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 black track pants, sneakers, and wrinkly red shirt. 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 Mr. Crowley, and not Mama I’m coming home. 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 Black Sabbath 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 Kenworth. 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 tight brown slacks, 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 light gray track pants. 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 rented mule 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.
Yeah, I’m going to rant about this for a bit, because I feel I’ve been too nice lately. This was brought to my attention by a friend who told me that she didn’t want me to share all of that sentimental shit with her. Well fine then, I shall dazzle you all with my thoughts on people who say gosh, darn, heck, frig and cripes, amongst others.
Alright, now let’s say that the bible is correct, and God does exist, and he is all powerful and all knowing, just like you all think he is. Do you think you’re fooling him by saying “gosh darn it”? No God damn way. He knows exactly what you mean. How about jeepers creepers or jeez? Nope, Jesus knows that you mean him, and worse yet, so does his dad. His dad gets pissed off really easy too. Don’t think that having a child has calmed that angry, old man down. He may have toned it down a bit for the New Testament, but believe you me, he’s still got a mean streak, and it gets worse when he’s drinking.
Yes, God and Jesus both know you are taking their names in vain, and if you weren’t so scared of them, you would be yelling that shit from the rooftops. It’s kind of like high school, when a bully is talking to you, and you’d tell them how much you like them, and how cool they are, but you really think they are assholes. You know what happens next? You go to a party, drink half a mickey of rye, and start talking about how you’d kick the living piss out of that big bastard. You might even add in that you already did hang a licking on them a few years ago, and he/she was still scared of you. Oh yeah, you’re the big man on campus now, with everyone crowding around asking for your autograph and shit, and that’s when it hits you. A massive fist, followed by several more, and as you start getting closer to the ground, the feet begin their frenzied riverdance all over your head, torso and occasionally your groin. This is exactly what is going to happen to you when God and his posse get a hold of you, except it will be the Devil laying the beating on your ass.
Luckily for me, I don’t believe in God, so I’m safe and free to live my life without fear of persecution from a higher power. I can blaspheme all day long if I want to, and I sometimes do. Jesus H Christ, I hope I’m right about the God not existing thing, or it’s gonna be a hot old afterlife for the Birdman. Just in case I am incorrect in my assumption, I’d like to get all of the Christians to pray for me and my soul. Don’t get me wrong, I still want to end up in Hell, but I’d like to get a cushier job and maybe some perks, like A/C or maybe a sweet log cabin in the woods for my holidays.
As for the swearing part, you should just relax and swear, instead of using the “diet cuss”. The words mean the exact same thing, all except for “frig”. I have yet to hear someone say “I took her home and frigged the crap out of her.”, that just sounds wrong. I’m not saying that no one says that. I just haven’t heard it, and I’ve met a lot of people that take women home. Why is “shit” any different from “crap”? It’s not, and never will be. They can both mean feces, trouble or bad. Why is shit wrong to say around some people then? I don’t know, but it is, and people usually check what they say when they are around the “gentle” people. I’m guilty of it too, but that’s a respect thing. If I know that someone doesn’t swear, I try not to swear around them. I don’t like making people feel uncomfortable, but I would like to raise people’s comfort levels up to mine, so I can be myself around them. I have a foul mouth, and no matter how I try to word things, they always mean the same thing in the end, so what’s the point of mincing words, when you can say it all with a good cuss? Another thing I like to do is to emphasize the curse words when I use them. I think it makes me funnier, and sometimes scarier, and I think we all will agree, that I could stand to be both.
In conclusion, my brothers and sisters, Go forth on your journey of enlightenment, and attend any church on Sunday. While you are there, make sure to say in a moderately loud voice, “I’m not taking any more of your God damn bullshit, Jesus, so you can go to Hell.”, and feel a great weight lift off of your shoulders. I’m just kidding. If you are in church, you should just whisper that shit. It’s quite rude to speak out there. When you are done at church, walk on over to our Facebook page, and enjoy some cookies and punch, you will like it. In case you didn’t understand. I want you to click the link above and go to our Facebook page and then click the like button there.
Michael row the boat ashore,
P.S. changethetopic.com is not responsibe for any smitings (or is it smotings?), beatings or rapes by religious zealots, or any other harm that may befall you in the event that people can’t take a fucking joke.
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.