Friday, September 16, 2022

"What do I do if a bear shits on my porch?''


Hey, good morning!  Happy Friday!  I hope your coffee is hot and in abundance.  I know I am going to need a lot of it.  Didn't sleep so good last night and it looks as if a few of my friends were in the same boat.  Is this part of getting old?  I don't know, that's why I am asking.

That brings me to this.  Now, for those of you who really know me, you could say and probably would  say that I can be a bit of a smart ass.  I've tried to clean that up a bit with little or no success, but at least I try to be mindful when I speak.  That doesn't always work either.

The other day, I had one of the caretakers on property tell me that they had bear sign all around the house and property that he looks after.  To me, that isn't so surprising.  I've been in this neck of the woods for at least 33 years, maybe longer.  But, we do get bears around here.

As he and I discussed this situation, another caretaker came in and caught a part of the conversation.  He looked on with interest but then quickly excused himself.  Anyhow, the guy I was initially talking to excused himself and I went about emailing my bosses to let them know that we do indeed have bears on property.  (This is in an effort to inform those who have little or no experience in bear habitat."

As the morning progresses, I am sitting here doing my job and I get a call from the the other guy who came in during the bear conversation.  He properly and professionally let me know who he was and quickly got to the meat of the situation.  

"What do I do if a bear shits on my porch?"  I paused.  I had to.  I owed it to myself.  Someone was talking to me in a professional capacity and I do get asked questions like this on the regular.  The answer deserves a modicum of professionalism, but gawd damn if I wasn't fighting off a case of the "can't help its".

What does that statement even mean?  I mean, its bear shit!  You're kind of limited on what you are going to do with a steaming pile of bear shit.  Believe me, I came up with dozens of smart ass comments. None of them helpful, by the way, but they are still options. Please see below...

"Gift it to a friend."

"Water it and see if it grows."

"Name it and start a college fund for it."

"Sprinkle it on toast."

"Bring it inside since its getting cold out."

"Knit it a scarf."

It's bear shit!  You've got 2 valid options and 1 of them isn't as good as the other one.  Pick it up or leave it there.  That's it.  What if it was duck shit?  Do we have to go through this again?  Dog shit, moose shit, deer shit, horse shit, cow shit, human shit...  Fucking get rid of it!

"Put a leash on it and walk it around the cul-de-sac" is what I ended up suggesting.  Complete silence on the other end.  I regretted it the moment I said it.  I chuckled a little and said, "That was a joke.  I'm a funny guy, sometimes.  I mean, who would walk a shit around the neighborhood, right?"  Still silence...

"Are you still there?" I asked.  His reply:  "Why would I do that?"  I laughed and said, "Uh, you wouldn't.  You'd pick it up and dispose of it."  His replay... "In the trash or do I flush it?"  I couldn't help myself at this point.  I said, "Well, I guess a 3rd option would be to give the bear a set of keys to the house and teach him to shit in the toilet."

He finally figured out that I was messing with him.  He laughed, I laughed.  "Put a leash on it..." he said and cracked up.  When he quit laughing he said, "You made my day, man.  Thanks for that."

Who knew you could make someones day by telling them hypothetical things you could do with bear shit?  I guess we all do now.

Okay kids, I have work to do.  Someone has a mouse turd that needs a talking too, I'm sure.  I hope everyone has a great weekend.  Do something fun and be safe.

Until next time......


Thursday, September 1, 2022

Mental Health Issues:


How are you doing?  That's a pretty easy question to answer, isn't it?  We answer that question at least a dozen times a day.  The most common answer to that question is either "fine" or "well".  Truthfully, that is not aways the case.  It is the easiest way into and out of the conversation that a lot of us either don't want to have or don't really want to know the answer to.

I've answered that question thousands of times in my 55 years on this planet.  And for decades, I was flat out lying about it.  I wasn't fine or well.  The fact of the matter is, I was pretty fucked up.  I didn't know this at the time, but I had been battling depression and anxiety since childhood.  There were many factors that came into play.  I'm not too for sure how comfortable I am about going into all of the gory details.  Perhaps, once I let loose here, I will become more willing to elaborate.

I'd like to start with this.  Since being diagnosed and subsequently treated for depression and anxiety, I learned a few things about them.  One thing I learned is, everybody's situation is different.  We can either relate to another individual's situation or we can't, but what they are feeling is absolutely real.  Another thing I learned is, none of this is a competiton. 

As humans, we tend to compare things.  What may have been a walk in the park for you or I could be the straw that broke the camels back, so to speak.  And perhaps it isn't just one thing that caused the depression or anxiety but rather a series of events that went untreated and the trauma manifested as depression and anxiety.

A third thing I learned is, nobody afflicted with mental health issues is walking around with a big ass stamp on their forehead notifying the general public that one is afflicted with any mental health issues.  I'm no doctor.  I won't pretend to be.  I'm guessing that there are dozens of different diagnoses and I am guessing that there just as many ways to treat these illnesses.

The 4th thing I learned about mental health issues is, most of the cases go undetected/undiagnosed for various reasons.  

What I'd like to do is to open a dialog about mental health issues.  I know how personal these things can be.  I'd like to be able to let afflicted individuals know that it is okay to seek professional help.  It is also okay to talk to a friend or, you can talk to me.  I will do what I can to help you find the help you need.  I would also like to say that it isn't necessary to struggle with this trauma.

We as humans have the ability to just suppress all of the shit that happens to us, and try to move along.  Trauma after undealt with trauma, we keep plugging away and eventually something pops.  This "pop" is as different as all of the different trauma that helped cause the mental illness.

Again, these trauma are not comparable.  They are however very real.  If something happened to you and it is affecting the rest of your life, it is an issue and it is very real!  Nobody gets to take that away from you.  Nobody gets to discount what happened to you and at the same time, your trauma nor the depression has to be your identity!

Before I go any further, I would like to clarify that I am not a doctor or a clinician.  I am not qualified to diagnose or treat any diseases.  I am however a person whose been battling this shit for as long as I can remember.  It's been brutal but I have found some peace and I want that very same thing for every person out there.

Okay, now I am warming up a little bit so let us get to the meat of the sitatuation.  I'll do what I can to stay on point.  Please remember that I am 55 years of age, and trying to write all of my history on this blog would be nearly impossible.  I am going to start with being diagnosed...

Getting diagnosed was one of the hardest things I ever did.  I did it easily 20 years before I actually did anything towards getting help.  I guess I am kind of a hard learner and I had to get everything about as fucked up as it could be before I got help.  I put my life, my family and marriage on the line before I pulled my head out of my ass, manned up and sought professional help.  Statistics show that a lot of us do that.  As it turns out, we aren't too special in those regards.

So, trying to get the balls to actually stepping up and doing something about this...  My wife and I had more than a couple of discussions about depression and how it might be affecting me.  She could tell something was amiss and the easiest and most straight forward way of getting to the bottom of anything is to have a discussion.  Like I said, we had a few discussions before I finally decided to go see our family physician.

I chose this avenue as my ice breaker because I had a good report with my doctor.  I called and made an appointment and only briefly suggested that it had anything to do with my mental health.  For one reason or another, the receptionist scheduled my appointment as the last one on one of my days off.

I wandered into the office waiting room and took a seat.  Nobody else was around.  The nurse came out and invited me back.  She asked me what was going on and I just said, "I don't feel right".  She took my blood pressure, listened to my lungs... all of the regular stuff they do and told me that the doctor would be in to see me.

Doc walks in, shakes my hand and said, "What's going on?"  I tell him that I thought that I was depressed but I didn't know why.  I discussed that I had recently lost my father and before that I lost my grandfather on my maternal side.  He suggested that those are valid reasons for a guy to find himself depressed.  I said, "Don't we just process this shit and get over it?"  He said a couple of things.  The first was, "Is anything that easy?" and "Chances are that there are many things that caused this."

We talked for a few more minutes and he suggested that I take this quiz.  He handed me this multiple choice test, just like the ones we used to take in elementary school.  His instructions were, "Be as honest as you can with these questions, and take your time."

I ripped through the quiz quickly.  He took the quiz and excused himself for a couple of minutes.  When he came back into the examination room, he had a differnt look on his face.  More somber than I had ever seen him look before.  He sat down in front of me on his stool and said, "Brice, you scored a 90% on this quiz, and that isn't good.  This test shows that you are "clinically depressed".  That scared the shit out of me.  I thought I was off to the psyche ward where they would dope me up and throw away the key.  (By the way, nowadays my diagnosis is something like "severe depression disorder w/ anxiety.)

I looked at him and said, "Now what?"  We discussed a game plan which was going to include an antidepressant and speaking to a therapist, when I got more comfortable.  We agreed on the path that we were going to take and off the drug store I went.

Seeing the doctor took a little sting out of things.  He assured me that I was not "psycho", that sometimes "things pile up" and that we often need help getting out of the weeds.  I liked that better than saying I was fucked up... but I was fucked up.  I started taking the antidepressant and that too took just a little bit of the edge off of things.  And as I normally do, I stopped with furthering my treatment.  I just kept taking the pills and assumed all of my shit would just go away.

It doesn't work that way.

I kept taking the antidepressant. Through the years we adjusted the amount I was taking but I neglected to follow up with a mental health professional.  And, although the meds relieved a little bit of the pressure, other things were happening that I was not properly dealing with.  (I refer to this as the shit heap.)

I had a shit heap.  Now I was adding to the shit heap.  It was easier to just toss another load on to the top of the heap than it was to effectively deal with these things.  Some, even most of these things were out of my control.  That was part of the issue,I would later learn... but that is why I just kind of tossed them on top of the pile.  (out right lies, broken promises and no way to really hold anyone accountable were some of the things that went into the heap.)

By this time, my little family began to grow.  With that, more things.  More stress.  If you're a parent, you know.  Now, my past... my work, my family, myself and the shit heap were the things that I needed to take care of.  I concentrated on my family and my job.  I was married to my job as well and even early on with my career, there were issues.  I knew something was wrong.  I couldn't see it, but I could feel it in my gut.  Maybe previous experiences were trying to turn a light on for me.  I don't know.  Naturally, this too added to the heap.

A second child was introduced into my little world.  I figured we already had the family starter kit, might as well round it out.  Life was good.  On paper, I was living the dream.  A wife, a couple of kids, a house with a white picket fence.  All of that was great.  And I was still packing around an untreated mental illness.  This was the least of my worries.

I ended up losing my maternal grandfather.  I learned more about life from this man than I did from any other person.  He was my go to guy for all things.  There never was any judgement, just support and advice.  Did I ever let him down?  I'm positive of that, but he was there to teach me how to right the ship.  Now that's gone.  I didn't feel "alone" so to speak.  I did still have my dad, but his and my relationship was almost always contentious.  (There is a lot more to this relationship than I am not going to get into now.  You'll just have to trust me.)  He and I struggled to have anything that resembled a normal relationship.  Truthfully, we were far from that but he was my dad.  I loved him and needed him.

Shortly after this, my dad died.  Despite our on again/off again relationship, I needed him.  I needed him professionally (since I worked for him) and I needed him personally.  I had 1000 questions that I had been meaning to ask him, and now I couldn't.

Depression started getting real thick and dark.  I began drinking more than I should.  I wasn't eating right.  One bad habit lead to another.  Depression was fueling it all.  And it got real bad when I went to the doctors office for a regular check up.

My blood work all came back upside down.  Good cholesterol was bad, bad cholesterol was bad.  I was deficient in many minerals.  I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes.  I had ballooned to 365lbs.  My blood pressure was upside down.  I knew things were awful.  My doctor sat me down and said, "You keep paying your bill and I will keep givng you the best medical advice money can buy.  That's my job as your physician and I want to help you.  But I can't do everything.  You have got to do something or you'll end up dead."

Yeah, he was that blunt.  And you'd think that a guy in my situation would straighten up and get to work.  Not yet.  Now was about the first time that I had a whole snap shot of the shit heap.  This thing was massive, complied of dozens upon dozens of little problems.  Looking at the heap, I just figured that there was nothing I could do at this point.  What's scary is, I didn't really care.

I didn't want to leave my wife and kids alone. Suicide wasn't an option.  I couldn't do that, but I reached a point where I didnt know if I had the ability to get out of the way of a vehicle traveling in my lane. That is surely the road I was on, but I also didn't have the energy or focus to address any of this.  The heap was insurmountable.  My thinking... "Fuck it" and I kept plugging along.

Deeper down the rabbit hole I went.  I'm not for sure that I can paint an accurate picture here.  You've got the shit heap to look at.  I was exhausted.  I was exhausted of playing like everything was okay.  I am talking physically exhausted.  It's a giant drain to pretend that things are okay when they really aren't.  Helpless... Hopeless...Restless... and to almost everyone I knew, things appeared normal.

Work began to be an issue.  I was getting in trouble for things that I didn't even do.  Getting chewed out at work was pretty regular and far too often there were private discussions in the office about how easily replaced all of us were...  I knew that didn't apply to "everyone".  It was directed at me.  I had a list of broken promises to reassure myself that this was headed in the wrong direction.  There were more "promises' that were in line to be broken.  I was the only guy keeping his word, and this shit started immediately after my dad died.


There were 2 reasons I moved to Wyoming.  #1 was to try to build the relationship I wanted to have with my dad.  The other was numerous promises about the future.  All I had to do was come up here and learn the family business from the ground up.  

As I anticipated, my dad and I started to have a couple small issues.  Just regular disagreements on a personal level, not professional.  Professionally, I was wired pretty tight when I got to Wyoming, or so I felt.  I knew how to work hard.  I was a good listener and I was a team player.  Whenever any barback or doorman called in sick, I would be at the bar in a moments notice.  So professionally, things were fine.

The first fall, my dad wanted to build a barn for his horses.  He asked for my help and obviously it had to be done around my work schedule.  Every day for a couple of weeks I was working at the bar and then hand digging the footers for the barn.  Again, I had no problem with that.  Working with the old man presented some challenges but for the most part, it was fine.

I had 2 consecutive days off on the schedule.  I asked if I could take one to go fishing.  The old man agreed.  The morning that I was going to go fishing unraveled in a way that I never saw coming.  I don't know what was going on in my dad's mind...  I woke up, walked to the garage and grabbed my fishing gear and my ice chest.  I fired up the truck and went inside the house to grab a sandwich and a 6 pack.  As I came out of the house, my dad was walking towards me.  His color was off...  he didn't look like himself.  As he approached wearing his carpenters belt/bags, he grabbed a hammer and told me to "get my ass on the working end of a shovel".

He was pissed off!  He was talking through gritted teeth and walking towards me with that hammer in his hands.  I knew that I wasn't going to let him assualt me with a hammer.  I didn't even know if it was going to come to that, but it sure as hell looked like it.  I told him, "Drop that fucking hammer.  If you want to talk or fight, we can do that but you don't get to act like you're going to hit me with a hammer."  He kept coming.  I grabbed my pistol off of the seat of my truck.  I said, "Go ahead and fucking try me and see what happens."

My mind was racing through the roll-o-dex of things my dad and I had fought over in the past.  It just kept spinning and in the mean time, I was trying to figure out what in the fuck brought all of this on.  24 hours ago, we had an agreement.  Now he wants to come at me with a hammer?  Things that I had totally forgotten about were flashing right before my eyes.  I was reliving all of them in fast forward.

I was sick to my stomach.  I thought I was going to have to shoot him.  No frigging way was I going to get my ass kicked with a hammer.  Especially not by him.  This was my dad, and if we couldn't have a simple discussion or even an argument without the threat of violence, what did we have?  (Can you imagine the thought of having to shoot your own father?  I'm disgusted by that and everything about it.)

His demeanor changed.  I don't know if he came to his senses or what.  He lowered the hammer, turned and walked towards the barn.  I followed him, asking him what in the hell was the matter...  He looked at me and said, "Just go fishing."  

This was my first opportunity to hit the road and leave Jackson. I wanted too.  I also wanted a relationship with my dad.  No way was I ever going to be able to forget this.  Would this happen again?  When?  I didn't know.  The next year or two, things got better.  I was out of his hair and personal space.  I had moved in with my girlfriend (soon to be wife).  

There were a couple of opportunities for me to leave after we got married.  I won't get into those details here...  they involve other people and I am not going to drag them into this.  

I was managing the bar by now.  All of the promises kept coming my way.  I don't know if this was his and his business partners way of keeping me around or what.  I began to feel as if I was being bullshitted.  The promises, no matter how plentiful or no matter who they came from just started to smell like bullshit.  I could taste it and since I could taste it, I couldn't help but stand up for myself again.

After he and I got into it face to face, I came home and told the wife that we were going to sell all of our shit and get the fuck out of here.  It didn't really catch her off guard.  She was kind of involved at this point, but I won't get into those details here.  She was like, "Okay, what are we doing?  Where are we going?"  I told her "I'm tired of being fucked with and now he was fuckng with you and the kids...  Ain't gonna happen."

Someone organized a meeting.  Before the meeting, and I found this out way after the fact, my dad called and apologized to my wife and asked for forgiveness and begged her to not allow me to pack up and move.  I quit trusting my gut and decided to stick around.  I didn't see the manipulation.  It was there and it bothered me, but I didn't see it as manipulation.

Our relationship improved.  I don't know how or why but I am grateful.  One thing for sure was, I was never, ever going to forget these 2 events.  I started to become hypervigilant with him and business in general.  I was going to try to keep our relationship close but I was also going to call the shots.  I was still young.  I figured that I could go anywhere and do anything for a living.  Any place else would be more affordable and I was confident that I could find a job with a comparable wage.  

Shortly after this, I had my first blow out with my dad's business partner.  Ugly?  Oh yeah.  Plenty fucking ugly.  I refer to this as the "baseball bat chat".  Use your imagination.  He was irate.  Considering the circumstances, I understand the anger.  It was a bad deal but there was no way that he could be that mad at me.  Nonetheless, there we were.

Another incident happened not long after this.  I told my family that I was going to quit.  I told my dad that I was done.  He gave me a week off to think about it.  I imagine he and his partner talked about this.  And again, for some dumb reason, I decided to stick it out after more promises.

I would later regret every opportunity I had to leave.  To me, I kept looking like an asshole in front of my wife and kids.  Its like I wouldn't be resepcted by them for not being able to make a decision and stick with it.  I thought I was looking like "all talk and no action" to them.  This was about the time that my mental health started to come unglued.


So now, my father died.  Dynamics at the bar changed immediately.  I didn't know what was happening between my step mother and the partners, but I was being treated differently.  These little discussions about how easily any of us could be replaced started happening. 

They erased every promise ever made by simply saying, "There are no promises..."  

The partner and I got into a beef.  Our second.  This guy tunred into someone that seemed so foreign to me.  We used to go hunting together, fishing together and now this... basically telling me that there are no promises and that I could be replaced in a second.  Just like that... after all my years of dedication, I could be replaced just that quick?

What got me most about this was his talks about how important "family' is, and I was included in this "family".  My family was included in this "family'.  I realized that I was being manipulated and used.  During this fight, I quit.  I told him that I was done and he was done talking to me like that.  I'd had enough.

His wife contacted me.  She said she didn't want me to quit and that she didn't know what was going on but insisted that I take a week and just relax.  

It was about the 2nd or 3rd day off and the partner showed up at the house.  I thought he was going to want to have a "hammer chat" like my dad did.  Instead, I saw another side of this guy.  Softer than the good side.  He apologized, told me to take as much time as I needed and that he wanted me back at the bar.  I thanked him for stopping by and told him that I had to think about it.

Yeah, I went back.  For years, I was promised that this place was going to be the only job that I would ever have to have.  The joint would be mine one day.  Of course that looked great to me.  It was what I was focused on.  It was the American Dream for me... and I worked for it.

I kept thinking about the staff...  I kept thinking about the promises, even though I knew they were hollow.  I kept thinking that if I walked away from this, it would be the final nail in my coffin.  I felt "trapped" and I kind of think that they knew that.  

So, now let me put this all back into persepctive.  This was about when my physical health started to go to hell.  I was packing on the pounds, eating shit food whenever I could and drinking way too much, way too often.  A buddy of mine kept uring me to get into the gym.  Another buddy kept getting on my about getting into the gym.  I got into the gym, started making progress.

I went to see a dietician.  I started to see the doctor on a more regular basis because checking in with him was the only thing that felt good.  I'd drop 10 lbs or so between visits.  Everntually, I lost over 100lbs.  I was feeling good about that.  

I had more good days than off days, but my off days were more dark.  Kinks at work started to show up again between the business partners and myself.  My stepmother was having issues as well.  I felt as if they were trying to push me out of the way... then perhaps she (my stepmother) would follow.

I had a couple of hours in the gym a day.  I was dedicated to at least this.  This was my religion and my wife did everything she could to make sure this could happen.  I think she was somewhat surprised by what was happening.  To me, I found relief in the fact that my physical health was now in check.  

Work or should I say interaction with the partners was leaving a sour taste in my mouth.  There was nothing positive at this point.  It was all negative.  The shit heap turned into the mess that it had become and it was also ever present.  My gut was telling me one thing and my mind was telling me the other.  I fought with trying to appear normal, like I had my shit together, but I didn't.  The energy I blew at the gym was my saving grace.  After I'd lift for a couple of hours and listen to heavy metal, I didn't have the energy to think about some of the shit that I classified as petty.

My daily routine would be to wake up, help get this kids ready and send them down the road.  Catch a nap, iron my work shirt, do some chores and then hit the gym.  I was in the gym for about 2 hours a day.  That was my time.  Nobody got to interrupt that.  It was were I felt best.

On this one particular day, I worked out real hard.  Walked back into the locker room and noticed that I had 3 missed calls.  That was pretty unusual.  It was the partner... and he was pissed!  The first message was mostly unintelligible but he was literally screaming at the top of his lungs.  The second call I was able to make a little sense out of it.  

It was the off season.  We had off season entertainment which was typically of lesser quality than we usually had.  Don't get me wrong, we showcased a lot of local talent and most were good but some weren't.  For years, that's just the way it went.  Now all of a sudden, he is pissed.  He wasn't even in town and somehow (i know how) he found out that we had a bad night, business wise.  

We had a talk about a year prior after having a bad band.  It wasn't as much as them being bad, they were just rude and inconsiderate.  He told me that I could fire the band if we had a similar circumstance.

Well, this wasn't that.  This was different.  It was just slow.  It was slow all over town and he is yelling about how bad he heard the band sucked and that I was supposed to fire them and call the talkent agent and get a new one.

The thing is, he hired this band outside of the talent agent.  He was responsible for the band, and they just werent that bad.  Calling this talent agent and chewing his ass was barking up the wrong tree.

The third message was just more bullshit and he told me that he "didn't pay my cell phone bill so that I could not be in contact with him, whenever he needed".  That was my que....  I knew this was going to end poorly.  I sat there for a second before I hopped in the shower.  I tried to form a reasonable response for when I called him back.  By the time I got out of the shower, it was go time...  

I called him back when I got outside of the gym.  From the start, he was blaming me for shit that he did.  I told him that he couldn't do that.  Naturally that made things worse and my temperature kept rising.  As he was yelling at me, I yelled back and I dared him to meet me at the bar.  I told him that I quit and that I would sit and wait for him to personally hand him the keys.

I was going to kill him.  I couldn't think of anything else.  I have no doubt that if he would have shown up, I'd be writing this from a jail cell.  

I remember hanging up.  I called the wife and said, "Ill be home soon.  I just quit and I am going to kill this fucking guy."  Upon my wifes suggestion, I called to inform my step mom.  She met me at the bar and tried to talk me out of it.  I was shaking.  I wanted to see this guy so fucking bad.  Nobody had ever talked to me this way... Nobody that I ever had any respect for nor anyone who ever had any respect for me.  20 years of my life were given up to this joint and to these people, and all for nothing....  I knew this was how it was going to be since my dad died.

More ugly shit happened in the aftermath, but my step mom wouldn't quit trying to pound into my head how important it was that I not do anything that I would regret.  "He's old.  There is nothing in this for you, Brice.  You can't hurt this old man...."  I wanted to more than anything else.  We managed to have a meeting after this, and it went just as you might think.  I wanted this guy to try to touch me.  I was going to fuck him up.  Not only for this most recent thing, but the lies, the manipulation, the bullshit, for every person who I got in a fight for while protecting his shit...  it was going to be ugly, but we never got that far.

Getting out of there was the best thing that I could have done.  Timing sucked.  I ended up finding another gig, but it wasn't paying the bills.  We were living off of credit cards.  The debt I once had was nothing compared to what we were accruing.  I had side gigs which I had to dedicate more time to.

I was done mentally.  Exhausted, frustrated, confused about everything.  Mad at everything.  Mad at everybody.  

Then I hit rock bottom...  I did the one thing I will always regret and never forgive myself for.  Killing this dude would have been far easier to forgive myself for.  I won't go into details, but its fucked up.

Now, I don't even know myself anymore.  I knew I had to go get help if I was going to try to live anything resembling a normal life.  I knew it was going to be hard.  I knew I was going to have to tell the truth about everything to a therapist and pretty much anyone that had the time to listen.  I know how lucky I am to have had my wife and kids stick it out.  They could have left... turn the tides and I may have left, but she stuck by me.  I owed her this.  I owed my kids this and I finally felt as if I had to get something done.


I really didn't know what "fucked up" was until this point.  I turned into a guy that I didn't know and certainly a guy that I didn't want to be.  Like an addict, I had to get to rock bottom and man, I was lower than whale shit at this point.

I was so full of anxiety.  I had no idea what was going to happen.  I was mad... mostly at myself for letting things get this far out of line.  I was mad for the damage I caused my family.  I didn't know if they would be able to forgive me.  It didn't seem realistic, but here we were.

I was seeing 2 therapists once a week.  One to try to tighten up the family and the other to get to the bottom of my issues.  We managed to work through the first therapist.  In the mean time, the two therapists were communicating and trying to get me in the right lane.

Every visit to the therapist started out the same way.  I'd tell the story, the whole story of my life from start to finish.  The more I talked, the angrier I got.  

Stress?  Holy shit....  Un-fucking-believable stress and I brought it upon myself.

I showed up at the therapist office for my meeting.  I said, "If you make me tell this story one more fucking time, I'm going to explode!"  She looked at me and clamly explained what she was trying to get to.  I didn't understand what she was trying to say or do.  I was about to just give up.  I felt hopeless. 

After months of therapy, I was still mad, still holding on to the anger.  The therapist asked, "Why Are you holding on to this anger?''  I said, "Its my fuel... I'll never let anyone fuck me over again.  I will not ever be fucked over again."  She rephrased the question.  "What are you getting from holding on to this anger?"  The word "Nothing" came out of my mouth, without even thinking about it and I literally felt this giant burden lifted from my shoulders.  The shit heap was gone.  I sat there with this dumbfounded look on my face in complete silence.  The look on the therapists face said it all....  I asked, "Did you just feel that?"  She said, "You certainly did."  My life began to change right then.

I was far from out of the woods.  I had a lot of work to do with my family (which was most important) and then continued work on myself.  I started reading a self help book a week and would tell the therapist about it.  She finally asked me to knock that off and just work on the things that I knew I had to take care of.  She told me that she wasn't going to set an appointment for the following week.  She went as far as to tell me, "I think we've gotten to the point where I can let you work on your own.  Keep my card and call if you ever need a tune up."

This was about 11-12 years ago.  

Do I still suffer with depression?  I wouldn't say that I suffer much anymore.  What I have has been identified.  What was making me feel awful and now has an identity.  A name and a face, if you will.  I learned a few things that allow me to live my life and limit the amount of time that I feel depressed.  Some things, even trivial things used to bother me for days, weeks and sometimes months.  Now I have an off day.  I've learned a few things that allow me to identify and process what I am feeling and I now  have the ability to get that all squared away in a timely fashion... thankfully!

(I've heard so many people say, "I was depressed once."  I don't believe that is accurate.  Depressed, probably not but sad or grieving?  I'd buy that.  Sadness and grieving are just different animals.  These things tend to pass with a bit of time.  Depression is always there and all too often, we don't know what it is that causes this.  Sometimes its a chemical imbalance... a series of events that we didn't properly deal with and sometimes its a combination of a lot of things, but it doesn't go away on its own.)

(I've also heard people say, "What do you have to be depressed about?"  This was probably the most insensitive thing I ever heard one of my friends say to me.  He wasn't trying to offend me.  I think he was envious of what he believed my life to be like.  I was married to the woman I love.  I had kids that I loved.  I had a "good" job.  I had a house with the white picket fence....  On the outside, it looked as if I was living the American dream, or so he thought.  On the inside, not so much.  When I heard him say that, I just sat back and listened.  "I can't even find a girlfriend worth sticking around for.  I pay rent, not a mortgage.  I have bills out the ass."  

Apparently what he didn't notice was, I too had bills out the ass.  I had a mortgage.  I had insurance bills.  I had car payments.  My job wasn't as wonderful as he thought it was, and I had a thousand other things that were fucking with me every single day!"

Something that I feel is real important to say here is this.  Nobody has the right to compare your life to theirs.  They don't know YOUR life.  All they know is what they can see.  The things that happened to me may be a walk in the park compared to the stuff you've been through.  These things are mine... they are my baggage and if I don't know how to properly digest them and put them away for good, they will sit and bother me for ever or until I learn how to process them.  Ill never forget these things.  You can't unring a bell.  But I am better qualified to deal with these things now.

I don't know why we try to compare trauma or why we try to compare our lives to other peoples lives.  Its one of the biggest disservices we can do.  We cannot control other things.  We can however control how we react to things.  It might take a long time to learn this lesson.  It did for me.  For some damned reason, I thought I had to be in control of everything.  I'm guessing that there are hundreds of variables daily that I have no control over, and that used to bother the shit out of me!  Then I learned that some of these things don't even make a list of priorities of things to worry about and that I could control how I reacted and then effectively dealt with them.

And for the record, there are a lot of things that contributed to my depression that I did not mention.  They are things that are very personal.  In a face to face meeting, I would probably bring them up, but on here, I feel as if they are too personal.

In closing, I will say this.  There is help avaiable for you if you are struggling with your mental health.  There are many options and a good therapist can get you on the road to feeling a lot better.  Don't be afraid to reach out to a friend, or me for that matter.  

You're not a pussy for talking about your problems.  You're injured, and its not like a broken bone.  We can't put a cast on whats going on inside, but we can look at it and find a way to digest it, then accept it and then put it in the past.  And, its hard... but if you're like me, once you "set the beast free" you won't be able to stop talking about it, once you make that initial break through.

The help is there.  Please, please reach out.  Suffering in silence is unnecessary.  Its also unproductive and it gets in the way of celebrating all of life's little victories.  Talk to someone...  It was far easier for me to talk to a stranger (therapist) than it was someone I know.  There is no judgement.  Nobody is going to judge you.  

I wish everyone who reads this the best in life.  You do deserve it and you can have it if you work for it.  It is the most rewarding thing I've ever done and I'd like for you to be able to enjoy that too.

Best wishes!


Wednesday, August 24, 2022

Different Road:


Hey!  How is everyone doing? Me, I'm doing fine.  Normally when I get on this thing, I am either making fun or someone, some thing or even myself.  I wanted to go a different direction and at the same time give anyone interested in "The Book" an update.

Let us start with "The Book".  "The Book" is still in the works.  I have encountered a couple of issues while writing "The Book".  The biggest issue is formatting.  As it turns out, I am not much of a writer but I have had so much encouragement from some of you guys.  A couple of you have said, "That is the appeal of you writing a book.  Maybe you're not a great writer but you are a good story teller and you are funny."  For those of you who have encouraged me and have offered support, thanks a bunch.  I really mean it and I can't tell you how important your support really is.

The thing with this book is, it revolves around my time in the bar business.  With nearly 20 years of walking the plank, I have had so many hilarious things happen that they should be shared.  This type of stuff would really strike home, I think, with anyone who has worked in the hospitality industry or general customer service industry.

Some of the problems have to do with people being named, how they may take their representation and me getting the shit sued out of me.  I don't need that and I am not in the business of putting a negative spotlight on anyone. I think we all do a good dnough job of that with ourselves and it's just really not my cup of tea unless you are a particularly nefarious asshole.  Then I'd be happy to talk shit about you.

Another problem is continuity.  I can tell these stories as I remember them, and I have doezens that come to mind instantly.  The problem lies with writing them down and being able to continue to write.  I've searched the internet far and wide to find some help with this.  Almost all of the advice I found is "keep writing, regardless of the topic" and "write about the things you know".  

Back to the continuity issue.  I can write a quick story.  I'm confident in that.  Here's the kicker though.  Stories have a beginning and an end.  In my soup sandwich of a fucking brain, it seems as if I need to write this compilation of short stories in order.  I can't do that.  It just seems wrong and I can't get around it yet.  Don't get me wrong, I am continuing to write but when a story hits me, I grind it out and walk away.  I have to because the next story is not in order.  A friend asked, "Why does that matter?"  The answer is, I don't know but it matters in my head. I spend more time writing stories as they hit me, leave names out (which I think kind of kills the story in some situations) and end up frustrated with what I've done.  Is it writers block?  I don't know, but it is a hell of a thing.

Now, back to the "write about what you know" thing.  Yeah, I know the bar business pretty well.  I wouldn't say that I am an expert because I learned something new every week.  One thing that I do know and am passionate about is mental illness.

Mental illness still has a stigma attached to it.  Many stigmas, in fact and it seems like we can't get out of our own way in order to open the dialog and make more progress.  Thankfully we are headed in the right direction but I feel as if we are crwaling along on a snails pace.

We can do better and I want to help.  I'm willing to tell my history dealing with my own mental health in an attempt to make people more comfortable with their own issues, perhaps leading them to get the help they need.

In closing, I'd like to tell anyone suffering that you are not alone and there is help.  There are also at least one set of ears open to hear about your struggles.  Know this.  The struggle is real and there are qualified professionals that can help you find your way through the maze of mental illness.  Please reach out.

Thanks for your time and I'll see you soon with something else.


Wednesday, February 9, 2022

Life and Stuff


Hey, how is everybody doing?  Good I hope.  Things around here are just ducky.  I've been busy with a couple of projects and my regular job and that's what kept me away from the old blog.  One of the projects that is taking some of my time is the book I started to write about my years in the bar business.  I knew writing this book was going to be a challenge but I figured, "You have a million stories and you don't mind writing, so just sit down and pump one out."  Turns out, shit is just a little more complicated than that.  

Anyhow, that project is creeping along at a snails pace and I am fine with that.  Patience isn't one of my stronger traits but I am also working on that.  Hang tight and we will see how that goes.

Like I said, its been a while since I dropped something on the blog.  I saw something today that is worth mentioning.  Have you heard the old saying, "If a tree falls in the woods, does it make any noise?"  Yes... yes it does.  How do I know?  I watched about a 100-150 year old Cottonwood tree just fall over today and the bastard made a good amount of noise.  It's not a big deal, right.  A tree fell and for the first time in my 55 years, I actually witnessed it and got that answer to that age old question.  Now that you know, hopefully you can sleep better at night.

Now, when I witnessed that, I was reminiscing about something from my youth.  Its going to be a bit of a stretch putting together watching a tree fall and see if it makes noise and a skanky titty bar, but I'm your guy.  Put your reading helmet on and read along with the rest of the class.

Okay, tree falling in the woods and a skanky titty bar.  Up until today, I've never seen or heard a tree fall in the woods.  There was a point in time where I had never been in a topless bar either.  By the time I was 21, I thought I dreamed of every kind of boob there was.  I was lucky enough to have seen a couple by then, but I was not ready for what I would encounter at Bob's Tit's and Shit.

I think that was the name of the joint.  It was a 24 hour titty bar and breakfast buffet.  And when I say skanky, I really mean no offense to the wonderful women who worked there.  They all seemed to be very kind but just a little different looking.  A couple of them looked like men... out of work long haul truckers or perhaps plumbers.  Who knows, but nice gals nonetheless.

So I turn 21 and as was the thing in those days, off to the titty bar you go.  The good ones were too expensive.  This one was just my price.  Beer was $2.00 a bottle and if one was so inclined, the breakfast buffet was about $4.59 plus tax.  

The DJ was busy spinning tunes and introducing the strippers as they came out on the stage.  He said, "The buffet is featuring Cinnamon Rolls....Speaking of Cinnamon, here is Cinnamon the stripper dancing to "Girls, Girls, Girls from Motley Crue".  Pretty good song, if you ask me so I sauntered up to the stage to get a look at Cinnamon.  Turns out, old Cinnamon was a bit of a train wreck.  She did have more teeth than she did hair, so for those of us concerned with dental hygiene, she could have been a winner.

She got done with her dance and the DJ began to introduce another stripper.  "17" from Winger was cranked up on the sound system.  I was fixing to leave because everyone knows 17 will get you 20, even with consent, but out comes this gal named "Candy".  The DJ said, "Everyone, give it up for Candy, the 3 nippled stripper."

When I heard that, I spilled my beer.  I never heard of anyone having 3 nipples and figured that there was no better time to learn about this shit.  Reading right to left like we normally do, she had 2 regular run of the mill nipples and something that looked like a smooshed raisin on the side of her left boob.

As I looked at it, I thought we were being taken for a ride.  I mean, it looked drawn on.  I wasn't buying it, but like a good car wreck, I couldn't quit looking.  She crept over my way.  I say crept because she fell out of her half of a wooden leg and had no other way to get around the stage.  She looked me dead in the eye and said, "Do you like?"  I scratched my head, threw her a dollar and hoped that she would move along.

Well, as it turns out, I was the only customer in the joint.  Where was she going to creep off to?  Instead she rolled around on the stage and had bottle caps and torn off beer labels stuck to her ass and back.  She looked me dead in the eye again and said, "Would you buy me a drink when I get off stage?"  

Since I had no witnesses, I obliged.  She hopped up to me wearing a thong that looked like it was made out of the seat cover off of a 72 VW bus and a "Who Farted" half t-shirt.  I was kind of scared, but I had to get to the bottom of the 3 nipple thing.

She pulled up a chair and ordered herself a beer.  She said, "You seem normal.  What are you doing in here?"  I said, "Oh, my 21st birthday is today so I wanted to see what all of the hype was about."  She said, "If you get me drunk, I will give you a free table dance."  I reminded her that it would be nearly impossible without that wooden leg that was still on the stage.

As she removed her dentures and took a sip of her beer.  I said, "So tell me about the 3 nipple situation."  "It's very common.  It's technically called Polynesia."  I knew that was wrong, but I was intrigued by this point.  She continued, "Men have it too, sometimes.  In fact 1 in 76 people have it.  It affects people differently.  Sometimes women who have this actually have a small 3rd breast.  I don't have that."

I nodded, but thought if she did have a 3rd breast, it could have been an improvement.  This poor gal had just about nothing going for her.  Wooden leg, 3 nipples, full dentures.... the denture thing may have been her only positive attribute!

Candy invited me back to her place.  I would rather have been kidnapped by the damned drug cartels.  I found a way to politely say no.  I ran... I just ran.

So now, I had this new information that I kind of wanted to share with my friends but the problem was, I knew they'd ask "How do you know people can have 3 nipples".  Then I'd have to drag them to the shittiest titty bar in the country and introduce them to "Candy". So, I kept silent for 34 years...

By the way, the 3 nipple thing is real.  Supernumerary nipples are what they are called and the condition is called polythelia.  If it attached to real breast tissue, its called something else.  Look, I'm not a doctor but I do know some shit.

Now you can't say that I didn't teach you anything.  I've got other stories about the human body based upon my years of research.  Perhaps I will get around to telling you a few of them.  In the mean time, be safe, be kind and quit thinking about people with 3 nipples... I dare ya!

Thursday, August 12, 2021

Loading the dishwasher....


God damn it... Fightbook, I mean Facebook is at it again.  I log on this morning to see who is doing what before I go look for bears and I see this stupid ass picture.  This picture is of a guy, squatted down alongside the dishwasher, holding a fork in one hand and a sign in the other.  The sign says, "up or down" referring to how you are supposed to put the fork in the dishwasher.

This is stupid but it doesn't capture the stupidity in its entirety.  Nope, the ensuing arguments did that.  "Well, you gotta put the fork in tines down so you don't stab yourself when you take the forks out of the dishwasher."  "No, you have to have the tines of the fork up, so they get cleaned."  

Okay dipshits, I have a news flash for you....  Its a fucking dishwasher!  It doesn't give a shit how you do it!!!  There are 2 wrong ways of loading a dishwasher, and only 2 wrong ways... so listen up!  Removing both racks and just tossing all of your dishes in the bottom is "Wrong #1" and taking a shit in the soap tray is "Wrong #2" (literally and figuratively, if you will)!  End of the god damned discussion!

If you're so mindless and frail that a fork tine can cause you damage when accidentally touching them, guess what?  You now only get to use a fucking spoon!  How about that?  The big fucking pokey thingy is dangerous and you can't have one!  I'd tell you to use your hands but you'd probably bite your finger and then try to sue your fucking dentist!  

And "tines down" and "not getting clean".  Let me tell you something.  The water in a dishwasher is so fucking hot, you can cook a chicken with it. Between the hot ass water and the soap, your beloved fork is going to be clean... that's it!  End of the god damned discussion!!!!

What in the fuck is there to fight about?  I know there are assholes out there who have to load the dishwasher a certain way.  I know these people.  These are the most ungrateful shits on the planet.  You go to their house, eat dinner and in an attempt to help clean up, you load the dishwasher....  Nice effort, in my book but not these ungrateful shits... Nope, they dramatically unload the dishwasher and then reload the thing by plate size, color, shape and the spoons go in one little fucking spot, knives in another and folks in another... as if the dishwasher gives a shit!!!  The dishwasher gives NO SHITS WHATSOEVER!  If you do this, you're an asshole.  Post that shit on Facebook!

And while I have your god damned attention, listen to this!  You don't go thrust your face into the silverware holder when emptying the dishwasher because it isn't safe.  That means for once in your stupid life, you paid a little attention.  If you're paying any attention at all, the sharp, pokey thingy won't hurt you.

Put all of your silverware in the little silverware thing, how ever you want.  Be a god damned renegade and go all willy-nilly... because it doesn't matter, then put soap in and then press the go button!  You are now washing dishes correctly!  

We're talking about a fork and the dishwasher and safety issues... how is this shit even a thing?  Were not talking about bullshit 1 ply toilet paper and the adverse affects it can have on your asshole!  By the way, I don't care if you use 20 grit sandpaper on your ass, you masochistic sons-a-bitches.  Its your ass and if you don't care, neither do I.  I also don't care about this... This shit is only a thing in America and America-lite (Canada).  Knock it off, God damn it!

Wednesday, June 30, 2021

Old Dog/New Trix


A couple of years back, a friend of mine said that he was going in for a manicure/pedicure.  I chuckled because, well, that shit ain't for me.  I just couldn't see myself having it done.  First off, my hands look like 20 miles of bad road.  Unless you are going to repave them, they aren't worth messing with.  And pedicure?  If my hands are jacked up, you ought to see my feet!  If cave men had hooves...and the hooves had wooden shingles on them.... and they smelled like burned cat hair and garbage truck water, that would be my feet.  I thought about lopping them off and stumbling around on the stumps but my foot model days are long behind me.  I'm not subjecting anyone to that mess!

A couple of weeks later, the same friend told me that he was getting into yoga.  Again, I chuckled.  I'm so damned out of shape and stiff that I would pull a hamstring just thinking about stretching.  My worst fear would naturally be, getting into the group, getting my stretch on and then let go with a monster truck fart.  I can't embarrass myself that bad at this age...

A couple of weeks after that, the same guy told me that he was going to get a massage.  I said, "What in the world is going on with you?  Mani-pedi, yoga, and now massages?"  I thought my buddy either had too much money or too much time on his hands.  He made a very simples statement that I didn't understand.  "It's an investment in myself."  Silly me... that's what I thought beer was for.

Fast forward to this Father's Day.  I'm not big on "gift getting".  My wife and kids know this.  Anything I want or need, I just go get it.  And if my kids know that if they ever get me a fucking tie, I will come back in the after life and teach their kids all kinds of shit that will drive them crazy!  

Anyhow, this Father's Day... the wife and kids got me a massage.  She knew I needed this.  My back, neck and shoulders are tighter than a bulls ass sewed shut with a logging chain!  Me being me, I try to talk her and me out of this.  

"Why did you go and do that?  I ain't taking my clothes off in front of another woman and embarrassing her too.  My back has patchy ass hair all over it.  I look like a bigfoot who got dragged behind the Fed Ex truck, for Christ's sake." 

 Her retort..."You don't take your clothes off in front of her.  You take them off, cover up with a sheet and then lie down on a table.... and you're right about your back.  I should take you to get that waxed!"

  I said, "Well buddy, that shit ain't happening neither, but back to this massage bullshit.  I don't want some shaman healer chanting, casting spells and hitting me in the ass with a dead chicken!" 

 She replies, "Nobody does that.  Where do you come up with this garbage?  You're going to love it and you really need it.  You're stressed from work.  Your neck has been bothering you for months.  It's good for you.  Some people actually cry from it... its a huge release for some people."

I say, "That's another thing.  I heard some guys get an erection during massages and I have had all of the "Happy Endings" I ever needed.  And I'll be damned if I am going to go into this Voo-Doo High Preistesses office and have a good cry.  I do that shit in the garage when I am having a beer and trying to build something.  I don't need this kind of shit on my resume!"

As is with most of our arguments, I was wrong.  She booked that thing and already paid for it.  "Look man,'' she says.  "You've had a hell of a year with injuries and other crap.  First you toppled over and broke my toilet with your head and gave yourself a Grade 3 concussion.  That fired up your old back and neck injuries and you had to go get an injection in your back.  That costed way more than this massage ever will.  Then you go get your wisdom teeth out.  You had one problem after another with that for 7 weeks!  You've felt like shit and this is going to make you feel better, so your ass is going!"

My beloved wife rarely gives me directives.  After nearly 30 years of marriage, I know that when she does, she means business and I am going to be taking my big happy ass to the witch doctor and getting my ass smudged whether I think I need to or not.

So there I am...  Turns out, I know the massage therapist.  I have known her for 25 or so years.  She's good too.  The whole town voted "Best in the Valley" for damned near as long as she's been in business!  She orders me to "get ready" which means strip down, after she steps out.  Reluctantly, I do this and am brutally reminded that I wore my double dutch, stinky ass work boots to this massage....  no frigging way does she not smell this.

Anyhow, she comes in and turns on some music that I would never be caught dead listening to.  I guess that adds to the experience.  She starts in on the old neck with some warm ass oil, and it is.... uhm, FUCKING AWESOME!  Turns out, Trixie is not a Voodoo Priestess or a Witch Doctor... she is a god damned THERAPIST and will now be known as MY MASSAGE THERAPIST!  She finds about 200 knots and kinks in my neck and tells me how its probably related to the shoulders and vice versa.  She moves to the middle of my back and gets to cranking on it.  She finds more knots and lumps in there and stops to get my arms.  She cut loose on my arms and shoulders, y'all.  I was making noises that must have been a little frightening to her.  She kept asking, "Are you all right?"  I said, "Don't mind me.  Act like a regular human is here and just keep going!"

She moves from the arms to the small of my back.  She hit a spot that I didn't know if I was going to fart or faint, but it felt sooooo good!  I think I growled and maybe peed a little.  She goes back up and works more on the neck, then the shoulders and then said, "Take your time getting up.  Take a few deep breaths, this affects everyone a little differently.  Take your time and let me know when you're decent.  

Me being decent is going to take a lot more time on that table.  I've got to tell you, I don't know what that cost, but its happening again.  If you've never had a massage, do it!  Do it tomorrow.  Shit, today if you can get in.  If you want MY MASSAGE THERAPISTS name and number, I can get that to you.  

To my friend Mike... I'll leave your last name out of this since I didn't have your permission to use your name or likeness in this story, you sir were right!  I get it.  This was an investment in myself, but I still ain't getting a mani-pedi and you'll never see me in a yogurt hut or whatever those things are called, but I am all in on the massages!


Thursday, April 1, 2021


So, there I was enjoying a rare day for me.  Everything was going along just as it should.  My mind was clear and quiet.  It was zen-like.  Then it happens.  My phone chimes to alert me of a new text message.  When it comes to text messages, I often prefer them to a phone call.  You can keep them short and sweet, stick to the topic and then have written proof of the conversation.

The problem with this particular text message was, it was from a 5 digit phone number.  I was afraid to answer it thinking it would be some idiot telling me that my vehicle warranty was about to expire.  Actually, that would have been a blessing.

The text message was a small photo.  The photo was so small that I had to put on my reading glasses to see it, and even that didn't help.  I spent the next 10 minutes trying to figure out how to enlarge the pic in order to see what in the hell it was.  And after 10 minutes, I feel highly invested at this point.  I'm going to follow though.  Finally, I get the pic to open up and this is what it was.....

Oat Milk...  Oat Milk?  First of all, what is it about me that would make anyone feel as if I would even be remotely interested in Oat Milk?  Secondly, oats are cereal.  You put milk on cereal.  You don't get milk from cereal!  Did they not read my dissertation on Soy Milk???  It's rock solid, scientific!

Now I'm spun out.  Right now, stop what you're doing and go to the grocery store.  Purchase the cheapest or most expensive brand of oatmeal. It doesn't matter, because its grain.  It all comes from the same plant. Take it home, open the container, get you a nice handful of of delicious, dry ass oatmeal and just plop that shit in your mouth... DO IT, GOD DAMN IT!!!!  Do you feel refreshed?  Is your god damned thirst quenched?  Fuck no its not!  Do you know why?  Fucking oatmeal has about as much liquid in it as playground sand! You can't do that shit!  Oats have a negative fluid amount!!!  It takes 2 cups of water to make 1/2 cup of oatmeal edible!  

You can't milk a god damned oat either!  Uhm... did you not read my dissertation on Soy Milk?  Okay, well, in order for you to get milk from anything... it has to have a tit and a nipple!  I went and spent $900.00 on a stupid ass microscope that I will probably never use again and I put 200,000 oats, 1 at a time under the scope and guess what?  Not a tit or a nipple to be found....  Not one!  If 200,000 oats don't have a tit between them, where are you going to find an oat tit!  

You just can't make shit up and call it milk!  You're not fooling anyone, unless you're fooling a god damned vegan, and the only way you can fool them is because they don't have the energy to think clearly enough!!!  They would drink a cup of this goofy shit and get drunk enough off of it that you could convince them that a mashed up carrot, tofu, kale and wheat germ bio-enzyme is a vegetarian steak!  And by the way, wheat germ bio-enzyme doesn't exist either.  I consulted with the soy milk dick and he just told me to "Make some shit up.  We did."

Look, you can't catch the fluid dripping out of a garbage truck in a jaunty little box with a spout on it and call it 'BIG GREEN TRUCK MILK"!  If I ran up and smashed you in the head with a brick, I can't call the blood pouring out of your big, dumb ass head "Brick Milk"!  It doesn't make any fucking sense!!!

So while I am walking around the house, going through all of this shit and losing my mind, my beloved wife calmly says, "Honey, why don't you go buy a carton of oat milk and just give it a try?"  I said, "Wait, what?  Why would I do that?  Oatmilk doesn't exist!  It can't exist without oat tits!  I've done the science... go look at my work bench in the garage!  I have oats all over the place and I looked at every damned oat in there.  No tits.  Not a tit to be found.  So riddle me this, Love of My Life... what is that shit they are selling?"

She shrugged her shoulders and said, "You should try it.  You might like it."  I laughed.  "I already know what it tastes like.  It tastes like sadness and broken dreams!  Why don't you go try it?"  She said, "It's kind of good."  Now I am thinking, "Shit, they got to her...  The fucking fake milk illuminati got her, changed her brains to vegan brains and now she is going to run around and play hacky sac with college freshmen....."

If anyone was going to be mad about this lie forced upon us by the fake milk illuminati, it should be her!  I tried to tell her once that midgets really aren't short but the rest of us all just too tall... she almost didn't marry be because of that!!!  And now she is happy to buy into the oatmilk bullshit???  They took her brain... they took her god damned brain....  Now what am I supposed to do?

Now, if you know me, you know I just can't drop things.  I had to take a walk and try to get this shit out of my mind.  I was gone for 2 hours.  When I came home, the wife asked if everything was okay.  I nodded back and said, "I apologize for my behavior.  If I got out of line with you, I apologize for that too.  And I want you to know that I thought of something that is going to make you feel so much better about diarrhea."  She said, "What? What are you talking about and where did that come from.  Diarrhea is disgusting..." to which I replied, "No it's not.  It's fart milk!"