Drifting

I am weightless, here in illuminate darkness I can only drift. It's been ages since I encountered another out here, there is nothing to attract me or repel me. Stuck out here alone I can occasionally catch a whisper coming from a far off place, a planet, a star, maybe another drifter like me. Every day I watch the needle on my oxygen tank get a little lower. Is there a planet out here that's meant for me? And will I find it before the needle is finally at rest? Sometimes I talk to the far away stars, ask them if they have a planet I would survive or thrive on. Flat whispers return, I couldn't quite make it out. Think they said 'no' again.

Hang on, I'm getting close to that planet... I can hear it! There's people down there singing, it's the most beautiful melody I've ever heard! Maybe if I can just angle myself this way... okay, I'm on course for it! I can't wait to get down to the surface, to breathe real air, breathe life itself, and most of all I want to sing that beautiful melody with those people. Nearer now... what the hell was that flash? A large meteor shot past me, aimed right for my planet. My would be planet. Having to witness the further destruction of hope for a home, my soul bled. The force of the explosion blasted me away to the far side of the system. More alone than ever, I just floated and stared at that needle. My panicked breathing had accelerated it's descent. My melancholy turns to rage, and I scream into the darkness for the right planet to give me some sign, some indication that it exists, so that I might find it. My rage turns back into melancholy as the universe does not answer.

How long have I been drifting? The needle doesn't tell me the time, only the time left. It won't be long now. Huh... another planet way over there. If the universe sees fit to destroy this one, I'll have to give up finding my place entirely. Not enough oxygen to make it to another. I hear no singing from here, monotone beeps, and aggressive boops, but nothing I would call a song. I don't like this planet, but I'll land for a refill of oxygen. After that, I'm going back into space. Alone.

Unfiltered Rambling

TVs (among with all other technological wonders) have programmed us to be unfocused. We eat or clean while watching TV, barely focusing on the show. And if we do focus on the show, have no fear, the commercials will be there to break our focus. So, we end up checking our phones to see what Bob Saget is up to, or we just stare blankly at the ad for yoghurt that we know by heart. Anything but actual thinking.

The only time the average person uses the forgotten function of their brain ("imagination") is when they're in the shower or lying awake at night. And the average person will tell you that they win arguments in the shower and solve global problems right before they sleep. Poor fucks are cheating themselves out of perceiving the world in creative new ways, or imagining new and better worlds where Bob Saget will respond to your tweets. All because they think they need to be engaged by external sources at all times.

Every other toy these days is some singing-flashing-sensory-overload-piece-of-crap (probably some conspiracy Duracell orchestrated so they'll stay in business). New generations are being trained to be unfocused unimaginative little darlings even worse than we were. I know religion is getting more and more unpopular, but nonreligious people often forget that a lot of good ideas are put forth by religions (that crucifixion bit was classic*!). The Sabbath was to be a day to rest and to worship this God fellow (apparently he was a rather stand up gentleman). Since ancient times lacked our spaz-happy forms of entertainment, the Sabbath was essentially a day of contemplation. We, on the other hand, use our weekends to go to the bar, watch TV, or relax with some friends. Those things are all fine, but we should leave ourselves enough time to keep holy the Sabbath. The Sabbath allows our subconscious mind to be a bit more conscious. Maybe it always speaks to us, but we don't hear it because there were reruns of Breaking Bad that needed our full attention.

If I ever accidentally get a girl pregnant, and my Home Alone style traps around the house fail to cause a miscarriage, I think I'll promote my child's imagination. I'll ground the little bastard for no reason and tell him/her to think about what they've done. That's parenting the Randall way!


*yes yes, Romans blah blah blah.

The best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be.

Shit-tits and nipple-dicks. My other grandfather died. I was getting a little old to have a grandfather, but I'll miss him anyhow. I have a pretty good imagination, and even I can't conceive of a reason someone would dislike him. Except his wife. She had every reason to complain about him. After all, she was married to the greatest jester I've ever seen.

I remember him teaching us (my brothers and I) piano. We didn't tickle ivories, we smashed our fingers into the table while chanting "PEE-ANN-O, PEE-ANN-O." This was to inform the women-folk that we wanted our dessert. Sadly, the silly old bints never got the message, as our cake never arrived any faster (and was sometimes fed to the dog out of spite).

What with all the mass graves and genocide, being a jester in the army was difficult, but my Papa managed. Once he was done liberating Italy he and the other Canadian soldiers relieved themselves on the Tower of Pisa. That is how it came to lean. After drinking and chasing skirts in France, Italy, the Netherlands, and finally Germany (not to mention all that boring liberation business), Papa sent his troops home. You may not think of it, but someone had to stay behind and organize all the trips home. I suppose that was his punishment for repeatedly pranking superior officers (by putting all of their underwear in a bucket of water in the freezer).

Papa could create fun from boring, a trip to a sports game could be more fun than watching Sealy stocks rise as the Blue Jays shit the bed. Before every overpass he would yell at us to duck. For a kid, it's a fun game to spot bridges ahead of time and duck before your brothers. We would measure trips in numbers of bridges rather than hours or kilometres. I still do this, but it's tough to explain to the Ontario Provincial Police after you've rear-ended a Buick on the 401.

Whether awful or hilarious (or hilariously awful), Papa always had a joke ready. He used to tell us he was good at three subjects in school: recess, lunch, and arithmatic. It might sound like an old, lame joke, but that motherfucker could times his wobbly-assed tables. He could legitimately do a math problem before my stupid piano-hands could finger the cuntulator 'til it multiplied its orgasm by i*

I've lost my train of thought. Perhaps I should fire the conductor. Seriously Miguel, I hired you because I thought you could do the job for less money, don't be fucking around now. Anyway, even at 87, Papa was independent. Whether he was just putting chairs away after a card game or taking his scooter to visit his wife who had severe Alzheimers. On the way there he would make a point of honking at some 60 year olds and telling the "young whippersnappers to get out of the way". Yes, my grandfather called people whippersnappers. He was so independent he could win Euchre games without a partner. He could make it on a 9 and take all 5 tricks. If you don't play euchre, that means:
a) he was really good at Euchre
b) you are a piece of human garbage and should learn to play some fucking Euchre.

I came quick, the whore of the week yelled at me. Papa went quick and I thanked him for it. No need to watch a great man suffer. His senile wife had forgotten him, so he decided this plane of existence had nothing left to offer him. He went to jest in some other realm. I've always seen just two options when faced with tragedy: you can laugh, or you can cry. I choose to laugh and celebrate the good times.
To celebrate, my Papa always picked the most extravagent clothing, be it a flashing hat, or a singing tie, he was always prepared to catch people off guard. The manager at the retirement home made him sound like a lovable dog, "he was into everything here. He would play with everyone, he would make us all smile." However, my favourite comment came from a man who was described as crochety on a good day. As I was cleaning out Papa's room he came over and told me to "stop making so much god damn noise... and I miss your grandfather."

*This joke brought to you by Bo Burnham.

Rye Night

For other kids, Halloween was that special time when you could be something you're not.  You could be Satan himself  and still be considered a lovely little child (instead of being acknowledged as the borderline retarded little quiff that you are).  I, on the other hand, never had any interest in being the saviour of the planet or the harbinger of its destruction.  Halloween was the one day I just wanted to be myself, I wanted to get away from the masks, not put another one on.  Trouble was I wasn't allowed to be 'me' for Halloween, that wasn't normal.  If I didn't wear a costume I was not allowed to go out.  I tried to articulate why I didn't want to dress up as something else but failed.  Me being a child paired with the fact that explaining things was synonymous with 'talking back' in my parents' eyes, I never could clarify my desire. 

And so, I was forced to be a dinosaur, or a vampire, but I was never allowed to be the thing that terrified me the most: myself.

I remember Halloween when I was six years old.  I was living in a new town, and didn't have friends yet, so I needed a parent to accompany me on my quest for toothaches and gut-rot.  My father worked a lot and I didn't get to see him much, so I asked him to come along.  He had very little time to himself as it was, but he agreed.  I was ready to shoot out the door and start amassing a saccharine empire, but my father made me wait.  He fixed himself a large drink of rye, and we began our trip through the suburbs.  After a few houses, I was so excited that I couldn't think straight.  My father stopped me and asked "Did you remember to say thank you?".  It sounded like he was interrogating a murderer.  I guess dad always kept murderers and rude people side by side in his mind.  I told him that I had forgotten and I went back to the house to say thanks.  Dad sipped his rye.  He always had the ability to seem like a moral paragon while breaking open container laws. 

"You ready to empty that pillowcase?  Looks like it's getting heavy!"  It wasn't.  He needed to refill his drink.  We repeated this process a few times, finally ending with him insisting that I looked really tired and should go to bed.

In my adult life I finally granted my own wish, like some manner of genie autofellatio.  I drank rye all night and was completely myself, not stifling my most inner thoughts.  I was feared and adored by the locals, like any good ... uh, Halloween guy.

Years later my brothers and I still refer to Halloween as 'rye night' and one of my brothers takes his kids out Trick or Treating with a large glass of rye in hand.  Sound like bad parenting to you?  Perhaps, perhaps not.  What I do remember is that my dad spent what little free time he had making sure his son was happy and well behaved.  It doesn't matter to me that he needed alcohol to do it.

Musical Instruments

Nobody Does Funerals Like My Family (Bittersweet Symphony)

I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral- the Barenaked Ladies, One Week.

Grandpa died. He was better than you at everything. I went to the funeral home for the visitation. My SJ father asked me why I shaved (I had been growing a beard) which is ironic because he previously used to threaten to ground me for not shaving. I looked through a photo album, noting that my brother would insist on giving the shocker in a photo even when he was an infant. I looked through my grandpa's old report card (expecting high marks since he later became a teacher) only to find that he received a 28% in arithmetic. Even sadder was he was ranked second in the class for math. Despite other lackluster marks, the teacher noted that "[Grandpa] is doing very well indeed." Who knows, maybe there were only two people in that class.

My brother's and I were in standard form, that is, as inappropriate as possible. Ringleader grabbed his girlfriends tit not ten feet from the casket. Grandpa would have wanted it that way.

I talked to many of my Grandpa's friends, many whom I had never met before. I asked one, Ralph, how he had met my Grandpa. He told me that he had been golfing alone and noticed that my Grandpa was golfing alone as well, so they had decided to go together. Ralph scoffed as my Grandpa wound up his shot with only one arm (a stroke had left his other arm nearly useless). Ralph ended up getting his ass kicked. He didn't know that my Grandpa was better than him at everything.

The funeral director approached me and asked me who the hot, tall, blonde chick was. I told him that she was my fifteen year old cousin. The funeral director replied "No, uh I meant that other blonde chick. The short one." The short blonde chick told me that she couldn't believe that she was jealous of a fifteen year old.

Proving that he is classy once and for all, my brother makes fart noises with his hands and discusses how he wants to leave an upper decker in a Dairy Queen bathroom. We reminisce about how our Grandpa used to fart involuntarily and tell his bum to shut up. I laugh so hard that I hurt myself. My Grandpa was better at flatulent comedy than you.

Prior to my Grandpa's death, my Facebook status had read "I'm growing a beard for Manuary to raise awareness for my face." In response to this Ringleader slapped my face a few feet from the casket and informed me that his hand was familiar with my face.

The visitation was over, so we went to my Grandpa's favourite restaurant to honour him (I'll uuse as many fuucking 'u's as I want oumw). We went to the Keg for dinner, oh wait no. My Grandpa was a real man so he liked to go to the truck stop to hang out with real men. My Grandpa is better at being a man than you.

After dinner I drank my depressive (or derpressive) face off, anxious about fucking up the eulogy I was going to give the next day (with the help of my brothers.)

My three brothers and I took turns reading what we were going to say. After each speech we responded as a chorus with "Nicely written, asshole."

My nephew said goodnight to us by telling us that we had herpes on our respective lips. Three year olds are fuckin' perceptive.

memory deleted

At the funeral the priest informed us that my Grandpa had saved him from going to jail. I think he was serious. He told us that my Grandpa used to read Bible verses at his church. The priest told us that my Grandpa had once been reading a passage and had leaned on the lectern too much and made it topple over along with himself. Apparently unfazed he continued reading the passage while the churchgoers tried to upright him. My Grandpa is better at focusing than you.

It was time to give the eulogy. Two of my brother's struggled but made it through with the support of the remaining two brothers. Ringleader knocked it out of the park. Despite being shy and socially awkward, I too knock it out of the park. I am reminded of the time that 30+ people told me that I am the greatest public speaker they had ever seen.*

The priest talked about the right hand giving us all pleasure. He was talking about Jesus being the right hand of God, but still most of us had a good chuckle.

As a pall bearer I had to lift my Grandpa's casket into a tiny burial plot. The graveyard was way too small and I nearly tripped over a tombstone while attempting to get my Grandpa into his grave.

Afterwards several people came up to me to tell me some variation of "Your Grandpa would be proud" "You spoke so well" "I hope my grandchildren will read as well as you." There were too many of them to be just a coincidence. I, Randall, like my Grandpa, am better than you at everything.

*Excerpt from my part of the eulogy:

I used to think that I had a firm grasp on the English language. That was before I saw my Grandpa talk to some of his fellow Newfies. I remember the joke/riddle he once told me that was clear to his Newfie relatives, but was baffling to me. It was as follows [said as fast as possible]: "Two legs sitting on three legs, with one leg in his lap.  Along comes four legs takes one leg from two legs, up jumps two legs, throws three legs at four legs and gets his one leg back again." To the Newfies it was clear that it was a story of a man on a stool, his leg of lamb, and his dog. The confusion brought on by that joke is one of my favourite memories of my Grandpa. Another one of my favourite memories of my Grandpa was actually my final one. My three brothers and I all had the privilege of having our final words to him be "I love you." And you can't ask for a better memory than that.

I get bored at work

Sometimes when I listen to music at work I replace the word "eyes" with "ass" in any song that has the word.  Here are a few of the more amusing results:

"I want to spend the whole night in your ass" - Lonestar, Amazed
"She can wound with her ass" - Billy Joel, She's Always a Woman
"Little girl dry your ass daddy's on his way" and "Why can't you open your ass and see that they're dying inside?" - Student Rick, A Child's Cry