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The Zen of Blood, Sweat and Sh*t

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Don’t talk shit, they say! (sorry if this word offends, but also as they say, SHIT HAPPENS!)

I’ve had an epiphany, and by chance, doo-doo is something I know a little about.

But let’s go back a wee bit before I get into the main manure of this post.

My epiphany is all about the exchange of poop and its potential wonders. Praise Be Shit!

Let’s dig in, shall we?

Modern science has shown us with little doubt that transfusing blood from a young person into an older person changes the aging process, and in effect, makes the older person’s internal guts younger. It also works vice versa when transfusing from old to young.

It’s incredible and exciting and on its surface seems like a simple answer to concerns over aging.

But, to be fair, it has some worrisome aspects too.

I was a lab technologist for 37 years and I know firsthand that blood transfusion – as lifesaving as it can be – also has troublesome risks because of graft vs host rejection, just like organ transplants.

When we inject someone else’s blood into our veins, our bodies will occasionally start up the weapons’ factories, fire up the army, navy, and air force, and unleash an antibody response to a foreigner in our blood stream. It’s like the Ukraine fighting back an unwanted invader like the Russians. Russian intruders = blood transfusion… Our bodies = Ukraine…

Or maybe Obiwan vs Darth

But let’s get down and dirty now and talk shit…

Blood isn’t the only bodily “fluid” we transplant from one human to another… we also do faecal transplants to inject a healthy biome from one individual to another.

The helpful and healthful bacteria transplanted may help against a range of health conditions, from GI infections to autism spectrum disorder (ASD).

You should really give a shit about this now because Poop is more important than most of us ever realized.

Maybe it’s even a game changer.

Here’s my “wishful thinking “epiphany:

By the same notion that blood transfusion can change our internal aging clock, I’m figuring that a faecal transplant can have some pretty profound impacts too.

How about a potent and potential example or two:

  • Transplant the faecal matter of someone of great intelligence into my colon and KAZAM… I begin spouting E=mc2 like a 21st century Einstein.
  • For the narcissists and villains (sorry to equate the two) out there, we inject stool directly from each year’s Nobel Peace prize winner into the guts of louts and criminals and transform our jails overnight into the Peace Corps. Who needs gun control laws when everyone wants to hug their neighbours around the world. Line up and bend over Putin!
  • Or, perhaps for those of us who pine to look like Chris Pine or croon like Billie Eilish or Beyonce? Pack it in the back door, and start singing or acting like the diva or thespian you always dreamed of becoming.

One last thought… for the larger expanse of us beings who are reasonably content with our inner and outer souls but might feel the need of a refreshing refresh…

… you know, a need to flush our brains of external “shit”.

This information excrement that others have transplanted inside us, often without our knowledge or consent, needs to be flushed from our systems.

An annual FT (Faecal Transplant) treatment could be the hallowed road to peace and harmony, world and inner peace.

Register for yours today… then…

Sing it with me… All We Are Saying… is… Give Shit a Chance

When Will I Find Puberty? Inscrutable Hirsutability

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HAIR

I could be embarrassed. Should I be embarrassed?

Is hair THAT important? Just how superficial am I?

What’s the big deal?

The deal is… I’m not certain I’ve hit puberty yet. There are some clear signs I’m told.

When I listen to my voice on tape… or CD, or mp3, or whatever format is today’s current and oh-so-temporary waste of my $… *where can I play my extensive library of America and Carly Simon 8-tracks huh?*

Where was I? Oh yeah… my voice… my voice sounds like my sister’s lovely higher-pitched vocals… except I don’t want her voice (no offence Sis).

I want a manly, mellifluous, FM DJ’s baritone timbre. I’d even settle for a decent tenor.

Not only that, but looking back on my early high school days I remember pining for the day when I would have hair.. you know… down there

And I did get it – temporarily – in spades eventually, but before that …

Changing in gym class was a torture as I squirrelled away in the back corner while all the hirsute gorilla-boys with curly black wads all over their groins and pits snapped towels at each other… many even adorned already with moustaches and beards…

… I peeked down and viewed my Brazilian “do”… no fair!

I couldn’t complain to anyone… there were no FB chatrooms or support groups for woebegone juveniles who were slow to physically mature.

And even if I did want to complain I’d have had to walk uphill for hours and hours through 4 foot-high snowdrifts just to get to my friend Renato’s house. Those were the times my friend!

I wasn’t totally overlooked by pubertal change I suppose… I did have a pimply chin and nose… lucky me.

So let’s recount here… Girl’s voice, check. No body hair, check. Acne, check.

I was living the life of Danny Zuko – cool dude, cool car, cool chicks – in GREASE… HA! only in my mind! My Greased Lightning manliness was a Two-Wheeled Tricycle.

Just so you know I’m not an inveterate complainer, a few years later I did hit a sweet spot in life where hair was abundantly flourishing everywhere…

So much so that while living in William’s Lake BC in my early 20’s, one of the female doctors in the hospital where I worked even joked that perhaps I was the Missing Link because of the fluffy dark tufts of hair poking above the top of the collar of my scrubs… I was living the Latino dream… so I guess I did find my delayed puberty after all.

I sat in that sweet spot for about 20 years… sadly, my voice never dropped, but I did sport the thick, dark hair and clear skin that gave me that “Saturday Night Fever” style.

Until… *mic drop*… one day in the lab where I worked in Penticton. One of my so-called “lab friends” giggled about the bald spot on the back of my head. I laughed right along because it was just a joke and who doesn’t like a good joke, right?

Later that day – my co-worker’s voice and laughter tracking in my head – I checked in my bathroom 3-way mirror for reassurance, akin to you looking at a new mole carefully to reassure yourself that it isn’t a deadly cancer growth.

WTF!!!! Seriously? The laugh track stopped and the BeeGees began singing I Started A Joke in my head… yes, there was a small hole in the ozone layer in the back of my head. Noooooo.

My Everest-like hairy peak had been summited and I was now tumbling and sliding on the downslope of manhood… I had male pattern baldness … I felt myself cowering back in that gym class corner.

Another cruel ironic appendage to this furry tumble has been the unexpected sprouting of hair on the rims of my ears and from my nostrils… perhaps you can attribute these indignities to my atheistic perspective: either God is truly non-existent (surely no loving God would do this to me)…or… this same God is making me pay the price for dissing his/her/their existence. But that’s another blog post, right?

Life is about perpetual flexibility and accommodation… we hang on and survive through the embarrassments and lean times, and thrive through the buoyant patches. C’est la vie.

I’ve decided that puberty is truly a moot point so long as I stay immature for life!

Na-na na-na boo-boo… stick your head in doo-doo…

Bring Him Guilt, Frankenstein, and Mrrth

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Mommy, my turtle is dead,” little Brandon sorrowfully told his mother, holding out the turtle that Santa had brought him.

His Mom kissed him on the head, then said, “That’s all right.”

We’ll wrap him in tissue paper, put him in a little box, and then have a nice burial ceremony in the back yard. 

After that, we’ll go out for an ice cream sundae, and then go and get you a new pet.  I don’t want you….”

Brandon began to perk up. Her voice trailed off as she noticed the turtle move.

“Brandon, look, your turtle is not dead after all.”

“Oh,” the disappointed boy said.

“Can I kill it?”

……………………….

Is telling an oral joke a lost art for the average bloke (female “blake”?).

You know, a joke that takes 2 or 5 minutes to tell?

The jokester professionals are out there in force… the Seinfelds, Gaffigans, Rudners, Silvermans, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen… oops, that’s another blog post.

Going back decades, my Dad, a couple of uncles, even a cousin or two were great joke tellers… but… today… no one I encounter verbalizes a joke.

A pun yes, a quick one-liner, sure… but a fully laid out joke with a beginning, middle and end… NEVER!

I know I don’t, although I admit I am guilty of spouting a Dad joke here and there. And I’m a funny guy according to the mirror that I consult regularly. Of course the mirror lies to me all the time about my age, so why would I trust it?

I’m a visual learner (ie. reader) and punster.

So one of the things I enjoy most (this might be an oxymoron) about visiting a doctor or dentist office is the waiting room period and the plethora of magazines… and… Reader’s Digests.

I love those little humour stories inside and it’s the only time I see them. “Can someone else here go into the office first? I haven’t finished this Laughter Is The Best Medicine page yet.

No, these aren’t oral, but today I’ll share a few little Reader’s Digest-style Christmas funnies to try and raise your level of mirth… and best of all, won’t add to your girth!

A man kills a (rein)deer and takes it home to cook for dinner.

Both he and his wife decide that they won’t tell the kids what kind of meat it is, but will give them a clue and let them guess.

Daddy says, “Well, it’s what Mommy calls me sometimes.”

The little girl screamed to her brother, “Don’t eat it. It’s an asshole!”

Dianne was going to the Christmas office party but needed a new party dress.

In the clothing store she asked:

“May I try on that dress in the window, please?”

“Certainly not, madam,” responded the salesgirl,

“You’ll have to use the fitting room like everyone else.”

Grandpa decided that shopping for Christmas presents had become too difficult. 

All his grandchildren had everything they needed, so he decided to send them each a cheque.

On each card he wrote: ‘Merry Christmas, Grandpa’

P.S. ‘Buy your own present!’ 

Now, while Grandpa enjoyed the family festivities, he thought that his grandchildren were just slightly distant.  It preyed on his mind into the New Year. 

Then one day he was sorting out his home office and under a pile of papers, he found a little pile of cheques for his grandchildren.  He had completely forgotten to put them in with the Christmas cards.

A woman goes into a sporting goods shop to buy a rod and reel for her grandson’s Christmas present. She doesn’t know which one to get so she just grabs one and goes over to the counter.

A salesperson is standing there wearing dark shades. She says, “Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me anything about this rod and reel?”

He says, “Ma’am, I’m completely blind; but if you’ll drop it on the counter, I can tell you everything from the sound it makes.”

She doesn’t believe him but drops it on the counter anyway.

He says, “That’s a six-foot Shakespeare graphite rod with a Zebco 404 reel and 10-lb test line. It’s a good all around combination; and it’s on sale this week for only $20.00.”

She says, “It’s amazing that you can tell all that just by the sound of it dropping on the counter. I’ll take it!” As she opens her purse, her credit card drops to the floor.

“Oh, that sounds like a Master Card,” he says.

She bends down to pick it up and accidentally passes gas. At first she is really embarrassed, but then realizes there is no way the blind clerk could tell it was she who tooted. Being blind, he wouldn’t know that she was the only person around.

The man rings up the sale and says, “That ‘ll be $34.50 please.”

The woman is totally confused by this and asks, “Didn’t you tell me the rod and reel were on sale for $20.00? How did you get $34.50?”

He replies, “Yes, ma’am. The rod and reel are $20.00, but the duck call is $11.00 and the catfish bait is $3.50.”

……………………….

And finally… may the spirit of this holiday season find you in the way you celebrate it best:

Knowing that the pastor enjoyed his drink, a hotel owner offered him a case of cherry brandy for Christmas in exchange for a free ad in the church newsletter.

The pastor agreed and ran this in the next issue:

“The pastor would like to thank Patrick Smith for his kind gift of a crate of fruit and for the spirit in which it was given.” 

Funeral For A Chocolate Eternity

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Today, a spicy little twist from this Man On The Fringe.

As we enter a Northern Hemisphere summer, I’m offering up this rehash/reprint from a younger, stronger, handsomer… me.

Eight short years ago (June 2013) this week I wrote this post, a fantasized vision of my own funeral.

Morbid, maybe… but also how fun really! Let’s hit the time machine on this mini pseudo-philosophical tale…

………………

The rear swing door of the black hearse sitting in the horseshoe-shaped driveway was already gaping open like a Domino’s pizza oven, impatiently waiting for the deceased’s delivery.

.

hearse door ajar

Sun rays were prying their way between the clouds, trying desperately to make this final day bright.

Alone, I hesitated a second at the tall, heavy oak door of the generic staid but stolid funeral home – I pulled it open. Within seconds, a tall, dark-suited bespectacled man approached.

Did you know the deceased well?

He was dignified and compassionate in his well-honed professional approach to terminal matters.

Very, I said, grinning in a sheepish, modest sort of fashion.

In fact, I AM the deceased.

I spoke in a breathy whisper, hoping he would pick up on the discretion I wanted for such an unusual occurrence. He barely blinked when I said it though…

How often does this happen? This guy was a pro. He slide-stepped a quarter turn sideways and gestured with a sweep of his arm that I might like to enter the chapel.

I was worried that I would be noticed when I passed into the dimly-lit open hall so I sat down quickly on one of the empty long wooden pews at the back of the room.

Funeral chapel

Fortunately, in churches and funeral homes, people don’t turn around to look behind them. You only look left, right, or forwards. I haven’t perused the holy book lately so perhaps it’s some religious rule, maybe even a commandment–  that you don’t turn around unless they start to play “Here Comes The Bride“, and then it’s rude NOT to turn around.

Music … I love music. Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” was just ending and the distinctive guitar picking of James Taylor began softly echoing off the high wood-panelled ceiling of the chapel – “You’ve Got a Friend”… I closed my eyes and absorbed one of my favourite songs.

I was adjusting my pant leg when a woman’s voice coming from my right whispered, “Are you the dead fellow?

My eyes were just adapting to the low lights of the room. Surprised, I turned to see an elderly woman scrinching her way, sliding gently towards me on the bench. She looked familiar, but only in the way that any woman of her age might remind you of your grandmother. She was squinting at me through her thick eyeglasses.

How did you know that?

– Well, you might think its a bit strange, but I come to a funeral here every week. IF there’s a funeral on a Friday. I have bridge club on Thursday and my daughter comes to help me out on Wednesdays. The other days just don’t feel like funeral days to me. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m Catholic. Fridays feel like a funeral day.

She slid her hands slowly over the knees of her dark dress to straighten the pleats that had been disrupted on her slide towards me.

– I never know the dead person, but I enjoy a good funeral. I get to see and hear the sum of a person’s life in about a half hour. I learn a lot about what’s important to different people. Sometimes it’s all just religious rigamarole – sandwich without a filling – almost like the dead person never existed. But sometimes, there’s a whole gourmet dinner laid out of a person’s soul. It makes me see my own life better somehow. I like those ones.

She fell quiet when she spotted the man in the dark suit, the same one that greeted me at the front door, approach the podium at the front of the room.

man speaking at funeral

He paused at the metal-faced lectern, looked down quietly at his notes, then slowly looked back up, and began:

One of the great benefits of living for a number of years, is that we absorb and observe and enjoy the things that make our time as humans on earth special and memorable. We experience the multitude of stages that constitute a life. Birth, childhood, teen years, first loves, fast cars and vehicles, first jobs, the stresses and great joys of family life and interacting with people that surround us. We see beauty, and pain, in so many forms, often those things that we glance past in early years become the treasures of our later lives.

-If Larry was with us here today, if he was sitting right here in this chapel at this moment…

He glanced with a small ironic smile towards the back of the room where I was sitting.

– if he was here, he would want us to reflect on the things that mattered greatly to him and at least take them into consideration in the living of our everyday lives. 

Hallelujah brother, I wanted to yell out.

But I didn’t want to distract the modest crowd of mourners and well-wishers who had broken away from their daily existences to say a final farewell to a small piece, a fragment really, for most of them, of their lives.

Aside from close family, a funeral, at its most basic level isn’t really about the person who has passed. A funeral is about how each of us reacts in the moment, decides our own personal life course, and editorializes how we’re doing so far.

– Highly spiritual but not a typically religious man, Larry suggested in his final requests that I put in a good word about 5 things that stood out for him and that made his own existence special and noteworthy.

spiritual path
  • Love of creativity. Creativity surrounds and envelops us every day. Almost everything we touch from simple kitchen gadgets to fancy cars is there because another human conceived and made it. Our medicines, our clothes, chocolate bars. You name it, simple or complex, it needed creativity. Music, sculpture, yes even Fifty Shades of Grey… they all originated in the amazing mind. We need to observe and appreciate the good and great we’ve created and be mindful of the not so good. But more importantly, we need to be an active participant and create within our own sphere too. Create a garden, create a meal to be remembered, create a poem, create a pair of socks. Perform some idea sex and create something totally unexpected. Absorb others’ creations but take the time to make your own little masterpiece too.
  • Love of at least one other who loves you back. The warmth of another’s love and respect is what makes humans human. It grounds us, it gives us purpose. Giving love to someone else lifts up the poorest beggar to the richest monarch. It can’t be bought, it can’t be sold, but it’s more valuable than the Crown Jewels.
  • Love of health and activity. Our bodies are striated top to bottom with muscle. Bone and blood and muscle thrive on movement, active movement. Our mind muscles and our body muscles all feel better when they’re exercised and strengthened. An internal global sense of health and well-being starts with active movement.
  • Love of the unknown… fearlessness. Stepping to the edge of the metaphorical ledge makes our heart race and our soul sing. Horror movies are so popular because they take us to the edge of our comfort zones, creating a sense of exhilaration, but pulling back and leaving us drained from a cathartic high. Taking ourselves to the limit or into an area that intrigues but intimidates us at the same time is a fantastic journey that puts LIFE into life. I’m told that Larry confided once that running marathons or learning another language in a strange, exotic locale filled him with fear. But, living and pushing forward into that fear is exhilaration exemplified.
  • Love of the senses. This is a world replete with sights, sounds, smells that can overfill our senses, and yet we often downplay or ignore them. We need to learn to slow our breathing and absorb the plethora of beauty in all its forms that surround us. The smoothness of pine needles, the scent of seafood in a crowded marketplace, the roar of a jet piercing the sky overhead, the glitter of the setting sun rays caressing the lake surface at sunset. Our lives can be so much richer when we take the time to appreciate the exquisiteness around us.

– So, Larry asked that we all retreat within ourselves today and reflect on those things we feel an affinity, a love, a respect, a passion for in our days and years living this amazing miracle that brought us to this place, this time, this world that evolved from no one yet knows what or where.

Oh, and one more thing. Larry wanted me to add…  eat some chocolate … always eat some chocolate!

Life can be as simple as that sometimes.

coffin crisp

The time felt right for me to leave.

The old lady next to me turned and nodded knowingly with a small smile. Leaning in slowly, she bussed her lips against my cheek and whispered, “Thank you for the lovely soulful meal you made for me today. I’m going to think about the things that were important to you. I’m glad we had this chance to meet.

I stood and took one last look over the group of my friends, my relatives, my life.

Some were smiling, some were gently wiping beneath their eyes with white kleenex; the ladies dressed in mixtures of short and long skirts, with sweet floral smells and red lips. Men in dark suits, some in clean blue jeans and open necked shirts, a disjointed harmony of style and generation that spoke of honour and fashion.

To my own surprise, I felt good. It was a bittersweet moment knowing that my own few eternal seconds had come and passed so so quickly.

I turned and pushed my way through the door of the chapel. Instantly, a brilliant white light shone through the upper windows of the funeral home, the sun had won its skirmish with the clouds.

I wasn’t sure where the white light led but I felt a robust attraction to first one exit door on my left and then an equally strong pull towards an exit door on the right.

On each door a sign was posted prominently on its surface. The one to the left stated:

Buddha awaits your reincarnation

The sign on the door to my right said:

Chocolate Eternity

I hesitated and thought deeply.

SERIOUSLY? All of life’s philosophies come down to this?

Maybe death can be as simple as that.

I paused for a moment longer, then smiled a little smile and stepped confidently forward. I’d made my choice.

With all my strength I threw open the door.

2 more doors

My 8 Unimpeachable Quarantine Goals for 2021

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A daring bloodless revolution is underway…

… not in Tehran or Washington… nope… in the confines of my home.

Do I think New Year’s resolutions are passé? … well… not so much… but…

… OK, I’m still a goal setter – and it may just be my advancing age – but it’s more likely this whole COVID thing has me becoming more discerning and self-critical.

The belly button gazing has become more intense (and fogged by fluff).

The choices and opportunities for setting goals and achievements has narrowed substantially this past year. Today…

• I substitute PBS Rick Steves episodes for international travel destinations

• CNN is a surrogate for fantasy literature stories

• baking powder or starter mix does its bubble-dance in place of hard-as-toilet-paper-to-find yeast

• energetic hikes to the refrigerator take up the sweaty role of boot camp classes

• snatching a package of toilet paper from an elderly lady’s shopping cart makes for a high-five victory (and a lap of shame too, Larry)

Author Jim Collin’s Big Hairy Audacious Goals (BHAG) remain out-of-bounds for awhile still.

So… my major mental activity these days is to categorize my minor-league goals; here are a select few of these 2021 Humbled Downsized Miniaturized Goals (HDMG):

  1. Hygiene: Brush my teeth at least twice a week. Finger rubbing between brushings scores chocolate bonus points. Avoid smiling at hygienist daughter: stay focused.
  2. Hygiene: create a small business of mobile face-mask washing kiosks outside malls and grocery stores to remove crusty spots and brown saliva stains from customer masks worn for weeks and jammed into filthy pockets.
  3. Exercise: Run 5k at least once a …. run 5k over the coming year. Marathon Stretch Goal– keep weight gain to 26.2 lbs.
  4. Exercise: Climb to the very top of local mountain, Giant’s Head, carrying a case of Double-size Charmin toilet paper, without the assistance of bottled O2 or an accompanying medic… train ahead of time with YouTube Couch Cross-Fit and BedBounce Yoga classes.
  5. Mental: Read War and Peace in original Russian… or 10 Trump tweets in English, whichever is less difficult to understand. Late breaking: No more Trump tweets, nyet… so War and Peace it is… da!
  6. Mental: Yell out in properly verb-conjugated Spanish at the neighbour’s Chihuahua when it poops on my property…. el perro gordo loco….
  7. Creative: Write 10 blog posts that don’t mention the words Trump and F*ck in the same paragraph. Also: write one full post using only my left pinkie finger.
  8. Investment: pour entire pension fund assets into toilet paper futures using Bitcoin (Larry, do you even have the slightest understanding of what bitcoin is?)

  • BONUS Goals:
    • Cooking: Work on sculpture-based meal-making using a combination of Beyond Meat and Chia Pet seeds. First up: Bob Ross Meat(less)loaf. Also: Send my 2 yr-old grandson’s famous recipe for Stinky Cheese Donuts to Tim Hortons.
    • Juvenile: Dress up as Miss Piggy and eat frog legs for breakfast.
    • Music: Write a Broadway musical about Trump called Hangry Humping On The Resolute Desk.

Welcome to silly season. So what will be YOUR goals for 2021?

Hang on cuz this will be a year of necessary continued patience and finding something funny in the absurd. Even many Holocaust survivors found room in their lives for dark humour to lift their spirits.

Those afflicted with COVID, or those with someone close-by affected, need the respite of laughter to distract and soothe. To quote my COVID long-hauler Irish cousin, “Let’s not forget all the positivity among the pain – those little glimmers of sunshine in the darkness that got us through.

Now’s a good time to start your own home-bound res(v)olution…

BREAKING NEWS for MEN: 8 Tricks to Look Like George Clooney Beyond Middle Age…

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WELCOME to my

DIY Handsomeness Course

Last week I mentioned that I stopped aging at 19, but that was only partly true.

The rest of the story is below…

Full disclosure: I stopped MATURING at age 19… ie. my mental maturity got stuck in the mud like peanut butter on the roof of my mouth (this happens to men a lot). Bad news.

The physical side of me – my face and body – felt left out by the process, so in nasty retribution they went into a hyper-speed zone after I chronologically traversed the teenager divide into adulthood (this also happens to men a lot). More bad news.

Having the V-shaped physique that marks a virile, stud-muffin man can be a problem if the apex of the V begins at your neck and hits full wide-open stride at your waist. Yes, this too is bad news.

So here I am now, stuck with a juvenile mentality and looking for a physical reversal and rejuvenation, sort of a Benjamin Buttoning of my outward appearance.

For sure it’s an ego trip, a full-fledged vanity expedition, probably resulting from the unintended ingestion of too many late-night infomercials.

It’s akin to when I was a kid, when I believed the comic book ads, the cunning tripe that tried to sell me the magic scope that would allow me to see through women’s clothing… creepy stuff that flared a pre-hormonal boy’s wistful dreams. Boob city for only $1.00 + $ .25 S+H?

Sucker born every minute, right PT Barnum?

This week I’ve been doing a little extra GOOGLE research into male anti-aging solutions that will offer me more Sean Connery and less Mystical Connery.

Here are a few things I’ve been reading about and will sift to determine which I should try so that my face and body match my juvenile mentality.

*The Small Print Disclaimer*: Please don’t try ANY of these “solutions”- no one wants to look like me!

  1. NECK TAPE – my turkey neck syndrome is solved with this clear medical-grade tape that is placed on the back of the neck. The instructions are simple: Grab your neck skin at the nape, pull it back, tape it in place, and then cover the evidence with your hair. The result is a fairly slim and firm-looking neck. Maybe I can make this a part of my daily “manly” routine in addition to SSS (S*&t, Shower & Shave). Unintended positive side effect: ripping off the tape at the end of the day gets rid of the unwanted hair on the back of my neck… DOUBLE SCORE!
  2. URINE DRINK – Brit Harry Matadeen, 32, leaves his urine for up to a month, before drinking a glass every day and massaging it into his skin every morning. The health coach says the ‘free and powerful medicine that can cure all manner of diseases’ has made him healthier and smarter than ever before – and claims he now gets mistaken for a man in his 20’s thanks to its anti-aging qualities. I’m only sad knowing that I poured thousand of litres of urine down the sink in my career as a lab technologist. I could have had the skin of 6 month-old baby with early knowledge of this miracle drink! Forget those “green smoothies”, yellow has the power.
  3. BIRD POOP FACE MASK – Nightingale droppings have been used in facials since ancient Japanese times. The guano from the nightingale has a high concentration of urea and guanine. Because birds excrete a fecal and urine waste from a single opening, called the cloaca, the fecal-urine combination gives the droppings a high concentration of urea. Urea is sometimes found in cosmetics because it locks moisture into the skin. The guanine may produce shimmery, iridescent effects on the skin. It’s speculated that because of the short intestine of the nightingale, the droppings have protein, a fat-degrading enzyme, and a whitening enzyme that acts on fat and scurf to whiten skin and even out blemishes. Holy Shit… Sign me up!
  4. PONYTAIL or COMB-OVER?– OK, what dude doesn’t look great with a youthful ponytail, or better yet, a comb-over? I won’t even go into detail here because we all know that a semi-balding fella always looks more lusty and fertile with one of these age-defying trendy do’s.
  5. VIAGRA CREAM – Sagging jowls and eyelids got you down? Forget BOTOX. Forget the ED use of this solid wonder product. Viagra enhancement cream liberally smeared on the face daily will stiffen and engorge the skin with huge blood flow to bring a man’s face to attention in no time. Sure, it’s an off-label use, but I’ve heard it’s on the White House list of effective COVID treatments too. What could go wrong? Visit a doctor if your face goes stiff for more than 4 hours.
  6. WEAR A “BRO” – This is a no-brainer friends. No one wants to look at a cute older couple walking along the ocean boardwalk on a warm evening and try to determine if the man or woman has saggier hooters. If your 100 pushup per day routine just isn’t firming up those masculine pecs, then it’s time to try out the 2020 WonderBro. No separation, just lift. Keep the female eyes on your (Viagra’d) face and not your chest, boys.
  7. FULL BODY WAXING – Steve Carell had the right idea in The 40 Year-Old Virgin *cue the screams*. In today’s world, any body hair below the neck is too much body hair. Believe me, I know. Immersion in a warm, syrupy wax tank followed by a full body rip is the ultimate solution to the question “why haven’t I cried lately“?
  8. JAW CHISEL SURGERY – ever watched hip replacement surgery? It’s a joy to see the Home Depot saws and hammers and chisels emerge from Operating Room drawers after the patient is comatose. Those same miracle tools can be put to good use on your chin by all the Dr. Michelangelo’s out there. There’s no way that Clooney and Connery came by those chiselled chins naturally. The DAVID statue and Mount Rushmore had less work done than either of those two.

So guys, you should be feeling pretty pumped and well-equipped now to send your face and body into reverse gear.

You’re gonna love being a teenager again (except for the acne)!

Seriously Your Honour? … An Innocent’s Lament To A Beeoch…

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policewoman at window

A small (ironic) parable today… if you can stomach it.

…………….

She shook her head and glared at me. Such lovely dark eyes.

I didn’t get it. She didn’t get that I didn’t get it.

A young’ish female judge in flowing black robes and white tie sat on the bench in judgment… of me?

Thin stripes of burgundy brocade garnished the front edges of her judicial robe like sardonic drips of menstrual blood dripping from her chest. Taunting me.

And just like my orange-tinged idol from the Land of the Free, I knew in my heart of hearts that I had done nothing wrong. And yet.

Here I stood at the front of this courtroom defending myself. Witchhunt.

Defending myself against ridiculous trumped-up charges that an obviously poorly-trained RCMP officer- a woman no less … a pretty lady who plainly would have been better suited to hairdressing as a career than policing – was levelling against me.

My eyes flashed wide, directed in amazement towards the judge, the police lady and the courtroom.

woman judge

So many women. I felt like I was in a cat-house. I was simultaneously pissed and aroused.

Now I want you to see clearly the nonsense, the crazy miscarriage of justice perpetrated here, so I’ll provide you a direct quote from this officer lady’s notes that she read out to the court in the charges against me:

“I approached the vehicle of the suspect Mr. Green. He lowered his window.  I asked for his registration and licence. His response was “Of course Sweetheart, you look tired, was the lineup at Tim Hortons too long this morning?

I repeated my request for his documentation which he then provided. I asked if he knew of the reason for being pulled aside.

He shook his head and wondered aloud if he had a burnt out taillight or if I was suffering from some monthly issues.

No sir, I responded. Besides driving at 74 kilometres per hour in a 30 kilometre School Zone, I noticed that you were texting on your phone while driving and appeared severely distracted. You know that’s an offence sir.

Oh is that all?, he replied. Everyone does that, right? No big deal. C’mon, the kids got out of the way.

And the phone sir? Anything you’d like me to add? I asked.

Oh, so you noticed me reaching into the back seat to retrieve my phone that had been ringing? Once I was able to get my seatbelt back on and see that I had missed a call from a bar buddy I met last night – I have to admit I’m still a bit fuzzy up top here – I turned off the Netflix show I was watching on the dashboard screen and zipped off a quick text telling him I was driving and would call him later. 

I see Sir. And I detect a strong scent of cannabis as well. Have you been smoking pot? Is that a joint I see smouldering on your console?

Sure little lady, but it’s medicinal. I have this cast on my foot that really hurts when I drive – I hate driving standard – so I smoke some weed to cut the pain. It’s legal weed, so no offence there Honey.

Sir, there are so many Motor Vehicle charges here that I barely know where to begin. Please step out of your vehicle and place your hands on the hood of the car.

You’re kidding me Sweetheart, right? I’ve done nothing wrong.

You’re kind of pretty you know, doesn’t the RCMP have some sort of skirt for officers like you to wear?

He stepped from the vehicle with a grin on his face and slowly turned and placed his hands on the car.

This is harassment. My lawyers will have all of this in the courts for years to come. Plus I’ll destroy your reputation Bitch, you won’t be behind the wheel of that cruiser a year from now. Somebody should grab you by the pussy and make sure you’re satisfied.

Yes Sir, I’m sure you believe that. I frisked the defendant and secured his hands behind his back for transport to the station.”

eye rolling.gif

The judge lady shook her head in some sort of womanly tantrum… I have to admit that it was a bit titillating. She was clearly in on this whole fake arrest thing.

Then the Grudge Judge declared me guilty on the full set of charges. My plump, wild-eyed lawyer reassuringly whispered in my ear that appeals would tie this up for months, maybe years.

As I was led from the courtroom, I turned and suggested to the Beauty Shop Cop that she get some anger management training and try chilling, maybe go to an old-fashioned movie with a friend.

WITCHHUNT. Watch out Twitter.

Twitter-rage

 

 

 

The Horrible Shame of Being Human…

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terrible children.jpg

Let’s face it… YOU are terrible. I am terrible.

Humans are horrible.

Modern North American life is a life of shame…

Every action I take makes me a bad person.

I don’t want to be a bad person.

I try to remember all my family’s and friends’ birthdays. I even bake them cakes.

But then I don’t think and eat an almond. Damn, uses too much California water. Spit out the almond.

Try a bowl of raisin bran with milk and banana. Healthy. Good. Can’t go wrong there. But…

Raisins = sulfite preservative = sugar-coated = Bad…

Milk = cows = too much land required to raise and treated poorly = Bad…

Bananas = monoculture = Bad

Spit out the cereal Larry.

Don’t even get started on eating meat products. Killing + Fat + Land Use = Bad.

Right … so I’ll try Beyond Meat … no animal product consumption there … lots of good pea protein… WHEW I’m good …. except … Beyond Meat and Impossible Burgers have more saturated fat and sodium content than a comparable beef burger… OMG! And just wait for the next scientific study that proves vegetables are truly able to feel pain … yes, carrot juice IS murder!

green pepper

I’ve gotta do something to redeem my hellish sins…

Drive my car to help out at the soup kitchen. Good? Nope, bad.

Driving uses non-renewable fossil fuels and contributes to global warming. Drive a battery-powered Tesla? Hmmm… uses a ton or two of energy consuming metals and the battery has to be landfilled after 10 years.

I’ve got to escape for a few from the guilt of my feckless faulty footprint … I won’t read a book because that has paper … the destruction of forests on my head? No thanks. I’ll just read some Stephen King on my Kobo (e-reader) … breathe deeply and relax.

Wait… that e-reader consumes electrical power from a hydroelectric dam (on First Nations territory) in northern BC that wiped out hundreds of square kilometres of animal habitat and besides…

… the electronic reader I’m holding was shipped from China on a freighter that drank a gazillion gallons of fuel and dumped plastic into the ocean … and …

… the wifi electromagnetic waves that it receives invisibly through the atmosphere cause brain cancer. Oh good grief…

Forget vacations that involve airplane travel… jets devour gas like it’s icy-cold cerveza on a hot Mexican playa. Too much noise pollution too.

Recycle? Follow Canada’s lead and send your plastic to Malaysia or the Philippines for them to hold for a few years before shipping your shit back to you …

Speaking of …

SHIT? Do you know how much human excrement is sent into our rivers and oceans?  One extreme example … the Ganges River in India absorbs more than a billion gallons of raw sewage and industrial waste every single day. Enjoy your swim.

swimming in garbage.jpg

Everything I do … you do … comes at a cost… because every stone we throw hits the ocean, and ripples of the water hit every shore … which leads to the question…

I try to be a good person, so what are the rules that can lessen my shame?

Let’s face it, the guilt and shame are the stink that can never be fully washed away… no tomato juice baths will make any of us squeaky clean. Ever.

It’s old and it’s hackneyed and it’s cliche.

Think globally. Act locally. Vote for the politician who thinks not like a narcissistic buffoon but like a chess player … 8 moves ahead … 8 generations into the future, considering the consequences of our actions on the world.

And as much as I hate the word for its lack of clear meaning… be moderate … and in the end… forgiving of yourself. The world is complex and terrible and homely, but also kind and beautiful and enthralling.

I know I’m very lucky. I try to be healthy. And generous … when I help others, my own happiness increases.

Clint Eastwood, the wise old cowboy Yoda, described us as we are …  The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.

the good bad and ugly

 

Hip Hip Hooray… Ain’t Your Bathroom Great?

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Dog on toilet

CRAP … I lost another game of iPad solitaire while sitting on the toilet.

Yup, CRAP!

The very best place for sitting, game playing, thinking, contemplating, figuring, worrying, laughing, reading, and of course… shitting… is in the bathroom. Instant privacy and quiet.

Just the other day I wandered aimlessly upon a moment of intense gratitude. We all need more gratitude moments.

I live in a house that has an indoor bathroom. With a toilet.

I’m gonna take a wild guess that you do too.

Call it what you will… loo, WC, restroom, washroom, head, lavatory … by any name we should all smile with great glee at this thought.

In February when the cold winds and snows were pouring off the white-shrouded mountains like perilous nasty whitewater waves, I was warm, dry and windless in my cozy little comfort station.

It seems such a simple expected perk of life. So simple.

 

Diner toilets.jpg

But I don’t have to look too far off into the distance to glimpse other areas and eras where this would be a huge luxury.

In post-cyclone Mozambique news today, a reporter makes note of: “Three thousand people who are living in a school that has 15 classrooms and six, only six, toilets.”

On a “First Class” train journey from Jaipur to Mumbai, India a couple of years back we had to balance ourselves in a squat position over a pit toilet as it jostled back and forth with the rhythm of the clickety-clack.

You guessed it. The smell and sights within the squalid little room were stomach-churning.

And of course, historically within my home country Canada, just a few generations back, my relatives all hiked outside every single day, every season. No cushy pillowed wipes… it was newspaper and Eaton’s catalogue time.

In the humid heat of fly-enriched summer and icy-terrained winter, my grandparents did their business in a highly-scented wooden box just like in the opening graphic scene from the movie Slumdog Millionaire.

………………

Well, not quite like that but you get the idea.

Our world is encased in oodles and oodles of technology, and yet, for me, despite the inventions of:

  • cars and airplanes
  • computers
  • television and movies
  • recorded music and all the electronics it comes from
  • telephones
  • automatic washing machines and dishwashers…

… that enhance my standard of living… and yes, I could go on and on … there is probably no human-devised invention that enriches my life more than indoor bathroom plumbing.

Praise be the in-house toilet.

We really don’t take time often enough to reflect and en-wrap ourselves in gratitude for the modern luxuries that enrich and simplify our daily passage.

Which is why I am dedicating this week’s blog post in praise of the indoor toilet.

You may think I’m wasting your time, you might like to poo-poo me, sure, tell me to piss off, possibly you don’t even give a shit …

… but I will continue on giving a crap about such delightfully uncomplicated things that bring me comfort and joy, even if I can’t win this stupid game of solitaire!

ipad toilet

The Big E … The Edible Exotic Erotic Feast

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Man Big O

What does your face look like?

No … not when you look in the mirror.

Anyone can make themselves look presentable to the mirror, and if you’re lucky (*probably doesn’t include me) even handsome or beautiful, when all the stars align and you’ve put an hour of effort into making your countenance shine.

No, right here, right now, I’m talking about in the dead of night (or during Afternoon Delight) when you reach that hot moment of glory … the Hail Mary worked… your game “face” is on …

… you know, the Big O, where the inhibitions and worries fade away and all that remains is the pouty flash-of-glory, the swinging-from-the-chandeliers, the peeling-panties-off-the-ceiling, the fireworks and Northern Lights on full display.

Now it could occur in a tandem encounter (excellent), or perhaps a solo effort (great too) or … hell … if you’re into team sports, could even be in the Orgy Dome at Burning Man in Nevada (this one beats me).

Maybe still, it’ll be the Meg-Ryan-in-the-Deli (hell yeah!) scenario … where you and I wanna have what she’s having.

meg ryan O.jpg

Damn, I got distracted… again!!

*face palm*

The whole purpose of this post is supposed to be about how we eat. The cuddly facial contortions of the eating process. There’s lots to chew on here.

OK, though maybe not as titillating as the Big O … the Big E … truly does fascinate me.

And truthfully, in most cases it’s not a pretty sight (I sadly include myself in this category)

This past week, we were revelling in a delightful buffet and restaurant romp in the tropical heat o’ Mexico.

Mucho mucho demasiado comida.

Spooning (as well as knifing and forking) in the dining room is as entertaining as most other spectator sports.

My poor distracted eyes were in their most hyperactive state.

Gazing around the dining areas, the plethora of styles of masticating food is just too damned hard to ignore.

Through the musical meanderings of the accents from varied regions of the world: German, British, Japanese, French, Polish … yes, Spanish… and lots of Canadians.

There were: speed-eaters; plodders; the bend-over-to-the-plate-eaters; the eat-everything-except-mashed-potatoes-with-your-hands eaters; the mash-everything-together-eaters; the consume-while-you-text-eaters; the non-stop-talk-eaters.

Chewing is engrossing (and sometimes just GROSS) … the jaw-straight-up-and-down-chew, the circular-cow-eating-its-cud chew, the nibble-and-chew-at-the-front-of-the-mouth chew.

There really should be etiquette classes given to each of us as children on how to eat with some delicacy and grace.

Most of the consuming I saw was akin to watching a Grade B horror film… ugly but nearly impossible to look away.

And in fairness, there were a few instances of eating ballet on display… beautiful, delightful folks who obviously enjoyed their food without facial contortions while chewing, no ugly Big E moments, no displaying the contents of the food in their mouths for the world to admire.

Noshing Olympians. Bravissimo!

antelope eating.gif

The worst offence? for me? Pouring wine or beer or even water into your mouth while unchewed food still remains on view. Edentum deformis…

Eating and drinking are 2 separate activities… would you do your tax returns while approaching the Big O? … do not answer… I thought not!

Eat. Swallow. Drink.

Self Description? I’m not sharing my Big O face nowhere no-how … but my Big E face?… I guess I’m a bit of a speed eater… a slight left-to-right-jaw-drift chewer. I’m a gastronomic adventure eater (I like to try lots of different innovative foods… lots of ethnic diversity, guinea pig in Peru, snake wine in China, bull’s testicles in Greece).

When it comes to the Big O, there’s not much I can offer you … mirrors are not useful in these situations (except on the ceiling? whatevah you into)… but there is hope and help when it comes to the Big E.

Why not try watching yourself eat in a mirror sometime?

Try to adopt some classic grazing variations that increase your beauty quotient while eating. A great Big E could lead to a great Big O

Or … watch Halloween 3.

You can choose your fright-faced option!

ugly eating

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