Hoo Hoo's

Alright, I haven't got alot to say about this one. I think the photograph speaks for me in many ways. My friend "H" and I were having an expensive coffee drink at the "Silver Bean" in downtown Peterborough when I noticed this word all alone, scrawled on a support beam.

Just "Vagina's". Nothing else. Like all this odd ball graffiti artist sees is "Vagina's" everywhere he/she goes..."Vagina's" not Vagina. Vagina with an apostrophe "s" implying possession. Like "Hey aren't those Bills vagina's over there?" A vagina philanderer or collector if you will...anyway I thought it was a little f'ed up and a little freeing. So I'm taking back the word like I took back the night...So keep your hands off my Vagina's!
Get your own "Vagina's"!!
WHUH! So put that in your nut sac!

B-low on the coolie front

Pump it up

Alright deuces, I got something to say!
Today I had to take my car in for rustproofing (that's something we Canadians due because of the harsh winter conditions) to keep our rides from turning to dust by spring. I also had to shellac my igloo and get out my tire chains to prepare for the onslaught of winter...nuff said.

Since I was without my regular wheels I decided to ride my commuter bike to the YMCA to work on my pecs and my glutes. I prefer to take my commuter bike to public places where I will be locking it out of my view for long periods of time. My other bikes are never out of my sight in public places. Bike theft is quickly on the rise in Canada. Check out this CBC story about a dirty douche from Toronto who actually ran a bike store/bike theft ring. What an ass hammer!
Anywhore...
After I finished my intense workout I came outside to get my bike only to find that the front tire was completely flat. Fuckity, fuck, fuck!
In all fairness I do very little maintenance on this bike so I really do deserve to get a flat tire or have the chain crumble and turn to dust some day soon. I wasn't really pissed about the whole flat tire...I figured it was a slow leak and I could just get it pumped up at a local gas station and be on my merry way. First problem, finding an f'in gas station in this jerk water town. I swear to God there are like maybe 7 gas stations in Peterborough and they are not convenient unless your driving...which I guess is their perogative. I decided to head to the Petro Canada station at the corner of Lansdowne and Monaghan Road. It felt like it took me an eternity. I don't mind walking, but walking and pushing a dead weight kind of gets me down. I finally reached the Petro Can only to discover that those chiseling bastards wanted $1.00 for their freakin' air. Are you shittin' me? Who decided that one dollar was a fair price for one of the elements? I thought 50 cents maybe or hey it might even be free...like at the old Canadian Tire Gas Bar...but no Petro Canada wants to soak me for a dollar. Holy shit!
What could I do...I paid the $1.00 only to find that the front tube on the bike is totally screwed, chewed and barbecued. So put that in your back pack! Don't worry though I stood there and squeezed my total dollars worth of air...I want a receipt for that so I can claim it on my income tax under "BULLSHIT EXPENSES". So look out above you hairy, thieving bastards who put a monetary amount on air...the dove is locked and loaded and full of Taco Bell...Chalupa Poopa is flying your way now! WHUH!

My brolley G.. K-Why tells me that air only costs 75 cents in Jersey. That just might be enough incentive for me to relocate!
B-low on the northern grind!

Brown Disaster Aisle 5

Okay deuces...you'll be glad to know that I was not deterred by my last visit to No Frills...my local cut rate grocery store. During that visit I saw a dirt-wad of masterful proportions riding his freakin' bike through the produce section.
This morning I decided to venture to my favourite grocery store...they stock all the awesome President's Choice products, often at lower prices than their parent store Loblaws. It's a muggy Sunday morning...the store shouldn't be too busy, with people attending church and/or sleeping off Saturday nights sins.
I scored big this morning...the cart I got was broken so it was free - normally you have to pop a quarter into the cart to rent it for your shopping experience. This tactic is meant to deter people from stealing the carts to take their groceries home in...I gotta be honest, 25 cents does not appear to be a high enough price to keep the carts on the lot. What would Bubbles do?
Anyway, I began my sojourn through the produce aisle and proceeded with ease to work my way through the store. I spotted a till that was ready for me to make my purchases and headed that way. Little did I know what awaited me there. I was behind an older couple and as I started to unload my groceries one of the girls from another checkout told me I must have shit on my shoe. Yeah I'm pretty sure she said shit...she didn't soften the blow with poop or dung. At first I thought I must have tracked it in from somewhere...until I looked around and saw several small piles around a pillar in the middle of the store...apparently the trail went all the way down the health and beauty aisle, ending at till 8 where I had the misfortune to step in it.
Yes folks...it was 100% adult human feces. Someone felt the urge to purge and couldn't stem the tidal flow of pooh until they got home.
The checkout girl called for someone to clean it...I gotta say no one jumped at the opportunity. I was there for about 10 minutes and they were still standing around debating when I left.
I gotta say I feel for the person who couldn't hold it...that's the shits literally and figuratively. What a terrible feeling...I am personally thankful for my excellent sphincter control and don't blame the person who let her rip. Shit happens.
What gets the Dove all worked up was the reaction of the one little scrag at the till. She couldn't shut her mouth about it. She felt the need to tell everyone who came through her till about it and by the looks on their faces they were all thinking twice about their purchases. She also thought it was hilarious that I had stepped in some of the run off and also informed her clients of this...until she realized I was still their...she then tried to act concerned about whether or not I'd been able to get my shoes cleaned off...just how was I to do that? I told her I'd have to take care of it later...dumb bitch.
Fortunately I had another pair of shoes in my car and I was able to segregate my shoes for the ride home...where I hosed them off with the garden hose.
So the Dove of Hate is brewing a bristly browner for the Express Checkout girl and the slow reaction of the cleaning crew, who were probably playing "rock, paper, scissors" to figure out who would clean up the dung trail.
B-spot on the fecal front!

Tour de Produce

Alright folks it's time to get the Dove of Hate primed to drop a bristly browner on a total wankfest I encountered at my local grocery store.
I like to go the local "No Frills" in downtown Peterborough. You can get the goods for lower prices, you just have to bring your own bags and bag your own groceries. I like to slum it with the locals and save on luncheon meat so I gets jiggy wit it.
So this lovely Monday evening there I was minding my own business, pushing a shopping cart around the produce department when low and behold this ass-hammer comes riding his bike over to the potato display. Are you F*%kin' serious dude? It's a freakin' store...I don't want your shit-caked shoes let alone your mung infested bike rolling around on the floors. I'm not a psycho...but what the deuce? I couldn't frickin' believe it! You know what bugged me more...people were getting out of this assholes way so he could get through. Had I been closer I would've clotheslined him with some Polish Coil!
So look out above pale rider 'cause there's a brown cloud heading your way.
PS - Get a lock for your Supercycle and park it in the rack! WHUH!
B-spot on the edge

Picture This!

Hey Brahs, I'm just calming my nerves after a battle with "the man". Actually it was a woman...but really it's all about the establishment and I get a little irate when people who are bestowed a nano-smidgen of authority treat the general public like they're total morons.

Our story starts with a 77 year old woman attempting to pick up a registered letter from the post office. This particular 77 year old woman is my mother and she has never possessed a piece of photo identification. She has never had a drivers license and she does not own a new healthcard. Here in Canada we have universal health care and our old health cards do not require a picture...if you lose your card or it is damaged you have to replace it with one of the newer cards that does have a photo.
My mother had difficulty voting in the fall due to this lack of photo ID as well and was nearly denied the right to vote. I digress...
Anyway having missed the postal persons knock yesterday my mother had to go to a local postal outlet to retrieve her letter. This letter contained my mothers new passport...which is photo ID. Taste that irony!
At the outlet my mother presented her notice for the registered letter and the woman behind the counter immediately asked her for a piece of photo ID. My mother replied that she didn't have any ID with a photo on it, but did posses several other pieces of ID to verify who she was.
The woman heaved a tired sigh and told her she could not have her registered letter...which contained her passport...which was photo ID.
She did offer a solution though...did my mother know anyone at staff at this particular store who could verify who she was? Or had she ever had any prescriptions filled at their drug counter? If so she could then release the letter to her.
Odd?
My mother answered no to both options and I piped up that I was her daughter and I possessed photo ID and I could verify who she was...I was flatly refused. To which I replied, "That's a bit ridiculous." I gotta say at this point I was getting really pissed off.
I found it hard to believe that someone who had filled lets say my moms medical marijuana prescription or checked her out when she was purchasing an enema could verify her identity, but not a family member with copious amounts of ID.

And then some other broad who was mailing things piped in with..."That's the way it is all over the world."
Number one mind your own business, number the deuce...if you're not going to help the situation cram it with walnuts douche-tard.
Then the female warlock behind the counter started going off on a rant directed at me stating that,"I wouldn't think it was ridiculous if someone stole my identity and then sold my house."
Okay, number one I don't have a house, number the deuce if a criminal is bent on doing something they're gonna do it...number the thrice if you don't know what I look like before you hand over something to me how do you know that picture coincides with that persons information?...How do you know that my identity hasn't already been stolen by someone who has made a fake picture ID? How do you sleep on your pointy hair?

The helpful mouth piece who informed me that photo Id was a world wide phenomenon said to take my mother to get a new health card, because she did that for her 90 year old mother.
Yeah you're right we should get a new health card, since the old one still works, that sounds like a great waste of government resources. Wow you're awesome.

After a few more rude and unapologetic comments from the postal representative (shocking I know!) we left empty handed.
When we got home my mother called Passport Canada and then Canada Post.
They both offered her a list of Id that would suffice (without pictures) in order for her to claim her letter.
She then called the postal outlet and informed the woman she had just dealt with of what she had learned from Canada Post. The woman then claimed that my mother had said she didn't have any ID at all and that she would have happily turned the letter over to her had she produced any other identification.
LIAR!
I was standing right there. The minute my mother said she did not have photo ID that was all she wrote, she presented no options and merely went on to extole the virtues of this requirement for avoiding fraudulent mail pick up.
They argued back and forth for awhile and then I took my mother for round two.
When we got to the counter my mother produced some address Id and went digging for her healthcard...the woman then informed my mother that she was to produce her birth certificate as she indicated on the phone...
LIAR!
My mothers birth certificate was in the envelope with her passport...she had to send the original to get her passport and had made that very clear. Finally after much eye-rolling and soul searching the lady finally relented and settled for a signature. She professed she was very worried about this affecting her job if she was doing something wrong...lady get off your high horse enough already. Finally she asked if she could open the passport to verify that my mother was who she claimed to be. The minute she saw the picture she breathed a sigh of relief that could have been heard round the county.
She then gave us a pamphlet outlining ID requirements and informed me that if eventually I would have to fill out some forms to complete my mothers postal transactions when she was incapacitated. Okay she didn't use the word incapacitated but it was implied and thoroughly inappropriate.

(It reminded me of the little douche at a local funeral home who took me aside after my dad died and told me I should start planning for my mothers funeral...
but that's another story.)

My point is that sure rules are rules but my mother is not the only one to fall into this category of not possessing a photo ID. She is not a criminal. Sure there are white haired fraud artists everywhere but merely asking for photo ID is not going to thwart the cunning of the criminal mind. I'm all about people doing their jobs and doing them well. But if you're working with the public you need to at least try and play nice.
That said I'm lockin' and loadin' the Dove of Hate to drop a curdled deuce of justice on people who let a crumb of power and control go to their pea brains! So watch the skies all of you power hungry fast food restaurant managers, government peons and middle managers...who have let a taste of power taint your environment the Dove has been holding it for a long time and it ain't gonna be pretty!
B-spot on the semi-anti-establishment front!
WHUH!

Truly Tasteless Jokes

Every Monday night I take an endurance cyclefit class. It lasts for 90 minutes and our instructor often calls upon us to tell jokes to help pass the time between intervals. There have been a few drunken Irish/Scottish jokes and husband/wife jokes and I came out with this gem I'd recently heard to share with the group....
"What has 50 legs and 5 teeth?"

"The front row at a Willie Nelson concert"



Yeah it's a groaner, I didn't say I was some kind of superior joke teller, but if they really knew about the first thoughts that popped into my head in the joke arena they would probably have me psycho-analyzed and heartily beaten with a sock full of dung.

Whenever someone says..."Do you know any good jokes?" My mind immediately jumps to my youth and the truly tasteless jokes that we're burned into my brain during the 1970's and 80's.
For Example:
"Why did they cancel the lepers hockey game?"
Punchline "There were too many face-offs in the corners!"

Yeah it's not nice..but don't blame me, I didn't make it up.

Some people are able to rattle off topical jokes at the drop off a hat. Maybe they belong to a water cooler culture? Maybe they practice at home in front of a mirror just in case they are called on to perform.

I can't help it life is cruel and bad jokes are a right of passage so put that in your back pack.
So excuse me if when I'm asked to come up with a joke I immediately think of Helen Keller, Dead Babies and Lepers. I know that giggling at and repeating these jokes will earn me a special place in hell; where I will suffer from horrible facial and physical disfigurements, as well as reduced mental capacity. Don't blame me if life is cruel and bad jokes are a right of passage!
So put that in your backpack haters! WHUH!
And please...if you can remember any other truly tasteless jokes of your generation...be a dear and share them with the other souls of the damned!
B-spot...on the politically incorrect northern front!

The Old Man

Excuse me while I get a little sentimental for a moment haters. It happens from time to time and it proves that despite what my mother told me, I do have a heart.
Two years ago on March 4, 2006 my dad died. He was only 73 years old. That's him on the left delivering the Peterborough Examiner in the 1940's. Did somebody say cuffs?
He was not an educated man or a wealthy man. He was a man of few words. The words he did chose were generally pretty fantastic.
Instead of saying anything to vulgar in times of unbridled rage he liked to blurt out the word "Balls!" Like if he dropped a nail through the boards in the deck he might scream out "Balls!" instead of the more common "Shit" or "Mofo" common to fathers of more recent generations. I gotta say the only person I ever heard use balls as a cuss word was my dad.
It's part of his legacy and I won't let it die.
He also had some dandy insults. My personal favourite was the term "Sickening puke." As in, " That little brat over there is one sickening puke." I'm sure you all know a few little turds who deserve to be referred to in this manner; so don't hold back let those little "S.P.'s" know how you feel.
My dad also loved to watch shows where amateurs would share their talents in hope of hitting it big. Particularly comedy shows, but he saw the odd American/Canadian Idol type show too.
We would frequently hear the phrase "Don't quit your day job" being hurled at the screen as the latest victim stumbled through their performance. I never got tired of this phrase, I couldn't help but giggle when I heard it. Sometimes he couldn't control himself and he'd toss that phrase at news anchors and weather men too. My old man had some "A" material.
I drove around Ireland with my parents in 1999. My parents would reminisce about an old comedy album (you know the really thick vinyl ones) that they use to listen to "down home" at my moms parents farm near Kingston. Just in case you weren't aware, it rains alot in Ireland. Every day we would see rain clouds - almost on cue one of my parents would slyly say
"Looks like rain up ahead."
To which the other would respond with one of the following lines:
"We're driving right into it." or the even more popular, "But it tastes like carbolic acid!"
Oh the hilarity. We did that routine for years after!
My dad wasn't a touchy feely senso-dad (not that there's anything wrong with that) but he tried to show his affection in his own way. One of my fondest memories is one of my older sisters and I would get into our pj's and our parents would take us to Mister Donut in our old Dodge Monaco station wagon. We would go in and get hot chocolate and a bowtie. A bowtie was a specialty at Mister Donut (that was the ultimate donut shop, best sign ever! Apparently it's still "Big in Japan") it was a donut pastry about the size of a honey bun, but with chocolate icing and whipped cream on it. So decadent. It looked like a really big bowtie so we would pretend it was one before we devoured them in the backseat of the wagon! Oh the 70's, nothing like filling the kids with sugar then sending them off to bed! Boo Yeah!
The picture on the left was taken in Ireland in county Cork.
Things I'm glad I got to do with my dad:
1. Walk along the River Corrib in Galway Ireland
2. Have a pint at the Guiness factory in Dublin
3. Climb Blarney Castle (it's not the climbing that'll get you it's trying to get back down!)
4. Change the oil in my old car
5. Watch any show where unknowns were trying to make it big - "Don't quit your day job!" (see above)
So here's to you Dad.
B-spot on the touchy feely side.