I am Going to Kill and Devour the Easter Bunny

Lately I've been really pumped about eating meat for some reason. Every night I'm out on the back deck, grilling either chicken legs, pork chops, or steaks so big I can't fit any other items on the plate!

Earlier this evening, around dusk, I was tending to the dozen drumsticks I had on the barbeque when a shadow caught my eye -- a rabbit, about ten or twelve feet away! It was brown and, I thought, surprisingly plump for this time of year. It must have done a good job storing up fat in the fall. Anyway, there it was, on the remaining crusts of snow, looking for bits of plant life to nibble on before heading back to the warren. My hunter instincts kicked in. He looked like a good meal! Lucky for him, I already had one on the go.

I decided that I want to hunt or trap me some rabbit! I like killing animals for sport and I enjoy the taste of flesh, so it makes sense to do this! Alternatively, I suppose I could just go to the pet store and pick up a tame little meal... but no, there'd be no sport in that. And that's another thing: learning to prepare and cook these critters is great survival training! If I ever got lost in the woods, it'd be a rabbit buffet!

Don Knotts (1924 - 2006)

Some sad news today.

Actor Don Knotts, best known for his role as Deputy Barney Fife on "The Andy Griffith Show," died of pulmonary and respiratory complications at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills, California. He was 81.

On a lighter note, today I will be scratching Don Knotts' name from my celibrity death list!


Click Image to see an even bigger Image of the same Image

Here is a link to when I first talked about the Death List: LINK

In the past year I have predicted the deaths of two other well-known figures: The Tonight Show's Johnny Carson and Catholicism's Pope John Paul II. With three of the twenty names on the list now deceased, that equates to a 15% accuracy rate. Sure, most of the people on the list are old, and given enough time, I will have a 100% accuracy rate -- but 15% of the list in under a year? That's pretty impressive -- in a... morbid kind of way.

I have a feeling Andy Griffith will be the next to go. After seeing his former co-star die, he'll begin to question is own mortality. He'll stop taking "unecessary risks," become a shut-in, do one final interview for Larry King one night and then croak.

Kirk Douglas? Dude was born in 1916! He can't have much of a shelf life left. Ernest Borgnine has got to be declining, too. He was born in 1917 and I read in his biography that he was involved in an "air crash" in 1996, and that he had both his knees replaced in 1999. Hugh Downs, number eleven on the list, also had his knees replaced some years back. His time is near.

But it's kind of sad to cross off Don Knotts. He seemed like a friendly guy. If Bob Barker, Larry King or Dick Cheney had died (numbers 7, 17 and 19), I wouldn't have cared in the slightest. They seem mean. But Knotts seemed really good natured. I should have included a space for Dick Cheney's hunting pals, though. Ha. But I guess most of them wouldn't be celebrities.

I WORK WITH RETARDS

When I began the two-week training period for my current (sucky) job some months back, the sight of my soon-to-be-co-workers depressed the hell out of me. There I was, in a room with a bunch of computers, whiteboards and -- well, people that looked like they had been rounded up at a bus stop... near a mental hospital... in a bad part of town. (Come to think of it, is a mental hospital ever located in a good part of town? Real Estate Agent: "You'll be just two blocks from the grocery store and three blocks from the bank. You've got a public school down the road, and conveniently, that's a mental hospital right next door! Don't worry, the screams quiet down at night.")

We had all been hired to work at a call center. I had never worked at one before, but I was relieved to learn that I wouldn't be making outbound calls. Everybody hates those people, who call you at dinner. No, we'd be receiving calls as customer service agents.

Anyway, I could immediately tell that one trainee in particular was going to be very annoying. At around three-hundred pounds, she was hard to miss. She was your typical trailer trash type and would use words like, "yous" and "aint." "Yous gonna eat that? You aint?!" *Scarf scarf!*

We'll call her Shyanne.

She really made me laugh a couple of times, though. No, I didn't talk to her and discover she had a heart of gold and a great sense of humour --- she just said some things that were fucking retarded.

When Rick, one of the managers, came in and gave the class a little introductory presentation, Shyanne would not shut up. She would keep interrupting, saying things like, "I'm gonna work real hard and get to the top, cause that's what I'm like in life. If there's something I want, I just go for it. I aint no quitter!" Rick was clearly annoyed, but he didn't lose his focus. I guess he was used to dimwits. Walking to the white board, he began drawing a patronizing little pyramid to illustrate "how the call center worked."

"You guys," he began, "are right up here at the top!" His marker squeaked as he underlined the top section of the diagram. "Without you, this organization cannot function. My job? Frankly, guys, I'm an expense. They pay me a salary to ensure that things operate smoothly, but without you guys... (Pausing for effect) I don't have a job. So you're right here at the top of the food chain. Me? The other managers? Down here." Squeak- squeak.

This proved to be a little too confusing for Shyanne, who raise her flabby arm in the air. Rick took a slow sip from his Starbucks cup, staring at her. Gulp. "Question?"

"Uhh, yeah. Like I said, I aint no quitter, and I want to get to the top. But... according to you're diagram there, we're... already at the top. So to get ahead, I'm going to have to work my way down?"

Dead silence. Well, except for my suppressed laughter.

Another idiotic comment of hers came a few days later, when Rick interrupted the class to give a talk on inappropriate office behaviour. He went though the whole gamut: sexual harassment, religious sensitivity, racism, proper attire, avoiding strong scents -- you name it. After a lengthy Q and A from a few stupid homies (yes, they actually wore their thugged out clothing) regarding what comments they could make about a girl without it being "sexual harassment" (and an ensuing discussion regarding the assertion that Rick was "trippin'"), the topic moved towards what we'd actually be doing on the phones.

Shyanne was once again concerned, because at her "old job," it was mandatory for the agents to try and actively "up-sell" the caller to better services, and also to show them that they were valued customers by making price concessions whenever possible. She asked Rick if we'd be doing any of that.

"You'll be happy to know, Shyanne, that up-selling is not required here. Also, because we are contracted out by a parent company, we don't have the authority to negotiate pricing."

Shyanne thought a moment. "Okay, but what if a customer is really trying to Jew you down, though?"

Ha ha ha. Wow!

After over an hour of sensitivity training, the dumb bitch hurls a racial slur at the guy who undoubtedly fires people for much less. Remarkably, he pretended as though he didn't hear it.

When I saw her later on I sarcastically commented, "Nice job with the 'Jew you down' comment to the head of the HR department!" She must have understood my tone.

"Oh, to 'Jew someone down' just means that you want to get a lower price on something, that's all."

It was actually pretty sad she didn't know that it related to the stereotype about Jews being cheap, so I quickly explained it to her. She didn't believe me. So I explained it again... a little more slowly. She said she understood, but I don't think she did.

It's no surprise, but she was fired a few weeks ago. She called in sick a lot; greased up her computer keyboard with fatty foods while she was at work; was "less than eloquent" when talking to clients. An all-around worthless human being.

Smoking

It all began in 2001, on a school art trip to New York City. Our class was staying at a hotel in New Jersey, and a few of us decided to take advantage of the cigarette vending machines. Camel Lights. Soft packs.

I was 18 at the time - the minimum age to buy cigarettes in the U.S. In Canada -- Ontario, at least -- the age is 19. So in a way, buying cigarettes in the hotel lobby was a kind of rebellious; something I could get away with there, but not at home. But I also found it interesting to see how accepted smoking still was in the States. I hadn't seen a cigarette vending machine in Ontario in over a decade! Yet in New Jersey, they were wedged in between the Coke and candy machines.

In Canada at the time, the law dictated -- again, in Ontario, at least -- that cigarette manufacturers section off at least one third of the exterior packaging on their tobacco products for health warnings to the consumer. In bold, white letters on a black background, the packages read, Smoking will kill you! and, Cigarettes cause lung cancer! Since then, the writing has been replaced by graphic pictures of yellow teeth, blackened lungs and various statistics. Oh, and now these warnings have to cover half the package!

In the U.S., these warnings didn't exist. Instead, their packages had stickers you could peel away to reveal smoker points, which you could mail in for fashionable smoker-wear and other prizes. So in a weird way, I guess I kind of convinced myself that smoking didn't pose a threat in the U.S.

When I got back home, I still had my pack of Camels, which I brought to the fast food place I worked at. It was then that I gained an appreciation for the post-shift wind down with co-workers. Still, the smoking remained pretty casual.

A few months later, I was off to University, where I arrived a "non-smoker." (That's what my residence application said, anyway.) And to be fair, I didn't smoke for a month or two after arriving. But soon, the porch, which my room had the luxury of being closest to, became a frequent hangout on those crisp fall evenings, where I would often break for a DuMaurier with the people from my floor. Soon afterwards, though, the "breaks" included smoking while walking between classes... mid-class intermissions... the walk back from class. Et cetera. Before long, I had made friends who were smokers, which of course led to more smoking.

Add another summer of fast food smoke breaks, and another school year of smoking between classes and sometimes on the porch of the place I lived. In third year, I stopped. Same thing for almost all of my fourth year.

But now, after having worked at a job where cigarette breaks seem almost necessary for the past six months, it is the first time I have stepped away from the on-again, off-again "casual smoking" and become a genuine smoker. Not very heavy, but definitely consistent. And I've decided I don't want to be on this path. So I'm quitting. I don't want to associate with cigarettes anymore. For the past few days I haven't had one, and that's how it's going to be from now on. Cold turkey. I basically had one nerve-wracking day where I really wanted one, and I caved and bummed a couple from people at work. But since then, I've developed a cold, and with my system all clogged with phlegm, the last thing I want right now is to smoke.

What I plan on doing is replacing the cigarettes with the odd cigar. With spring a few weeks away, the barbeque will be fired up just about every night, and a weekly post-meal cigar would be okay by me. It's a lot more civilized and celebratory, anyway. Another masculine hobby that will go well with the straight razors.

My Cat Steve's Testicles

I recently had to take Steve (my cat) to the vet, because when male cats reach about six months of age, they start thinking nasty thoughts and want to urinate on everything. He hadn't done any of that stuff yet, but because I agreed to the conditions the Humane Society outlined when I got him, even though he spent his first months with me purring and being an all-around good cat, I was having him neutered. A cruel punishment, but not all that unusual -- yet, anyway.

Before the castration, I had to get him up to date with his vaccinations. Apparently I had skipped on a rabies shot or two since I got him, and they aren't fond of bringing "stray cats," as the vet called Steve (I almost clocked him), into their facility.

After the Doctor had finished giving Steve his needles, a nurse came in to arrange an appointment for his emasculating operation. I had already been on the internet looking at the procedure by this point, so I just asked a follow-up question or two, just to make sure that what they planned to do was the same. At some point during her description of the operation, she said, "So when we remove the testicles, we..."

I stopped her.

"Wait, wait, you remove them?"

"Yes, we take them out."

"Oh... I was researching this, and on several of the sites I went to, they just tied a couple of knots in the cat's tubes and then sewed him back up without removing them."

She just shrugged. "Well, we take 'em."

I had only had a female cat before Steve, and she was fixed before we got her, so the whole neutering thing was new to me. But after my research, where I really did read a thing or two about them leaving the cat's testicles inside, vasectomy style, I didn't feel so bad about taking Steve to have it done. I mean, cutting a few wires is one thing, but taking his power station!? No, I had some reservations about that idea.

After taking Steve home and thinking about it a while, I decided that I wasn't going to let those monsters steal his mojo. Sure, I'd let them go through with the surgery, but there was no way they were going to throw the essence of my cat's masculinity in the trash!

Two weeks later, the day of Steve's operation arrived. I caged him up and took him in...with one additional piece of cargo.

I walked to the receptionist, introduced Steve and myself and told her why we were there. Then I asked her a couple of unusual questions.

"So, what do you typically do with the... extractions?"

"...the testicles?" she replied.

"Yes, the--testicles."

"Throw them in garbage...?"

"I see... I see. Would you mind... holding on to them for me?"

"You want us to...keep the testicles for you?"

"That's correct."

"Well, I... guess we could. I can't say we've ever had this request before."

"Great!"

I then pulled out the sanitary-looking spice jar I filled with alcohol and had knotted inside a plastic bag. "Just drop them in there!." I then added, "So, you don't anticipate there will be any problem, do you?"

"Well, like I said, we've never had this kind of request before, but I don't think there will be a problem."

At that point, some other receptionist started trying to put doubts in my head, saying stuff like, "Well, because it's an actual body part and not a tooth or, some sort of bone growth, there may be some legal issues about us giving these to you. I too had wondered if there would be any ethical or legal complications, but I somehow doubted this woman was too high on the totem pole, and was skeptical of what she was saying. When a bearded doctor stuck his head out and barked for her to get some coffee going, I totally disregarded what she had said.

Still, I wasn't too confident when I left the Animal Hospital that they'd go through with the plan.

It was early in the morning and I had to go to work. I borrowed my brother's cell phone and left the number with the hospital so they could call and inform me when Steve got out of surgery.
It was a long wait. Finally, the call came.

It was the nurse who had told me two weeks before that they remove the balls. She started telling me how everything went okay, and that Steve was "recovering nicely." In my mind, though, I was thinking, "Yes, yes, but what about the balls -- the balls?!"

"And we kept the testicles for you!" she added. "We put them in the jar you brought us."

"You did?! Fantastic! What do they look like?"

"Well, they're kind of...pink in colour."

"Pink? Really? Wow!" Did they float or sink?"

"They sank to the bottom of the jar."

"Neat! I thought they'd float."

"Nope. They sank."

"Cool!"

So that, my friends, is how Steve, despite being initially told otherwise, was able to keep his balls even though he was neutered. One of the doctors even said to me, "You know, in thirty years of practice, I have never heard the request you made today."

Amazingly, though, the nurse who brought me both Steve and his balls confessed that she had kept her cat's testicles in a jar when she had him neutered! I couldn't believe it. But still, I thought it was pretty neat.

"Eat this pinecone -- It will amuse me."

Some guy from Mastercard called me the other day, trying to get my business. It was one of those dinner hour calls that would normally tick me off, but because I had been drinking, I let the guy read his script. The deal was 1.9% interest rate for the first year. After that time, it would jump to twenty-some percent, like most cards. I didn't even entertain the idea of getting the card at the time, but in retrospect, that's a pretty small percentage. I'm sure there are loads of people who abuse that 1.9% like a college student who has been given an extension on an essay they never intended to hand in on time, anyway. I was that kind of student, but I'm not that kind of citizen. Handing in late papers still got me a diploma, but skipping on credit card payments is only going to keep me from renting apartments or test-driving cars. So anyway, it was either hang up the phone immediately, or toy with the representative a bit. I decided I would make it my mission to keep him on the line as long as possible.

My first strategy was to ask questions. One of the things he mentioned about the card was that it had price protection, so if I was ever charged more than what was necessary, I would be able to contact the company and have them credit my account. So I asked him, trying to sound somewhat normal, "If I were to buy a shotgun worth four-hundred dollars, but then found it somewhere else for one-hundred dollars, you would credit me three-hundred dollars?"

"That is correct, sir. If you were to buy a... shotgun at a certain price and then find the same item somewhere else for less, we would protect your purcase."

"For shotguns?"

"Yes, absolutely, sir -- for any item, in fact."

"Oh, good... good. Now, would it have to be the same guage, or could I replace any shotgun with a cheaper shotgun I found?"

"Well, sir, it would have to be the exact same shotgun."

"I see... I see. Gotta love shotguns!"

"...Eh, yes, sir."

Then I spent a good ten minutes upping the crazyness, babbling about other credit cards the poor guy had nothing to do with. "Now what about Discover card!? I heard that's a damn fine card!" He was patient and said, "Yes, sir, I believe it is, but unfortunately, that's only available to people in the United States."

"How many shotguns do you think I could get with a Discover card if I were an American?"

"..."

I think I spent another few minutes asking him about the benefits of traveller's cheques, too.

"Yes, those are definitely an option, sir."

After half an hour of this nonsense, he either realized I was deliberately messing with him and had no desire to get the card, or he had some sort of limit his calls had to be kept under, because he was desperate to hang up. He just interrupted my talking and said, "Okay, sir, I thank you for your time, and I hope you have a nice night."

I like Sharp Objects

I'm listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and I just finished changing the blade in my folding Mastercraft utility knife. The old one had bits of orange rust on it. It uses the the triangular type blades. They're not exactly triangles, actually. In fact, I know there's a specific name for their shape, but it's been a while since I've been in a geomatry class.

"Pay attention, dammit! Years from now, when someone asks you what shape a particular razor blade is, you may not know the answer!"

Speaking of blades, the straight razor shaving has been on hold for the last little while. I have to get a sharpening stone. It was weird, because when I went back to the conventional razor after weeks of not touching one, I kind of forgot how to use it. Then I realized, "Shit, this is like going from a Formula 1 racing to the Go-Kart track." If I had any "method" of shaving with the safety razor before, it went totally out the window. The straight razor is like the medicine ball of male grooming, because it makes safety razors seem so much easier by contrast.

So yesterday I was biing to work and a young Asian woman was driving her car in front of me at a pace slower than my own. The street was a super wide one, too, and yet she was totally hugging the right hand side, preventing me from getting by her.

She finally reached a four-way stop and showed no sign that she was going to move, the idiot. So just as I'm about to go around on the left, another car pulls up on that side, forcing me to make a tight squeeze between them. As I guided my bike on through, the old man in that car rapidly honked his fucking horn at me! (Or the woman in the other car, I'm not sure.) Whatever his intention, it was alarming and very unecessary. So I zip through the intersection ahead of the two cars and look over my shoulder to see the old fuck coming up alongside me again. With his window down he leans over and barks something under the noise of the engine. He gestures with his hands like someone telling a "I caught a fish this big" story. Again, I'm not sure if he's angry at something I did (nothing!) or the bitch in the car. But I'm really annoyed, so I lean over and scream "FUCCCCCKKKK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!" right in his wrinkled face. Haw haw haw!! Judging by his expression and the pace at which he took off, he filled his diaper.

Earlier this evening I grilled up some sausage-like hotdog things and put them on some buns that were a few days old, but lacking mold. I was hungry and eagerly bit into one of them, which I dressed with ketchup and mustard. It tasted weird. "The bun or the meat?" I wondered. I then fished the discarded wrapper out of the trash and saw that the dogs were a little over three weeks past their best before date. Luckily there were some mini-pizzas that tasted like cardboard in the freezer. I burned my fucking lip on a piece of pepperoni that slid off and stuck like napalm. Tomorrow I'm going to get some real food. And notebooks. And WD-40 for my sqawking bike chain. And the Pilot Pens I like. And a Doc Watson record. And some Jameson whiskey for my flask. And I'll look into the sharpening stone thing, but that's not really a priority. I think I'm going to get a fire extinguisher too. I stole one of them years ago. It's fun to shoot 'em in the open air on a calm night, 'cause it's like a cloud machine.

Now it's the Beatles I'm listening to.

At an old job my boss said he didn't like The Beatles. How can you not like the Beatles? Seriously...? He told me the Stones were better, and I was like, "Are you on crack? They're good and all, but they're nothing compared to the Beatles." Then he made a point of asking all the employees that walked by, "The Beatles or the Stones?" and dammit, the ignorant little shits all said The Stones, obviously picking up on the boss's preference. So I was like, "Name one Stones' album" -- and they couldn't, of course.

I Like Sharp Objects

I'm listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and I just finished changing the blade in my folding Mastercraft utility knife. The old one had bits of orange rust on it. It uses the the triangular type blades. They're not exactly triangles, actually. In fact, I know there's a specific name for their shape, but it's been a while since I've been in a geomatry class.

"Pay attention, dammit! Years from now, when someone asks you what shape a particular razor blade is, you may not know the answer!"

Speaking of blades, the straight razor shaving has been on hold for the last little while. I have to get a sharpening stone. It was weird, because when I went back to the conventional razor after weeks of not touching one, I kind of forgot how to use it. Then I realized, "Shit, this is like going from a Formula 1 racing to the Go-Kart track." If I had any "method" of shaving with the safety razor before, it went totally out the window. The straight razor is like the medicine ball of male grooming, because it makes safety razors seem so much easier by contrast.

So yesterday I was biing to work and a young Asian woman was driving her car in front of me at a pace slower than my own. The street was a super wide one, too, and yet she was totally hugging the right hand side, preventing me from getting by her.

She finally reached a four-way stop and showed no sign that she was going to move, the idiot. So just as I'm about to go around on the left, another car pulls up on that side, forcing me to make a tight squeeze between them. As I guided my bike on through, the old man in that car rapidly honked his fucking horn at me! (Or the woman in the other car, I'm not sure.) Whatever his intention, it was alarming and very unecessary. So I zip through the intersection ahead of the two cars and look over my shoulder to see the old fuck coming up alongside me again. With his window down he leans over and barks something under the noise of the engine. He gestures with his hands like someone telling a "I caught a fish this big" story. Again, I'm not sure if he's angry at something I did (nothing!) or the bitch in the car. But I'm really annoyed, so I lean over and scream "FUCCCCCKKKK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!" right in his wrinkled face. Haw haw haw!! Judging by his expression and the pace at which he took off, he filled his diaper.

Earlier this evening I grilled up some sausage-like hotdog things and put them on some buns that were a few days old, but lacking mold. I was hungry and eagerly bit into one of them, which I dressed with ketchup and mustard. It tasted weird. "The bun or the meat?" I wondered. I then fished the discarded wrapper out of the trash and saw that the dogs were a little over three weeks past their best before date. Luckily there were some mini-pizzas that tasted like cardboard in the freezer. I burned my fucking lip on a piece of pepperoni that slid off and stuck like napalm. Tomorrow I'm going to get some real food. And notebooks. And WD-40 for my sqawking bike chain. And the Pilot Pens I like. And a Doc Watson record. And some Jameson whiskey for my flask. And I'll look into the sharpening stone thing, but that's not really a priority. I think I'm going to get a fire extinguisher too. I stole one of them years ago. It's fun to shoot 'em in the open air on a calm night, 'cause it's like a cloud machine.

Now it's the Beatles I'm listening to.

At an old job my boss said he didn't like The Beatles. How can you not like the Beatles? Seriously...? He told me the Stones were better, and I was like, "Are you on crack? They're good and all, but they're nothing compared to the Beatles." Then he made a point of asking all the employees that walked by, "The Beatles or the Stones?" and dammit, the ignorant little shits all said The Stones, obviously picking up on the boss's preference. So I was like, "Name one Stones' album" -- and they couldn't, of course.