guess it gives them comfort.
Well, it’s time to show a few of the photos from my meeting with Sebastard. He gets to be a bit of an asshole after a few beer, and I guess I might get a little yappy as well, so our little get togethers sometimes end up in a bit of a set-to. This night was no different, but because we are grown men, we let bygones be bygones, and are quite amicable by morning. They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, so I guess that this will be sufficient for today.
Yes, I am on a flight from Edmonton to Toronto as we speak. I guess we aren’t speaking. What I mean to say is that I’m on a flight as I write this. I’ve practically given up now; Lannie would be horrified. I’m wearing a pair of [easyazon_link identifier=”B016N6KVCG” locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]black track pants[/easyazon_link], [easyazon_link identifier=”B00IYBC7C6″ locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]sneakers[/easyazon_link], and [easyazon_link identifier=”B00W37E0XG” locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]wrinkly red shirt[/easyazon_link]. I truly look like a bag of smashed assholes, but I’ve got a big silly smile on my face, and a song in my heart. I tried making fun of the cheap looking tape job on the wing, but Nervous Nellie beside me didn’t enjoy those types of jokes. Ah well, I need to get this post written, so I can do some proper cocooning when I get home.
If you need to know what the song in my heart is, it’s [easyazon_link identifier=”B0051YDUHU” locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]Mr. Crowley[/easyazon_link], and not [easyazon_link identifier=”B00137MH00″ locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]Mama I’m coming home[/easyazon_link]. I’ve had Mr. Crowley in my head for days now. As I sit here crammed into this tin can with all of the other sheep, writing a blog post on my phone, I want to yell out “MR. CROWLEY, (dun dun dun)”, in my best possible Ozzy voice. Oh, I have one pal. I’ve been practicing it’s sweet enchantment for damn near a week. I’d like to say I’m ready to front [easyazon_link identifier=”B018VEE4HQ” locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]Black Sabbath[/easyazon_link] now, but all I’ve practiced is the opening line. Start imagining me singing that loudly over and over again in the cab of a [easyazon_link identifier=”B00ONMY7KU” locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]Kenworth[/easyazon_link]. I know, you’re pretty jealous, and who could blame you, really?
I just watched the Air Canada flight safety video, and I gotta admit that I built a small pup tent when the seatbelt part came on. There’s a cougar in [easyazon_link identifier=”B00JVWPALW” locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]tight brown slacks[/easyazon_link], and it gives a close up of her fastening the seatbelt. Mmmmmm, tight brown slacks. Then they go to another coug helping her daughter do some shit or something, and she’s got a damn fine rack on her. I would have went and rubbed one out, but the seatbelt sign was on, and I didn’t want to poke anyone’s eye out.
Now I remember the angst of track pants.
“Chris, can you please come to the front of the class, and write your answer on the board?”
“Ummm, no, I’m okay thanks.”
” I didn’t ask you how you were, I asked you to write your answer on the board.”
“Listen bitch, I just thought of squeezing Jen’s boobs, and I’m wearing [easyazon_link identifier=”B00QJEYMB4″ locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]light gray track pants[/easyazon_link]. You think you could cut me a bit of slack today?”
You are probably guessing that I didn’t say those exact words to the teacher. Well, you would be right. It went more like this: I jumped up with my hand over my pecker, kind of hunched myself over, and ran out of the room yelling “I need to use the washroom.”
I then went to the can and whipped that thing like a [easyazon_link identifier=”1477808604″ locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]rented mule[/easyazon_link] for embarrassing me. I then started thinking up my excuse to give the biggest ball busting teacher in the school.
I guess I could just tell the truth. She’s probably got kids, and it’s not like I pulled it out in class and had a go at it. It’s perfectly natural to get these feelings as a preteen boy, right? Yeah, that’s right, I’m going to wait for the bell and tell her what really happened.
So I waited, and about fifteen long minutes later, I walked to her classroom to explain myself.
“Ummm, Mrs. M——? I’m sorry for running out of your class.”
“Yes, I was waiting for you to explain yourself. Well, go ahead.”
“Well, I ahhh, sort of had an accident, and peed my pants a little bit. I was trying to dry them in the washroom so the other kids wouldn’t see, and tease me.”
Come on, you didn’t really think I’d tell that old dried up piece of boot leather that I had a tiny hard on, do you?
“Oh you poor dear. Why on earth would you hold it so long? You know that you can use the washroom whenever you need to go.”
“I know, but I didn’t know I had to go right then.”
“Why not? Did you hurt your penis or something?”
There’s my out.
“Well, I fell on my crossbar, and it hurt, but I think it’s okay.”
“It mustn’t be, or else you would know when to go to the washroom. Has your mother taken you to the doctor?”
“Ummm, no, I didn’t tell her about it. I will tonight. I’m sure it will be okay.”
“You can’t tell; it could be nerve damage. You need to get it checked out.”
“I promise I will. I’ll tell my mom tonight.”
“Okay, but make sure you do. That’s not something to take lightly.”
Whew, disaster averted, and I learned her weakness. This will truly prove useful in a future post, because I don’t know if I told you this before, but I was kind of a bad kid.
[easyazon_link identifier=”B001KQGBLA” locale=”US” nw=”y” nf=”y” tag=”granligh-20″ cart=”n” cloak=”y” localize=”y” popups=”y”]Keep on chooglin[/easyazon_link]’,
I got on the computer today, to look into college courses and try to find a better job. I instead played Evony, dicked around on Facebook and started a fucking blog. I should also add that I didn’t get out of bed until after 10:00 AM and although I had a shower a little while ago, I’m still in my underwear. This is the weirdest depression like state I’ve ever been in, and let me tell ya pal, I’ve been in a few.
I suppose I shouldn’t call it “depression”, because I really am very happy. I have just been getting angrier and angrier at my job. It’s not because of my boss per se, but the nature of the trucking industry itself. I go to work around 7 in the morning, and I drop a few things off around town(Cobourg, ON). I then start doing my pickups to take into the city. (Toronto, Mississauga, Hamilton etc…) The fight is on from around Pickering to the 400 area, where I generally start my drops. After I get rid of my load, I start doing all the pickups that need to go back to the Cobourg area. I then fight traffic all the way back to at least Ajax, but more often to Oshawa.
By the time I get to where I’m going, I am fuming at all of the assholes that run the on ramps to the end, and then cut in causing the rest of traffic to stop. Also, the other assholes that weave in and out of lanes, only to end up in the same damn spot. Oh, and my personal favourite, the asshole that tries to beat the truck through the intersection.
I usually get back to the yard by about 7 PM and start my half-hour drive home, where I’m always greeted with hugs, kisses and if the kids are at their dad’s, a bit of cocooning. Some supper might come next, followed by more cocooning. This is a typical work day, but everything can change tomorrow.