Latex condom, I’d sure like to live in one of those

I’m sure somewhere in the blogosphere I wrote about hating the city of Toronto and wanting to avoid it as much as possible if not altogether.

…

In late January, I moved to the city of Toronto.

Yes, I’m a hypocrite.

Gone is that faint train whistle in the distance and the wild turkey sightings. Now I’ve got that fire department station down the street and a regular bus stop at my door step.

Sometimes you have to make decisions in life that aren’t always what you think you’ll make but deep down, you know it’s best for you. Even if it’s weird, and kinda smelly.

The past three Saturdays, I’ve been taking a class downtown. A class that I can get to by walking eleven minutes from my front door and hopping on the subway. I could take the bus from my door step to cut that eleven minutes to three minutes, but what’s eight minutes.

Saturday one, half the subway line was down all weekend for maintenance. Second Saturday, no disruptions but I smooth-talked my way past a ticket taker without paying a fare. I went back and paid my fare because I still feel kinda bad about that time I rode the subway for free because I couldn’t find a ticket taker but could find the subway train itself. Third Saturday, the subway station I walked to was down for technical issues and had to take a shuttle bus to the next stop on the line. On the way back home, I took the bus to save me that eight minutes. Bus driver ignored my stop request and drove right through to the next stop. The time I spent waiting for the bus then walking backwards after getting off the bus took about eleven minutes. Time saved void.

I like being able to walk to a subway station. Now, I can go to all those downtown places without having to feel like it’s a long way to get home. If only I could stay awake past 9:30. But three weeks of trying to take the subway and having to deal with either no service, poor service or whoops it’s free service doesn’t give me a lot of faith in the local public transit.

For the most part, the people are friendly. Well, until they learn about my disdain for the big city, they’re friendly.

 

It’s His Eyes, Not His Hair

I haven’t used this venue to rant too much about the Prime Minister. It’s not that I haven’t been ranting about him, it’s just that I’ve been spending so much time in the car yelling at him, alone, to myself, that I’m all ranted out by the time I get to my desktop.

In the past week or so, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has been going around the nation, making appearances at town halls and public meeting spaces to take questions from real people, not just the Ottawa press gallery. All of this is an attempt to show how well he connects with the average person.

I get it, the media, no matter how much they might lean in favour of him during a campaign, still want to attract eyeballs to the articles, and advertisements. If that means putting up a headline that makes the Prime Minister look less than favourable, the media will do just that. The reporting on this tour of public meetings has been a lot of pointing out the Prime Minister’s flaws as a leader of a nation.

Last week, the Prime Minister was asked a long-winded question about his government’s future implementation of a carbon tax. I heard the long-winded question once and knew that the question being posed was thus “How do you justify implementing a carbon tax (that will raise electricity prices) when electricity prices are already over-inflated?” The Prime Minister’s answer was not as long-winded but showed deliberate signs of obfuscation and “passing the buck” onto somebody else. I will paraphrase the Prime Minister: “Don’t blame me, the carbon tax hasn’t taken effect yet and electricity rates are a provincial (Ontario) matter, not a federal one.”

Prime Minister Trudeau, all Ontarians are Canadians, so what matters to them, should matter to you. And once the federal government starts taxing provincial services, those services become relevant to the federal government. Think about it this way, a federal law that effects the whole nation may affect each province differently. That needs to be considered before enacting a law. The question being asked was being asked at the right time; before the law takes full effect. Thus giving the lawmakers the opportunity to see the err in judgement that was made in Parliament.

The Prime Minister is very aware of Canada’s bilingual nature. Most of the nation speaks English, a significant minority speaks French only. Prime Minister Trudeau is fluent in both languages. At a recent appearance, the Prime Minister spoke only in French, even when asked questions in English. At an earlier appearance, the Prime Minister spoke entirely in English, even when asked a question in French. Yet again, the Prime Minister found a way to put his foot in his mouth and prove to the country, he doesn’t get it. In the French-only appearance, Prime Minister Trudeau was asked, in English, a question about receiving English language services (and the lack there of) in Quebec, he answered in French.

When asked a question about the lack of English language services being provided by the government, don’t answer the question in French.

I’m convinced that no matter how much the Prime Minister reinforces the notion that he’s an inept leader, it will not effect the next election and it will not effect his ability to pass laws in Parliament. Prime Minister Trudeau’s greatest asset is his appearance and his party’s ability to run a successful campaign. It’s often been said he has great hair, I disagree. It think it’s his eyes. He has those “I’m so sensitive, I’m listening to you” eyes. He’s got Ray Liotta eyes. I understand that voting for a guy because he’s pretty is stupid but stupidity is not a disqualification for voting rights. To drive a car legally, at least in this province, you have to pass three tests. To vote, provided you were born in this country, all you have to do is not die in your first eighteen years. For crying out loud, some convicts have voting rights in this country.

Blatantly Moronic Statement

Five years ago I penned a post in this blog about why living in Canada sucks balls. It can be read here: here, eh

Somebody recently commented on that post. Something about how my post was a “blatantly moronic statement.”

It’s been a while since a random comment on my blog inspired a new post.

Thanks Yonk.

Loyal reader of wigsf3.wordpress.com, “blatantly moronic statement” really sums up this website, don’t it?

If only Yonk could read that now-deleted post about ugly boobs with the stick-person drawings of ugly boobs. Moronic statements with pictures.

I like to think I put effort into this level of moronicity. Yonk, if you’re actually reading this. I’m not being sarcastic. I truly believe I am a moron, a glorious moron. That’s a 3 on the moronicity scale.

The Official wigsf3 Moronicity Scale

1 – The Oblivious Moron – They’re morons, don’t realize they’re morons and go on through life never knowing they’re morons. Most likely to die by blindly following a GPS sat-nav into a lake or off a cliff.

2 – The Trying Moron – God bless ’em, they just can’t help themselves. They morons. They mean well, but all the book learnin’ and edumacation won’t fix them. They know they’re morons and try not to be but to no avail. Most likely die from a poorly-treated infection caused by a cut on their hand they received while trying to put a nail in a wall from which to hang their diploma proving a university education.

3 – The Glorious Moron – They know they’re morons but instead of trying to swim against the tide, they go with it and try to make the most of it. Most likely to die after going blind watching a Looney Tunes marathon then eating a poisoned sandwich because they couldn’t read the labels, you know, from being blind and all and they dressed their sandwich with toxic chemicals instead of condiments.

4 – The Super Moron – These people have figured out how to live life as morons and succeed at being morons with so much grace and skill that nobody has ever clued into the fact that they’re morons. They’re invincible. They cannot be killed.

I Can See Again

I had been putting it off for years. I got my eyes checked again. I had been wearing the same prescription lens for over fifteen years.

I cannot believe how many ugly people are out there. They everywhere! Just walking around. So much so that I don’t want to wear these new glasses out in public amongst the ugmoes.

When I got home, I turned on my video game system. Wow! High definition video games look pretty sweet. I couldn’t even play for first couple of minutes. I just stopped to look at the screen. It wasn’t blurry at all.

Now I know why children would rather watch video games and ignore real social interaction. Video games are much prettier than the mutant troll people that inhabit this world.

That’s right. You’re all mutant troll people. Go back to living under a bridge and scaring goats!

Ham Night Tangents

What’s the best bit about being a pirate?

Is it the pillaging? Is it the cutlasses?

Well, according to that funny movie called Pirates: Band of Misfits, it’s the ham!

Last night, for the first time, my mother cooked a ham.

It’s just not something Italians eat.

Oh, we eat pigs. Why do you think Christians dropped the whole kosher diet thing in the first century? There was no way the early Christians were going to spread the word to people who eat pork.

“Now I baptize you. You are now a Christian. Go forth and spread the good news and be with Christ… Oh wait, one more thing I forgot to mention. You remember how I told you about how this is a sin and that’s a sin. You said you were cool with the no murdering and the no coveting thing. You remember that right? Well, there’s one more tiny detail. Put down the pork chop. That’s a sin too.”

Yet, amazingly, Italians don’t eat ham all that much. We eat pig pretty much every other way you can imagine. My dad’s fiftieth birthday party, he roasted a pig on a spit. Damn thing took ten hours. And dad, how was the pig? “Worth every minute on the spit!”

If you ever crash a wedding, crash an Italian wedding. You don’t even have to be anywhere near on time. Show up at midnight and watch as they wheel out the midnight porchetta. You’ll have to fight off a half dozen drunken wops to get some, but it’s there and it’s delicious. Okay, a porchetta is basically a pig minus the limbs rolled up like a yule log and sliced into pieces and put in sandwiches with roasted peppers.

So, back to ham night. My mom cooked a ham for the family. She put this orange glaze and pineapple slices on the ham. I could do without the pineapple. I don’t care how sweet and tasty it turns my spooge, I don’t care for the taste of pineapple and I sure as hell am NOT feeding my spooge to people. Nobody wants to eat that. I didn’t really like the orange glaze either. “Hey mom, this ham is really good. I’ll have seconds, but who wants my pineapple. Maybe next time, you try a maple sauce. Maple goes great with pig.”

When the ham was served, my dad, as usual piped up with a complaint based on no facts or information whatsoever. “What is dat? Ham? I don’t eat ham.” He ate leftover chicken from the night before instead.

Don’t be surprised. This is the same guy who hated turkey because when he first came to Canada, somebody gave him a turkey which led him to think turkey was dirt cheap and therefore, shitty food. “Uh, dad. Turkey is more expensive than chicken and it’s leaner too. You know, less fat.”

“Really? I tot turkey was cheap.”

“No, it’s more expensive than chicken. That’s why people wait in line all day long for that one day a year in front of that store downtown for the free turkey. Because it’s expensive and one day a year, that guy who owns Honest Ed’s gives away free turkeys. Hence, why everybody in town loves Honest Ed.”

“So I been avoiding turkey for forty years for no reason?”

“Well, mom’s been cooking turkey forever because she likes it and she lies to you and tells you it’s chicken. And you just eat it.”

“Honey, is dat true?”

“Yes honey. I’ve been paying extra for turkey when I could have been giving you cheap chicken all this time.”

“Really? Okay. Well, let’s go to the grocery store. Get some turkey. I’m hungry.”

Yet he still won’t try the fucking ham.

Minimalization, continued

I put a dumpster (or Trashco waste disposal unit) in my driveway. Then I proceeded to fill it up with garbage and various crap from my basement and backyard and garage. That old broken freezer got chucked. Wasn’t easy, but I got in the dumpster. That old 50″ projection TV set got chucked too.

Sidenote: it’s sad that I live in a world where a functioning 50″ television set is so unwanted that leaving it on the curb with a sign reading “FREE TV” goes unnoticed. Juice has a similar TV. He’s used it longer as a ledge in his garage than as a TV itself.

It turned out that I had so much crap in my house, one dumpster wasn’t enough. I got a second dumpster after filling the first.

Mind you, some stuff was monetized. A patio set that only spent two summers outside was sold. It spent nearly a decade in the garage, but only two summers outside. I also sold my grandparents’ Coca-Cola bottles. They (my grandparents) weren’t collectors. They just knew glass bottles had a longevity. And they would make a year’s worth of tomato sauce every summer. Sure, they could have put the sauce in mason jars (they did that too) but if they had a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, they could drink the soda, then put sauce in the empty bottle. My cellar was half-full of old soda bottles. I had everything. Coca-Cola, Pepsi, Sprite, Royal Crown and all of those Italian-Canadian variations of sodas like Brio and Mio and Pasta-Fajola-Cola. (Mangiacakes are now wondering if that’s a real soda pop or just  a joke that they don’t get. Italian Canadians are now briefly laughing but also thinking “Hmm, yeah that’s a joke, but I would totally drink that.”) For some reason, the only bottles that have a value today are the Coca-Cola. The most common glass pop bottle from days gone by has value but that obscure brand like Pop Shoppe has no value.

I also found some tomato sauce in my cellar. I don’t remember who made that sauce or when. If my grandparents made the sauce, it would be over twenty years old. And that means that I would have moved with that sauce twice. My grandfather died in 1995 and my grandmother never made sauce again. I’m guessing my aunt made the sauce, which would mean that sauce is probably about 15 years old. Either way, I dumped the sauce.

I also chucked most of the Christmas decorations. Seriously. I had two Christmas trees, one of which was 16 feet tall.

If I made a list of all the things that I threw away in the those two dumpsters, the list would be so long it could fill a dumpster itself.

Here’s something scary. My house doesn’t feel less cluttered. It still feels full of stuff. And I’m still giving stuff away. I have these friends who have two boys around 8 or 6 years old or whatever. I’ve been giving them all of my old Transformer toys. I still have a few left. I’m probably going to unload those last few as Christmas presents.

I did throw away the piss chair though.

Oh, the piss chair. You probably want to know how a chair could get a name like that.

I was younger then. I was probably early teens, or just before. So like 12 or something. My family had this orange swiveling office chair. The chair had no arm rests and the back was T-shaped. It was kept in the basement of the house in the room that had my stereo and video games and stuff like that. I was sitting backwards in the chair, you know, cool-style. My legs straddling around the vertical bar that held up the backrest making the T-shape. My brother had a friend over, a guy named Crispy. My brother grabbed my legs and I for some reason started laughing. “Lemme go. I’m gonna piss myself.” I said between chuckles. “Well, if that’s the case, I’m not going to let go.” I kept laughing and repeating my warning. And then I just stopped laughing. My brother immediately noticed the look of calm come over my face. He looked down and saw my pants were now wet. He let go and said “Oh man, you pissed yourself.” I went upstairs, cleaned myself a bit and changed my clothes. I went back into the basement and my brother and myself attempted to clean the chair. Since that day, the chair has been known as the piss chair. Every person attempting to sit in the chair since then has been warned “Hey, that’s the piss chair. I call it that because I pissed on the chair.” Why the chair has been kept for over twenty years is unknown to me. It’s not like I needed a chair or have used that chair since. It’s been a dust collector in my furnace room since I pissed on it. But now it’s gone. Hopefully it’s getting pissed on in that great big trash pile in the sky.

Politics & Medicine

The first big debate between the two leading American Presidential candidates is tonight. Here are my thoughts today.

Hilary Clinton is an unlikable person. I’ve never liked her. She’s got bitchface. That thing millenials have called RBF or resting bitch face. Hilary has it. It’s difficult to like anybody who has that. I’ve always disliked people with bitchface. When she smiles, I don’t believe her. Hilary has a phony smile.

However, what Hilary has going for her is policy. She’s got a pedigree of being in and around political power since the 1970s. People who have liked her stance on the issues still exist and can still agree with her.

Donald Trump is batshit crazy. Or at the very least, seems batshit crazy when compared to every other politician. His personality is erratic. He lies. His policy ideas are messed up. They don’t seem to make any sense.

What helps the Donald more than anything else is the fact he is a breath of fresh air. Okay, a breath of different air. It’s not fresh, but it’s different.

Has there ever been such a dislikable pair running for President?

If I had a vote, right now, I’d be voting Trump. The anarchist in me wants to see America press that big reset button on the government and start things new. Just because the Constitution was a very important and significant document two hundred years ago does not mean it’s relevant today. The amendment system is too slow. I say a new constitution should be written. Not that Trump has been saying “Hey, let’s write a new constitution.” More so that I think the rest of government might have to do something faster than writing a bunch of amendments that wouldn’t take effect until after Trump’s potential term in office. The existing government system dislikes the concept of a Donald Trump. The government would reject Donald Trump like a bad organ transplant. A system restart might be the only way to rid itself of the infected organ. A restarting or rebooting might be just what the system needs right now. Clinton is not a catalyst for reboot, she’s more of the same. I don’t like the status quo for America. I want the federal government to be different from what it is today. A bad organ transplant would be painful at the beginning but beneficial in the long run because it might sturdy up the rest of the body and learn how to exist without the organ at all.

If two unlikable people are the only viable options for President, then either the position is less relevant than we think, or it’s an undesirable position for anybody truly qualified for it.

Aren’t we glad I’m not a politician nor an internal medicine doctor. “Hey, your liver is weak so I’m going to give you a kidney transplant with deliberately bad kidneys to force your liver to work harder.”

Carmine @ 65

Take Your Pokemon To Work Day

Lunch break at work today, I turned on the old iPad and tapped the Pokemon Go icon.

Holy moly! There’s a Pokemon in my office. Whoda thunk it?

I caught a Pokemon hopping up and down on my photocopier.

Well, back to work.

I Played Pokemon Go

I installed Pokemon Go on my iPad while I was kicking around my mom’s place. Just to give it a try. See what all the hubbub is really about. Ooops. I’m Canadian. I should write ‘aboot’ instead.

“Why are you doing this? Are you going to be one of those stupid people walking into things?” my mother harped.

“Nah, just trying it out… Oh, there’s one in your front yard.”

I walked over the front of the house and peaked out the window.

“Hey ma! Come look at this!” I exclaimed.

“What?”

“There’s a Pokemon in your front yard.”

“Get rid of it. I don’t want those things in my front yard.”

“Ma, will you just come look at this.”

I held up my iPad and pointed the camera out the window. In the front yard, between a couple of bushes, stood a Pokemon.

“Mom, look at this.”
“Get rid of it. I don’t like it. I don’t want those things here.”

I flicked my finger from the ball to the Pokemon. The little guy blocked the first ball. The second try was successful. I caught a Pokemon and saved my mother’s house.

I don’t think I’ll be playing the game again. Well, unless more Pokemons visit my mother’s house. I’d hate to think what a Pokemon infestation will do to the property value.