The Mind of Spaz

Before we begin with today’s nonsense, I’d like to thank my buddy John from the Authoring Auctioneer.  He did an AWESOME AWESOME interview with me.  That guy should be on CNN or some shit.  Click HERE to read it, guaranteed not to disappoint.

Building a stripper pole in my parents bathroom wasn’t the only time I dropped a load in a museum.  I did so the other day at another museum with disastrous results.

Part of my job is to take care of my County’s numerous small water systems. Places like Community Centers, Arena’s and the like. Once such place is a small museum displaying items from our pioneer days.

The curators of said museum are display items in their own right, being as old or older than some of the display items themselves.

Fascinating.

I’m there the other day working on the treatment system.  The old guy was no where to be seen and I was glad because frankly, I wasn’t in the mood that day to inhale the aroma of old pee and regret.

It was then that lunch decided to come crawling out of my ass.  It almost seemed as if the chicken re-assembled itself in my colon and decided to come out and take a look around.

So, I ran to the antiquated shitter and dropped the Cosby kids off at the pool.

There was a problem.  It seemed that while the chicken wanted to check out the septic system, the rice and salad assumed a density of less than 1.  It also seemed that the chicken was just a tad too fat to fit down the hole.

These were the disastrous results.

Water came pouring up out of the toilet, taking the now brown and smelly rice and salad for a white water rafting adventure out the door and down the hallway toward the display of old farm bricks.  The poo wedged itself between the 150 year old trowel and the ancient wood mixing bucket.

Now I had a problem. I didn’t want to touch my poo but I couldn’t just leave it there.

Or could I?

After much thought, I drew up a sign that said “recreation of old time brick mortar.  Feel free to handle!” and stuck it in my fluffy ass child.

As I left the building, I couldn’t help but laugh as the local grade three class piled in for the tour.

Suckers.

poo, talking out of my ass I can get people to touch my shit, museums, old people, poo, projectile shitting

*Before I begin the following atrocity, please click here if you care at all about helping those without enough drinking water.

My Dog has a second name.  I didn’t give it to her.  Her given name is Jinx, but according to the guy across the street, her real name is Mrs. Young.

My across the street neighbors are an older, retired couple.  He’s a loud, cranky old bastard that has a voice louder than all the prosti-tots screaming at a Hanna Montana concert.  He combines that loud, booming voice by going topless in the summer time, letting his old man boobs swing freely in the breeze.  His wife compliments his drunken antics by saying virtually nothing at all and keeping her boobs covered by ensuring she always wears pants.

Since they’re retired, they spend all day staring at my house.

“But Spaz”, you’re all thinking, “Aren’t you just being a paranoid screwball?”  Ordinarily I’d agree I was being a paranoid ass.  But this time, I’m not.  How do I know?  Because Mrs. Young was the last owner of this house.

My house was built in 1950.  I bought it in 2005.  And I’m the second owner.  That means that the original owner I bought it from was REALLY REALLY REALLY old.    According to the old loud guy, my dog Jinx stares out the window all day while I’m gone, which is what old Mrs. Young used to do when she had the house.  And to know that, the retiree’s have to sit in their house and stare back at my house all day.

Martha, this owner leaves the house. Get some dog treats to distract Mrs. Young and I'll steal his TV.

Now, you have to think that if you’ve owned a house for your entire adult life, you become attached to it.  Heck, I’m attached to this house and I’ve only been here for three and a half years.

I’m not one to believe in ghosts, but there was this one time, just once, that old Mrs. Young came back for a visit.

And she came back at the most inopportune time.

I had went into the computer room to watch some… ummm, internet videos and have some…. alone time with Pamela Handerson, if you catch my drift.  The door was closed because Jinx, the ever curious terrier might confuse my tan coloured love pole with her tan coloured raw hides.

That’s not cool.

I was in the middle of watching a really cool video of a VERY flexible big boobed Asian when I heard it. A voice, an old ladies voice, right outside the door where jinx was sitting. It said “Don’t worry little one, he’ll be out soon.”

I like watching him best when he's making dookie.

Now, I haven’t heard anything since then. Most likely it was the T.V., but if Mrs. Young is watching, could you please tell me if that thing on my ass is a boil or a zit?

Thanks.

Uncategorized dogs, dookie, ghosts, old people, Palmela Handerson

Some people say getting older means getting better.

Really. Getting older means getting better.   And you know what?  They might be right.  In some cases.  To be honest, I enjoy being able to see, hear, remember, chew, and hold my bladder and bowels.  I especially enjoy being able to get an erection and being young enough that getting an erection only grosses out teenagers and lesbians.

Unless of course that one time at Sears. That was just inappropriate.  I’m sorry, employees of the womens undergarment department!

Anyways, what I’m saying is, if you can’t see the road, hear what’s going on, remember how to work a car, and make a mess in the drivers seat, what business do you have being behind the wheel of a Buick Roadmaster, let alone any two ton deathmobile?

Case in point, I do a lot of driving for my job.  I work for a small, old blood, white bred municipality in Ontario.  And I drive during the day, which means there are a lot of old people out and about, doing old people things.  Like going to the grocery store to buy a can of tomato soup or going head stone shopping, or whatever it is old people do.

I’m driving along an 80 km/h side road. About one kilometer down (3/4 of a mile for my more ignorant American readers), I saw a car slowly backing out of his laneway.  Slow. Real slow. Like he had it in neutral gravity motion slow.

Fine, fair enough. He was a long way away, and his driveway was icy.  I’ll give him that.  He then backs onto the road, pausing for a few seconds every four feet. Once he’s out on the road proper, he cranks the wheel so that his car is on a diagonal taking up both lanes, and stops.

Of course, he took so long that I was now stopped, waiting behind him.  Here, let me show you what that all looked like.

That’s right. He just STOPPED.  He then let off the brake to go forward, but his wheels were still cranked to the left so his car went forward in the direction of his house.  Apparently, this confused him, and straightening out his wheels to travel in a forward direction was too much for his liver spotted brain to handle.  He stopped again.

I was tired of this.  I put my truck in the shoulder and drove around him. As I was driving around I noticed how old he was.  He was fucking OLD.  I’m talking so old, I’m betting his Social Security Number was 000 000 001.

As I passed him, I honked my horn to let him know I was passing him, as he was busy looking at the gear shift in utter confusion.  And he did hear the noise, because his head jerked up and looked at me and my truck in utter shock, surprise and disbelief.

He didn’t even know that I was there, at all!

He didn’t know I was approaching. He didn’t know I stopped for him. He didn’t know I passed him until I honked my horn.

This guy backed out onto an 80 km/h road way without looking to see if any cars were coming.  He drove onto the road, and literally parked his car on both lanes of traffic OBLIVIOUS to the world around him!

You hear these stories all the time.  A few years back some old man got confused at an off ramp that exited on the left of the highway, and stopped his car. In the middle of the highway.  The person behind him managed to stop, but the guy behind him didn’t. Result?  Four dead people and the old man drove away, oblivious.

An old lady backed over a jogger and dragged her to her death. She didn’t feel the hit, didn’t hear the girls screams, and didn’t notice the frantic horn hoking and light flashing from the cars behind her.

What I’m saying is, some of these ancient people are so dumb and oblivious because of their failing senses and brain power that they are JUST as dangerous behind the wheel as those asshat gang bangers and their bang bang drive by shootings.

So here is what I propose.  After the age of seventy, old people have to take a driving test once a year.  If they fail, then they are given armored vehicles in a private course.  All the gang bangers that are arrested are given back their glocks and tech 90′s and put in this closed course with the old people.

The result? End of the gang bangers and the old coots do a service to their country before they are taken off the road to save the citizens.

All neat and tidy that way, don’t you agree?

‘Nuff Said.

politically incorrect, social commentary driving, oblivious idiots, old people