Sage Advice

As George Bernard Shaw said, “Youth is wasted on the young punks who live in my neighbourhood.” These are the idiots that steal booze and then walk the streets proclaiming how young and alive they are by shouting out “WOOOO!” at three in the morning, while decent people are loading their shotguns and waiting for them to place one Sketchered toe on their lawn. Fortunately for them, decent people are sympathetic to their emotional plights so the odds of teenage fatalities decrease because shortly after the three A.M WOOO fest, one of the girls will have a screaming fight with one of her BFF’s because of her indiscretions with Dylan or Dallas or Xerxes or whatever the fuck these kids are being named nowadays. Decent folk don’t have the heart to put an abrupt 12 gauge end to teenage angst.
I know that kids have problems like overdeveloped texting thumbs or emotional plights centered around TV shows on the CW network. So I understand that they have to let off some steam by attending rock and roll parties and engaging in unprotected open mouth kissing. That’s why I don’t despise the bitches and the corresponding sons of bitches. I believe in peace between the generations. That’s why I’ve decided to be nicer to old people.
When some crotchety old bastard tells me about the good ole days, no more will I daydream of hot fudge sundaes while he drones on and on. Now I will actually…well, not quite listen, but maybe daydream about something related to one minor point that he mentioned. Which is basically what everyone does anyway. Like my friend John. I would tell him this story: “So I was going to get my car washed and all of a sudden this dog ran into the road and I had to swerve out of the way so I didn’t hit him and while I was careening out of control, I went over the center line, crashed into a telephone pole and woke up 3 weeks later in the hospital. The doctor told me that I had been clinically dead for over 2 minutes. I knew that during those 2 minutes, I had seen God and found out that my destiny is to help mankind through…” at that point John would interrupt and say, “Yeah, I really need to wash my car too.”
Since I’m aware that nobody really listens or cares, once I get old enough to lecture young people, I intend to be brutally honest with them. Also, I’m going to keep it short and to the point. That way, at least I can rest assured that they got a quick dose of truth, even if they aren’t listening. Like:
“When I was your age, I was a lot better looking than you are now.”
or
“When I was your age, I had sex with your mom.”
I probably never had sex with their mom but I’ll say it anyway… because young people need to know that their mothers were skanks too. It gives them perspective and stuff. WOOOOOOOOO!

Suffering in Style

Spring is in the air and that means we only have 16 more weeks of winter to look forward to. As sure as Kristen Stewart is going to cry in any movie she stars in, we in Edmonton can rest assured that while the rest of the world swelters in tropical heat thanks to global warming, we will shiver through snowy days and bone chilling nights. A wise man said, “It’s kind of pointless complaining about the weather because there’s nothing you can do about it.” And I agree, it’s much more beneficial to complain about so called wise men and their pithy little observations.

But this doesn’t quite apply to me, because my observations, while almost always wise and sometimes pithy, are exactly what are needed in this cold world. My most recent observation concerns men’s jeans. Before you make some smarty assy comment about me observing men in their jeans, let me say that I’ve limited my observation to my own vast array of jeans, none of which fit me correctly. You may wonder if the reason they do not fit me is because I’ve lost weight and I’m quite svelte now, and that may be partially true, but the real reason is because men’s jeans are no longer comfortable.

Nowadays, men’s jeans are designed to ride a centimetre above the pubis in the front and halfway down the ass in the back. And why? Because some fashion designer decided that this is the “new look” and obviously hates men. If the fashion designer in question is a man, I would like to meet him personally and punch him in the dick.

I can sense you getting ready to make some crack about my age and how the older a man gets, the higher his pants sit, but you can just keep your mean spirited comments to yourself because the fact is, I agree! I’m no longer a young man and perhaps jeans are meant for younger men but I’ve grown up in jeans and I’m not ready to give them up yet. But damned if I can continue wearing jeans that I’m constantly forced to hike up every time I move an inch in any direction. Jeans are meant to be worn at the waist. They aren’t meant to be cinched up like the working end of a balloon, strapped seven inches below the belly button. God forbid I have to carry something and I don’t have a free hand to hike up the pants because in four steps or less, those jeans are around my knees, fully done up and buckled. It’s infuriating, but what’s the alternative? Wearing Wrangler jeans that are so tight that the casual observer can tell what my religion is? No, I cannot do that, because: 1. I’m not a cowboy. 2. I’m not a gay cowboy.

I have to admit that I loved the days when pants were worn a little loose, because let’s face it, a little loose is comfortable, but you just can’t find pants that are a little loose in my size. And I honestly have no clue what my size is anymore! If I want to buy a pair of pants that are a little loose, I would go up a size but one size up means that the jeans are still vise-like at the crotch but big enough at the waist to fit a toaster oven in there. What I’m trying to say is, no man should be forced to wear jeans that resemble a funnel with two spouts.

Of course the problem is that I don’t have a bubble butt, which I’m guessing is what is required to keep those jeans on. I have a man’s ass, which means that when I’m standing up, I can’t place something on top of it, like a glass, and expect it to sit there. But enough about my perfect ass… the point is, I don’t know why these jeans were invented. Are they meant to be worn without a shirt? Is the whole point to see what brand my underwear is? If that information is so damn important, just ask me!

I’ve only got a few more years to go before my jean wearing days are over and I have to resort to pants that are worn just under the arm pits, so I’d like to make those years count. Can we please pass a moratorium on these god awful jeans so we can get back to moving around without running the risk of mooning the world? Not that the world doesn’t deserve it…

you NEED a new vehicle!

Any good mechanic will tell you the most important thing to look for when buying a new vehicle is the color. Of course, sometimes you have to take other things into consideration, like making sure it has a steering wheel. As a very wise and taller than average consumer, I took it upon myself to shop for a new vehicle, one that would fit my needs as a commuter and as a masculine man.
You might suppose that being a man has nothing to do with shopping for a new vehicle but that is where you are wrong and completely idiotic. Of course being a man comes into play when buying a car, or in my case, a big truck. You see, us men have to maintain our image when it comes to vehicles, or anything that has an engine, a motor or even an electrical cord sticking out of it. Even if, like me, you know next to nothing about cars, as a man, you have a reputation to uphold and that means one thing: Never show weakness.
The first step in buying a vehicle, aside from knowing what color you want, is to know what KIND of vehicle you want. If you want something that has good gas mileage, you’re obviously a boring twit. However, if you want something that makes a lot of noise and comes in black, then you’re probably pretty cool, with great hair and a fantastic physique and members of the opposite sex want to get with you. Since that description pretty much sums me up to a frickin T, I went off one rainy Saturday to buy a loud black truck.
I saw the ad for the truck I wanted in the paper and so early in the morning I drove way down to the south side of the city. Normally, I try not to go beyond a 12 block radius of my house if I need to buy anything because I believe in keeping it local, but that day I was prepared to make the long drive to the dealership in order to buy my truck. I was determined, even going out in the rain, sleet and snow (it was a dreary day, my friends) but after wandering around the lot, getting soaked and feeling like a drowned rat, it was clear that the truck from the ad wasn’t there. I should have been prudent and left right then and there, but suddenly, as if from a dream, a salesman appeared, demanding that he assist me. He was a tiny East Indian man who came up to my waist. I was firm and told him “No, the truck I want isn’t here.” But then he said, “Why don’t you come inside. We have hot coffee.” I’m not a coffee drinker but when he added, “There’s also hot chocolate.” I couldn’t resist, because I knew it would be free and dammit, I’m a shrewd consumer.
As we walked toward the office, I spotted another big black truck and went over to it but it was more expensive than the one I wanted and there was a sold sign on it. My persistent little salesperson insisted that he would sell me that truck or die trying. He would track down his sales manager and force him to sell me the truck. Suddenly, he ran off into the rain, dodging cars and leaping over puddles in a breathtaking display of energy and wherewithal. I watched him for a few seconds and then I remembered the hot chocolate so I went inside the dealership and stood around, sipping my beverage. I was only approached by 74 different salespeople during the half hour that I stood there, watch the tiny salesman run laps around the building outside. When he re-appeared, wearing a huge smile and looking like a soaking wet kitten (kind of sad, but kind of funny too) he said that because of his efforts, the truck was now available. My theory is that he ran around the building at supersonic speed, like Superman did in Superman II, and managed to reverse time, back to a point where the person who wanted to buy the truck opted for the fuel efficient Prius instead.
So the process of me buying the truck began. First we discussed trade in value for my SUV – they were prepared to make a generous offer of $42.00 but again, I was very shrewd (remember the free hot chocolate) and declined. Then we haggled over the price of the new truck. They wanted $27,000.00 but I managed to talk them down to $29,000.00. The deal was done, hands were shaken, celebratory free hot chocolate was shared and then for some reason they stuck me in an office while they prepared the paperwork. I only had to wait a half an hour before the effects of being soaking wet began to sink in. I began to shiver and make snorting noises with my nose every few seconds. I was feeling miserable but fortunately another salesman appeared, holding a bunch of papers the size of a New York phone book.
The flurry of pages being signed began and I was desperate to get out of there and get myself some chicken soup. But then he began to tell me about vital options that had to be purchased or someone very close to me might have an “accident”. I refused the undercoating option and the salesman looked very shocked and hurt – as if someone refusing that necessary service was either retarded or very retarded. After 10 minutes of pitching the service and me refusing, he left me alone to think about it for another 20 minutes. Then he reappeared with a brochure offering the exact same service that I had refused. He went through each picture and caption in slow, mesmerizing detail and when I refused again, he left me alone. That time for half an hour.
Then a scary looking woman came in and told me she was the supervisor and that some people might think I was borderline insane if I didn’t get the truck undercoated. I refused and then she asked if I saw the brochures. I said I had, then asked me again if I would reconsider purchasing them. I said no. Then she looked very sad, mumbled something about her terminally ill mother needing an operation and the only way to pay for it was by me buying the undercoating. When I refused again, she burst into tears ran out of the room crying, “Oh mommy, I’m sorry I let you down!”
Half an hour later the second salesperson came back, said something about the scary looking woman committing suicide because I wouldn’t buy the undercoating, and then spread more brochures out in front of me. He looked at me with imploring eyes, “Frank, can I call you Frank?” I said no. Then he showed me pictures of starving children in Africa who didn’t buy the undercoating package. I felt bad for them, but still refused. So he left me alone in the office again, presumably giving me a chance to commit ritual suicide to salvage my honour over refusing the option.
After another half hour a group of salespeople gathered outside the window, pointing at me and shaking their heads. I can’t read lips, but I’m pretty sure I could make out “undercoating” being brought up a few times. When the very first salesman appeared again, he reminded me how he got me hot chocolate and ran around the building in the rain. I told him I really appreciated his efforts and then he said, “But yet you spit in our faces when we offer you undercoating, which will not only prevent rust, but will act as a guardian angel, protecting you from evil.” When I said no, he narrowed his eyes as if he were contemplating spitting on me. He left the room.
I stared out the window, wiping my nose on my sleeve, sniffling and shivering, missing my home and my loved ones. Then the saleswoman appeared again, looking refreshed, presumably because while I spent the last 2 hours sitting in Interrogation Room 2, she had sold someone some undercoating. She smiled a chilling smile and looked down at the paperwork in front of us, checking to see what my name is. “Frank, may I call you Leonhardt?” I said no, because that was my middle name. She didn’t appear to hear because she wrote some numbers down on a piece of paper and turned it toward me. “Leonhardt, that is half price on undercoating.” When I didn’t respond because of the pneumonia that had set in, she said, “Leonhardt, I’m going to keep calling you that until you sign off on that goddamn undercoating.” Her voice sank down to a menacing whisper, “Because if you don’t, I will go to your house and kill your dog. I will call your boss at work and tell him that you steal. I will never, ever let you out of this room until you buy that undercoating. Leonhardt, I will make your life a living hell if you don’t…”

I got the fucking undercoating.

Trust no one

When it comes to believing information furnished by the media, I think I fall somewhere in between “healthy sceptic” and “ruggedly handsome”. You can’t be too trusting when it comes to things like scientific studies. You may think that because they stick the word “scientific” in there that it has to be true, unbiased and based on impartial observation and data gathering. I was shocked to learn that the “Institute for Hating Puerto Ricans” released a scientific study finding that over 98% of Puerto Rican’s were “a bunch of jerks.” This was followed by another report by the group “Scottish Terrier Lovers” who discovered through scientific studies that “Scottish Terriers are great dogs.”

Of course the above is a fictional account, because obviously everyone loves Puerto Ricans and hates Scottish Terriers, but in reality, many think tanks and groups aren’t all that unbiased when they release their reports. Even so, in a rare show of scepticism, the scientific community was up in arms a few years ago when my mother reported that “Frank Kress is a wonderful, talented young man.”

But not everyone is as honest and forthright as my mom. When confronted with information released by anyone, you have to ask the question, “cui bono?” which is Latin for “Who the hell is that Irish Pop Star?” Actually, it means “Who benefits?” For example, when a large group of scientists get a gazillion dollars in funding for their research on climate change, they will probably release some studies that support not only what they believe, but also make it quite clear that the truth can only be found with some more funding. Not much funding goes to other groups of scientists who say, “There’s nothing going on with climate change – history has shown that the climate changes, so what?” People who say, “Everything is all right” don’t get any dough. There’s no money in things being just fine. Thus the debate goes on and who are you going to believe? Personally, I believe in the first group, the ones that say bad things are going on, because they’re obviously smarter. The second group must be idiots because they aren’t bright enough to get that sweet moolah they hand out for environmental studies. How can you trust someone that dumb?

The point that I’m trying to get across is that you should always be a little bit sceptical, because that’s healthy, but only a little bit of scepticism is good, otherwise you won’t believe everything I say, no matter how crazy it may sound. Me you can trust, the other guys… ehhh, not so much. Being too sceptical may lead to ulcers and paranoia and being too trusting leads to purchasing time share condominiums. Personally, as sceptical as I can be, I’m actually quite naïve, like when someone says, “Frank, you look good in that shirt” but they say it with a nasty little smirk and roll their eyes, I still believe them, because let’s face it, that shirt suits me.

The important thing in life is to find that happy medium or medium rare depending on the cut of beef.

Kids suck

I think that we can all agree that in every single aspect imaginable, dogs are better than kids. A dog can be trained to “sit” “stay” and “hurry up and do your business so I can go back inside” whereas a child can not be trained in any of those things. Some of you will probably say, “That is an unfair comparison and you shouldn’t make kids poop outside in the yard.” I am quite sure that even more of you will argue that your own child is “special” and “gifted” and will sit and stay on command and even shake a paw. Then you’ll go on and on about how your 3 year old can already read at a grade 2 level and how their stupid drawings are really artistic and junk. Then you’ll whip out some sappy picture of them holding up a fish, looking all proud like they just won the Nobel Prize. You parents just make me sick.

Not that any of you sanctimonious know it all parents will ever agree with me, but the facts about dogs vs. kids is plain as day. Sure, dogs have their drawbacks, but let’s stack those side by side and see who comes out the winner.

Doggie Drawback: A dog cannot communicate with words.
Kiddie Drawback: A kid cannot communicate with words and doesn’t even have a tail that they can wag.
Doggie Drawback: A dog can bark at anything, at anytime.
Kiddie Drawback: A kid can pitch a fit at anytime, anyplace and if they do it long enough, onlookers will call social services on you.
Doggie Drawback: A dog can have a “mistake” in the house.
Kiddie Drawback: Anytime a kid goes potty in his pants, it’s a mistake that someone else has to clean up and it smells a hell of a lot worse than a dog’s mistake.
Doggie Drawback: A dog will sniff a stranger’s crotch.
Kiddie Drawback: A kid will loudly exclaim in front of a stranger, “Mommy, what’s wrong with that lady’s face?!?!”

So far, even with the dog’s bad points, they still come out on top. Before I elaborate even further with iron clad arguments, let me explain the reason behind this post. I was witness to even more proof to my theory as a woman was walking with her snot nosed little brat beside her and a man was walking toward her with his harmless little doggie. As the two pairs met, the man and woman began to chat about something and suddenly the little doggie grasped the woman’s leg and attempted to, well, hump it. The woman screamed and I attempted to help by pointing and laughing. The woman then shook the dog off, sending the ball of fur tumbling away in unrequited love while the she-devil woman screeched to the man, “That dog tried to rape me!!!!” Then her adorable little whippersnapper in Oshbegosh coveralls began to wail like a demented little Satan and ran off down the street. The woman then pointed her evil finger at the man and yelled, “Look what you did to my son! He’s so upset!” She took off after her son, who was probably going to the store to yank stuff off the shelves and stomp on them while I went across the street and patted the dog on the head, “Good Dog” I said.

It could be posited that while dogs are cuter and better behaved than children, that dog will never grow up and become another Einstein. But let’s face it, your kid will probably never grow up to be another Einstein either, no matter how proud he looks holding up that stupid fish that some adult probably helped him catch. No, a dog will not grow up and solve world hunger or cure cancer, but so far, no grown up kid has done that either.

Truly, the list of positives that I could summarize regarding dogs and how they basically kick kid’s asses is long and would involve many humorous anecdotes but let’s get right to brass tacks: let’s talk money. A dog will cost you about 50 bucks a month, while a kid, assuming he plays a sport well enough to gain admission to college, will cost you roughly 15,000 a month, not including legal fees and bail money. It’s simple economics.

Before you angry parents out there write me long winded letters stained with peanut butter and jam about how great kids are, let me just brilliantly conclude this post with a simple pat on your head, “Good parent, who’s a good parent, why you are, oh yes you are!”

Next post: Why the next generation are a bunch of morons and the world is doomed because all they know how to do is spend their parent’s money, obsess about celebrities, deal dope and tweet on twitter.

Give till it hurts...

I’m a very charitable person. The other day while I was walking to the homeless shelter to hand out orphans or something, it occurred to me that I may be too generous for my own good. One time I bought a can of corn and put it in the food bank bin and was feeling pretty darn good about myself until I got home and suddenly had a real craving for some corn. But instead of enjoying some quality canned corn, I had to do without while some hungry homeless person was chowing down. Obviously that isn’t right. So I ordered a large pizza, ate a couple pieces and threw the rest away. I did that to balance out the universe so our world wouldn’t be thrown into chaos. No thanks are necessary.

My generous spirit was once again made manifest when I performed my twice monthly ritual of staring at my pay stub and weeping bitterly. Apparently, in some mad fit of charitable goodness, I decided to give away a third of my money to the government. I don’t remember offering, but I must have, because if someone takes your money without asking that is called stealing and obviously the government wouldn’t do something like that.

I got to thinking about taxes and you may think that this lead to more weeping and possibly gnashing of teeth and the odd blood curdling scream, but no, it all made sense to me. The pieces all fell into place. Taxes make sense. I mean, I really should pay the government as a way of saying thanks for letting me work, sometimes up to 60 hours a week.

When we elect a government, we are essentially saying to them, “Congratulations, you now own the country and everything in it. Thanks for letting me live here.” So if you use gasoline, you have to pay tax on it, because the government owns the ground and everything under it. If you use their stuff, you have to pay for it. Fair is fair.

Whenever I buy something, I have to pay the government, because it’s theirs. Even if it was made in China, which nowadays, everything is. Because when that stuff hits Canadian Soil, ownership reverts to the government. Which, of course, is the natural way things work. Like when you were a kid and you accidentally kicked your ball into the neighbor’s yard and the crotchety old lady who lived there said, “It’s my ball now” and then slithered back into her house to add the ball to her collection. Same principle.

And they tax my cigarettes a lot, like really a lot, because that helps to pay for all the sick people that my cigarettes are hurting, like that guy who was hit by a car. I suppose that’s a bad example, a better one would be all the people who are over 70 years old who live in various parts of the country, accounting for 70% of all health care costs because they go to the hospital once a week, which of course is caused by my second hand smoke. The government is looking out for its people and makes sure that everything is even steven and believe you me, looking out for every single person in the country ain’t cheap.

So if you think about the thousands of taxes that we pay, don’t get upset and try to figure out a way not to pay them. If you don’t pay your taxes you get arrested and thrown in jail where all the other tax payers have to pay to keep you fed and stuff. That wouldn’t be fair to the other people who don’t get to go to jail and have to pay taxes.

Plus, the government gives you money back every year at income tax time. Unless you didn’t give them enough, then you have to pay them more, but whatever. The fact is, the government has invented this option that will allow you to OVERPAY them every cheque and they’ll hang on to that money for you, keeping it safe and sound for you until April and then they’ll give some it back to you. I think that’s a very sweet gesture, because you, being the idiot that you are, would probably just squander that money on useless luxuries like food and shelter.

So when you think of taxes, think of all the good stuff that it brings about, like more government. If a little works, a lot will work a lot better. If you still feel a little down, remember that without a whole mess of taxes, we wouldn’t have wonderful things like:

1. A strong military to keep foreign people safe from other foreign people in foreign lands.
2. A health care system that allows you plenty of rest and relaxation during your 4 hour emergency room wait time.
3. A hockey arena in a city that you don’t live in.

That’s only 3 exquisite things and I bet if you try, you can come up with hundreds, maybe even thousands of other examples! So don’t despair over the privilege of paying taxes, because you know that all that money is being spent to make your life better.

a shelter from the storms

I believe it was the poet Longfellow who wrote, “Ere the season ends, I shall grill my steak under the cover of some kind of shelter, to keep the snow off my food.” Like the poet Longfellow, I too have a weird name. But that wasn’t going to stop me from constructing a shelter over my BBQ. I wouldn’t allow Mother Nature, Old Man Winter, Jack Frost or the Easter Bunny to stand in my way. I was committed, I was prepared, I was driven by that pioneer spirit that burns in all our breasts, thighs and wings.

Someone once said (perhaps it was Longfellow) that a plan is just a list of things that can go wrong. Well said Longfellow! My plan was more than a list of things that could go wrong, it was a list of things that did go wrong and then went even wronger. Much like the word “wronger” everything I was doing was incorrect and as poorly thought out as my grammar.

First, I made a list, which is never a good idea. The list was far too detailed to begin with. It began:
1. Write a list
2. Get a pencil

And so on. I didn’t even get to the shelter until the 17th item on my list. So I decided that a list was a terrible idea and no architect ever began a great project by rooting through my junk drawer looking for a pencil, holding up a bunch of elastic bands and asking, “Why do I keep these things? When will ever need a bunch of elastic bands? And what the hell is this? A single paper clip! Why would I feel the need to keep a single paper clip, hidden away in the back of the drawer under a grocery receipt from 2008? Why would I keep that? For tax purposes? Did I think that I could write off a bottle of ketchup? Or was I somehow dissatisfied with the ketchup and hoped to return it?” As you can see, building a shelter can be a long, drawn out process, fraught with many rhetorical questions.

As you may recall, the shelter had a flat roof, which would not work at all. So I took a few boards off, just to see if I could reconstruct a beautifully shaped gabled roof with the current layout. It wasn’t quite clear to me, so I took a few more boards off.

After much deliberation (a few days, possibly more than a week) I decided that the roof would have to be completely rebuilt so I took the remaining boards off. After it was off, I decided that without that strengthening support, the shelter was pretty wobbly. So I spent a few moments shaking the shelter, testing its structural integrity. We get a lot of snow here in the winter and I was concerned that all that snow could send my roof crashing down on my steak and by extension, my head. Using complex formulas, I calculated the weight per square foot of snow by climbing on top of the shelter and hanging off the end, impersonating a bunch of heavy snow. Y’know, just to see. It was then that my nosy neighbor called out to me from the other side of the fence, “Whacha doin’ there?”

I won’t record the conversation because obviously anyone who uses the word, “Whacha” is not going to offer any insightful contributions to a project of that magnitude. After 45 minutes of me not listening to his helpful advice which came in the form of, “Whacha wanna do is put that support beam on the top of the…” So that was one day wasted. I couldn’t very well go back to work after being told in no uncertain terms where to place a support beam and having absolutely no intention of following his directions. This was MY project after all.

The next day (or maybe it was a week later) I decided that the current layout of the walls wasn’t quite right so I decided to take down a few boards. Once those were put aside I pondered the walls again and took down a few more boards. My shelter had to be just perfect and I would brook no short cuts, no design errors, no single board out of place. So I took a few more boards off.

As I stood there looking at the gutted remains of the shelter, it occurred to me that the whole thing would need to be rebuilt. So I took a few more boards off. Before I knew it, I had no shelter and a big pile of lumber and the clouds overhead were threateningly black with snow. I quickly took a few more boards off.

With the shelter completely taken apart it occurred to me then that perhaps the most important aspect about having a BBQ that burns wood as fuel is that it requires wood. I also noted that I happened to have a big pile of wood that used to be my shelter. Using more complex mathematical formulas, I figured that if I just burned the shelter I could grill a lot of steaks. Sometimes, failure is a lot easier to stomach when said stomach is filled with steak.