Oct 24

Know what I hate?

I hate seeing people that can’t afford to support themselves having kids. Yeah, and I mean it too. Why is this shit allowed to happen here? Two people that don’t have jobs start breeding and get rewarded for it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for social assistance if someone can’t work, or temporarily got set back a bit, but if you are capable of working, and are just plain lazy, you should not be allowed to have children. They should be taken away from you at birth, and given to a family that can support them without government assistance. It’s simple economics, and I believe psychology probably comes into effect, but I’m no expert, I’m just a dude with an opinion.

Now I have stated that I’m not an expert, so I don’t know how much you get from welfare, but everyone is constantly saying that it isn’t enough to live on. I’m not disputing that, I’m just saying to use a fucking condom, or better yet, don’t have sex. If you can’t afford to live with two people, what makes you think three or four will make it easier. I’ve never had a kid, but I know lots who have, and they are having a hard time with two incomes. They don’t even want to imagine that they’d have to do it with half the money coming in.

Another thing I hate is injustice. It makes me mad to see good things happening to bad people, and I go through the visions of meting out justice to the offenders, with a swift harshness seen only in Turkish prisons and mob movies. You drive like a prick, a huge guy pulls you over and shoves your face through the side window. You do it again, and you lose a hand. This is to be televised on roadside cameras, so that everyone can see what happens when you are an asshole. I bet you’d have a bunch of courteous motherfuckers letting you in every day, and you can be damn sure no one will be illegally parked during rush hour anymore.

Speaking of injustice, I’ve figured out a way to recoup losses in the penal system. Let’s take Paul Bernardo for instance. We know without a doubt that the sick bastard is guilty as hell. You know, with the video evidence and all that. Are you ready for this? Auction off beatings on the dirty scumbag. I know I’d kick in a hundred or so to the French and Mahaffy families to beat that douche to within an inch of his life. You’d need a doctor there to make sure he didn’t die, and to get him healed up for next months lambasting by the highest bidder. I know you’d make a bit off of the auctions, but can you imagine the television rights? Oh yeah, people would need to see that, but mostly just to scare the shit out of them. We all know that God isn’t scaring people anymore, so someone has to, and we might as well pay for the prisons somehow other than our taxes. I know this all sounds brutal, and it is, but I think it would work, and even if it didn’t, I’d like to see that perverted fuck get a little payback for the torture and grief that him and his twisted deviant wife have caused so many people. I hope that she gets it the same way she gave it, except twice as hard and twice as often.

Jesus, have you had enough yet? I don’t know where this anger came from all of a sudden, but there it is, and I don’t want to take it back. I am a firm believer in corporal punishment, if it is proven without a shadow of a doubt. Do you wish I had said that people on welfare should be beaten if they have kids? That would be funny to say, but only because of the absurdity of it. Instead, I think that chemical castration and tube tying after the first one, or after a year of being a lazy leech. I again want to stress that this does not apply to all people on social assistance, but we all know that there are some that abuse the system, and they know who they are. I guess they are probably not reading this blog, so if you know such a fiend, print this post and stick it to their door with a Rambo knife, like in roadhouse when he stuck it to the gas pedal. Try to avoid ripping their throat out though. There’s no need to get all crazy and shit like Patrick Swayze before he died from smoking. Apparently he was really bad ass as a fighter, so it’s a good thing that not too many people put Baby in a corner.

Give your body to science,

Birdman

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Oct 12

The Circus Was In Town

mindofbirdman

First of all, I want to let you know that I’m probably embellishing this story, so if you know the story, don’t get all pissy because the details are off. I heard it in camp about 8-9 years ago, and we all know that sometimes guys lie. That being said, I’ll tell you about Mumbles, his son-in-law (we’ll call him Cletus) and the fucking circus, because Dennis reminded me of it today, and it’s pretty funny.

Mumbles was an operator with us a long time ago, and I don’t know if he’s still around or not. I didn’t know him very well, maybe rode to work with him a few times, or saw him at dinner here and there, but you wouldn’t say we were buddies. I think the only reason I remember him is because of this story and the fact that his nickname was Mumbles. I am not going to explain how Mumbles got his name, and if you need me to, I want you to walk out your front door, find the first person you see, and ask them to kick your ass until you cry.

Doot doot doody doo do, doot doot doody doo do....

Doot doot doody doo do, doot doot doody doo do….

Anyhow, Mumbles’ daughter was with a real asshat, who wanted to borrow some money for a vehicle or a house payment or something like that. I don’t even remember the exact amount, but $2000 seems to stick in my mind. So Mumbles got out of camp and lent this dude the money, thinking it was going to help his daughter out of a jam, even though he was less than excited about her choice of men.

When he heads back to work, Mumbles finds out that his idiot son-in-law took his daughter to the circus while it was in the area. A LOT. It seems that they spent all of the money that he lent them, minus $200, going to the bloody circus.

How the fuck do you do that? It’s a goddam circus for Christ’s sake. (Sorry for the taking of the names in vain.(not really)) I find it hard to believe that two people could spend $180 at six circuses, let alone $1800 for however many they went to. (I’m guessing three). Are they twelve year old kids in the 1920’s?  Two crazy kids, falling in love with the romantic, nomad life of the circus, losing their money in a con game played by a one-eyed roustabout who promised he would let them run away with the rest of the filthy transients. Perhaps they paid a lion tamer’s assistant to have a three-way while he dressed up as a clown, or maybe the handler got the elephant to give him some sort of trunk job. How else could you blow a large wad of dough at a circus? The possibilities are truly endless if you ask me.

How the hell could you be sad at a time like this, Mr. GreenFingers?

I can’t say whether or not Mumbles really knocked Cletus out to get the two hundred bucks back from him, but I want to believe he did.  I like to think he was whistling that old, familiar circus tune while he did it.

“Doot doot dootle ootle, doot doot dootle, doot dootleootle, doot dootleootle…”

Kick that dumb bastard once for all of us Mumbles.

 

Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys,

Birdman

Oct 06

Therapy Thursdays #1

newtherapythursday

Dear Birdman,

I hear you are an expert when it comes to controlling problem wildlife. I have troubles with raccoons getting into everything year after year and was wondering if you had any advice on how to keep them away?

Frank

First off, can’t you come up with a decent name like they do in the professional advice columns? Something like Rabidly Hating Raccoons, or Not Cool With Coons? Whatever. Just because I have no experience at this, doesn’t mean that I’m cheap and don’t deserve to be treated with advice columnist respect.

Now I don’t claim to be an expert in anything, but I do know that you must be a simpleton if you are trying to keep raccoons away. They are fucking delicious. My advice is to get a weapon of some sort and what I do is throw some rotting chicken or other meat out in the garbage and wait for the little bastards to try and open it. That’s when they taste my stout club,(but you can use whatever) right behind the ear. Another way I’ve heard of is to live trap and drown them, but I won’t trade a speedy kill for extra tender meat, especially if I have to look into those big brown eyes as I slowly lower them into the rain barrel. That’s just inhumane. Some of the neighbours get pissed off with the noise, what with the screaming and flailing if they don’t die right away, but I just send over a small pot of this delicious stew and that usually keeps them quiet for a while.

Raccoon Stew

~ 1 raccoon, cleaned, skinned and quartered
~ pepper
~ 4 cups water
~ 2 carrots, diced
~ 1 stalk celery, diced
~ 2 large potatoes, cubed
~ salt

In a large pot, place the meat and cover with water. Bring to a boil and cook for 1 hour.
Remove meat and allow to cool. Discard water.Remove meat from bones and cut into 1” – 2” cubes. Sprinkle with pepper.Add meat back to pot and add water, carrots, celery and potatoes. Season to taste with salt.Bring to a boil, reduce heat and cook until veggies are tender. Adjust seasoning if needed.Serve and enjoy.

Love thy neighbour… if they’re hot,

Birdman

P.S. Please send all questions to birdman@changethetopic.com. They will all be posted on the following Thursday. If you don’t send any, then I will be forced to invent shit, and you won’t like it.

Oct 04

What…Yo Mamma Never Made You Do Dishes?

Sometimes the Bird has a rough day, and doesn’t have the three hours he needs to create a blogging masterpiece. (He types like a little girl.)

Enter Mrs. Birdman. Or, for now, Mrs. Birdman-to-be. 🙂

My sweet baby has had a long day of being over extended and under-appreciated (imho). I’m here to take a bit of the blogging off his hands, so you fine people will still have some lovely tripe to read on the morrow.

I have to tell y’all, that life around the Bird’s Nest is usually pretty sweet. There are the extended dance parties, the kitchen-window-makeout sessions, and the moments of pure, sweet, total love and adoration. Of course, to counter all of the rainbows and lollipops, there is also the never-ending pile of crap that ends up on the floor, counters, couch, tables and every other possible surface we own.

YOUR turn to do the dishes, asshat.

Let me start off by saying that I love my man, and there isn’t another like him in all the land. He is sweet, kind, romantic, thoughtful, affectionate, honest, loyal, hard-working AND he’s an amazing step-dad already. However, he does have one flaw: He is a total slob.

I realize that I am far from perfect myself. God knows I won’t be winning any awards for housekeeping or decorating, but I do have a tolerance level for mess that is way, way, WAY lower than the Birdman’s. I do believe that we could have piles of fermenting food in the sink that would be left to their own devices, to percolate to fruition and possibly create the cure for cancer, before my beloved would decide there was a need for some soapy water and a cloth. Even then, I suspect it might be a well-meaning relative or neighbour calling in the Haz-Mat Team to forcibly remove the offending science experiment for the good of public safety.

Over the weekend, I went into one of my famous Mess Meltdowns. This is generally preceded by a busy weekend in which my children take full advantage of the fun and enjoyment we create for them, whilst doing nothing to tamp down the urban spread of dirt that they blow through the house. At the conclusion of said weekend, I looked around the wreckage of our happy home, and began to unravel. I started in on a Mom Crusade that would end with the children voluntarily cleaning their rooms (and their closets) and my beloved scrambling to push some dirt around while smiling nervously at me, hoping this state of hysteria would soon pass.

Stand back kids…Mommy

In the end, the room that got the brunt of the cleaning cyclone was the bedroom. The state of disaster in that area was at Defcon 1. By the time I was finished, the hanging closet had been reassembled, the piles of debris had been removed, and no less than 4 loads of laundry had been evacuated from the disaster area. Some of the items recovered from the destruction zone: A book I forgot I borrowed (sorry Jennifer!), enough change to buy coffee for two weeks (score!), at least 4 pairs of long-lost earrings and some other items that really should remain nameless.

I am proud to say that we are now sleeping in a room that resembles a bedroom, even if it is still a den of iniquity. You can tidy up the Birdman’s bedroom, but you can never get all of the dirty out. *WINK*

Hold me closer, Tony Danza,

Mrs. Birdman

Oct 02

Contrary to what I’ve said, sometimes drinking is not cool

I thought that being a day of rest, I’d just tell a story about when I lived in Hudson’s Hope, BC (I suggest you Google that shit, if you don’t already know about it). I ended up there after I had become newly single, and really wanted nothing to do with women ever again. It’s a gorgeous little mountain town at the start of the Peace River, and home of the W.A.C. Bennett and Peace Canyon Dams. My friend Aaron lives in HH, and he and his wife are raising a beautiful family there. I had originally agreed to house and dog sit for them one spring when they went on vacation, because I couldn’t have dogs in the apartment and I was done work for the winter, so what the hell.

While I was there I ended up getting a job, making some great friends and almost getting my ass killed. I liked it a lot and I stayed until the snow flew, not that that means much when you’re in the mountains. When I got there in April I stayed with Aaron and Lannie for a bit, rented a trailer with a guy from work, lived in an old camper that I had bought for a grand and eventually moved in with a great couple that I rented a room from.  I mostly ate at Freddy’s Deli, On The Rim or Julie’s cafe, but I don’t think she has it anymore. It’s too bad, because she had superb home cooked soups, sandwiches and a great selection of unique drinks. The town is full of very talented people that make some really cool things. Jim Todd crafted some of the nicest longbows I’ve ever seen or drawn. The farmer’s market was full of home baking, fruits and veggies, honey, soap and crafts, all of which are made by local people. Truly worth jogging off the beaten path if you are traveling up the Alaska or Hart Highways.

Now onto a completely pointless drinking story… I believe it was around the first part of May that Aaron and I had eaten a meal of makeshift, homemade Chinese food, that we didn’t have the proper ingredients for. We then headed over to a buddy’s cabin for a visit with a bottle of vodka, a jug of Clamato and all the trimmings. It was your average visit, five guys sitting around drinking, smacking golf balls into the river, throwing sticks to the dog, eventually building a fire, and by around midnight we were riding the dirt bike with no headlight up and down the road. Don’t worry, it was safe, the headlights of oncoming cars gave us enough illumination to get over on the shoulder and out of harm’s way. My belly was starting to feel that I shouldn’t drink anymore, but I’m not one for wasting, so I finished my last caeser and climbed into the truck. I should mention that at this point in my life, I was not a huge drinker. This was the first time I’d been drunk in probably seven or eight years.

The reason for my not drinking much was a night out with Aaron several years earlier, after a good stint in camp. I either overindulged in the whiskey and tequila that night or someone slipped me some sort of pill that turned me into a complete asshole. Apparently I decided it was up to me to defend the slutty waitress’ honour, seeing as it was her night off and I think she was letting us do shots out of her tits. Good reason to walk around trying to fight the old perverts (like I was any different) that were grabbing her ass, right?  I guess I then got in a cab and not only puked all over the roof, but the interior as well.  I’m assuming he took me home because when the phone rang the next morning, I found it next to me on the bed, you know, right next to the pile of puke near the pillow.

I answered the phone, and it was my friend from work that had booked me a chiropractor appointment for that day. He wondered why I didn’t show up to my eleven o’clock session and was letting me know that they would see me if I went there now. I found my glasses in the aforementioned pile, rinsed them off, assessed the damage from when I obviously tore my shelving unit down and called a cab. I had to catch a plane later to go home for Christmas, so I needed to get my back fixed up now. Of course it was the same cabbie that took me home the night before, and he was quite surprised that I was still alive. He wasn’t too pissed off because I had given him a hundred bucks to clean up the cab and drive me home.

By the time we hit the third chiropractor office, we had found the right one. I went in, paid the receptionist and went to the washroom because I was feeling a little green. When I woke up, she was banging on the door to see if I was ok, I had no shirt on and there was a trail of bile leading from my head to the toilet. I don’t remember stripping down, but the tile floor was so nice and cool that I wished I had taken my pants off as well. I didn’t want to get up, but I knew they were waiting for me so they could close the shop up for the holidays. When the bone cracker saw me he wasn’t going to work on me because I guess I looked as bad as I felt, but after some persuasion, he fixed me up. A couple more dry-heaves and I started to walk home.

Ok, what the hell was I talking about before? Oh right, I was drinking caesers and I got dropped off at the house. I stepped onto the sidewalk, walked three steps and barfed a spray of red chicken balls out into the night as Aaron drove away, neither of us suspecting that what would happen the next day would change our outlook on life.

I hope you mofos like cliffhangers,

Birdman

Find Part 2 here.