Waiting for the lights to change

Ever get in your car, drive and forget where you're going or how you got where you are. You yell at yourself because that's normal. I mean who else is there to yell at. I'm the bone head who thought, Oh well, let's just daydream a while. I obviously have nowhere to go, do I have to get to nowhere, in a friggin hurry? You know the guy? I'm thinking,  gee, how did I get here? Looks like I made good time! 

Every sit at red light and have know idea how many cycles of changing lights you missed. You wish you had an excuse like texting or mowing down a big Mac, while searching the bottom of the bag for that surprise fry. Nope, just spaced out, waiting for the caffeine to kick in.

Ever notice how this always seems to happen on a Monday. Maybe, you just don't want to go where your going, so your mind in it's supreme intelligence decides, frig it, a little holiday would be nice right about now. Gee, where would I really like to go? Fantasy front seat, reality back seat. Little cotton candy clouds, filled with the flavor of the day just floating by windshield of.... Horn. 

The driver behind wakes from his daydream and is gesturing like he is conducting the I'm angry symphony number one. The brass section is a little off, the percussion sounds like someone trapped in the back seat banging on the window trying to get out but the violin was right on cue. You conduct your own version of the I'm sorry overture number two, in buzz off major. The driver in back has two goals. One, is to flip you the bird. Two, to get to the red light or nowhere, faster than you. He pulls around you with his middle finger outro the window o. You realize the reason why he is angry. If the f the PM sticker and huge red and white flag wasn't enough. He is driving a pickup and he is mad for a good reason.  The poor guy has no hair under his turned back cap, a small penis and if that wasn't enough, in the race to the red light, there is only one thing he can't pass. The gas station. I think,  I should give this guy a break but no. Right is right and I'm sure he owes me an apology. The race is on. 

I meet the clown at the red light, he rolls down his window or he pushes the button before he pushes my buttons. Out of kindness, I lower mine for ease of conversation. I can hear him but I can't see him. A voice barks. What's your problem? To be truthful the was an f between what's and yours but I'm trying to keep this clean.  I'm trying to see the right winged, red neck, man hatter. Suddenly, a face emerges from a vape cloud. He repeats. What's your problem? Me using the verbal combat skills I learned in grade school,  shout back What's my problem? You know, just to clarify that I heard him and before he could bark back, I add a zinger, What's your problem? No f was used. The f you, always leads to making something out it. I didn't want to get my ass kicked. The light is longer than usual and the awkward lull is met with just glaring eyes, weird come at me hand gestures and head bobs. Then it happens. We both realize two things. We are Canadians and real Canadians don't behave like this. We both say sorry as the light changes, one last word.  Mondays! Bozo and Oppsy drive away to one day meet again at another red light and another daydream. 

The Three C's

We all do it. There's no reason to be ashamed. It's part of our daily natural cleaning process. There are two things people don't want other people see. Well, there could be a few others but I will address just a couple. One, wiping our asses. Nobody wants to see that. A close second, getting caught picking our nose. This is the one area of focus, I want to talk about today. Why, I don't know, maybe it will be funny.

Crusty Happens

They happen on the couch. They happen on the can. The happen in the car. Crusty happens. How you take care of crusty is up to you. Just don't get caught decrustifiying the crusty. Are you a couch, can, or car picker? 

The couch is probably the worst place to do the deed. Tissues only do so much some. You think you got your nose covered but some of that stuff is going to get lost and find a new home somewhere on the fabric or maybe stuck to an old getaway chip, you lost under your cushion in 1979.  There you are hiding your pick. The thumb behind the palm method is popular and is often used, when your wife is sitting beside you. But, you're not hiding anything.  Your wife knows your doing it. She is tired of it but can't say anything,  saving that card for the day she gets caught. Oh, she's going to get caught. Just a matter of time. The crusty will come out. 

On the can is the the best place. One, you have privacy. Two, you can get your fingers involved and you won't get caught red handed, even if you get red handed. There you are on the can massaging your brain through nostril, when your wife knocks on the door. What are you doing in there? You quickly pull your finger out and say. What do you think I'm doing in here? She has learned there are only two times you spend more than five minutes on the can. She walks away grossed out but thankful, there is another bathroom. 

The car is all about calculation. There are many things to consider. Timing the flow of traffic, front and behind. Can you use the palm hiding thumb method or do you really have to go in. Sometimes you can overthink it, get half way committed, when some bonehead speeds up behind you. You know your rear view mirror is small. Why be paranoid? Really, what ego are you protecting? I mean, what could they see? That's when you realize. That bone-head is your wife. Oh my God he does it everywhere. 

Ever see the sticker on the back of car window of some guy doing it, to it. Clearly this guy doesn't give an f, if anyone is watching. I've seen him in my rear view mirror, massaging his brains through his nostril. I'm stuck at a read light, I can't pick and this guy behind me if like F it I'm going in. Can you imagine TV night with the wife. F it, maybe they both are just sitting picking their nose and flipping through the channels.  Just a picking and flipping. Just a picking and flipping. Make you feel sorry for the remote control. 

Crusty will come. Crusty will go. You hope they'll leave when you blow but some will hang around just because that's the way it is or maybe was

 Keep your nose clean.  See next time on the road.

DennyD

Born in a barn

 Born in a barn

 If Jesus were here today, he'd probably live in a bachelor apartment above an old out-of-business service station in rural Ontario, Canada. More than likely be vegan and host a podcast called The Daily Miracle. The apartment would be spotless. And although he was born in a barn,  I don't think he'd appreciate everyone mentioning that fact, every time they visited. 

He would still have twelve friends. One, of course, a traitor. The others could be and would be, a big fat gender-confused spectrum of interesting possibilities. Oh yeah, and maybe a hooker on the side for arm art because I don't think he would be into tats.

 The opening lines of his podcast would be. “My dad loves you and so do I”  The guest would come on the show with a host of problems. Why yes, pun intended. Thank you. He would ponder, think and say out loud “What would daddy do?” I think your solution my friend is stuck between stagnation and creation. Look what can be done with a stick and mud. What I'm trying to say is “Don't be a stick in the mud, make something happen”  You woke up, so wake up and create your daily miracle. At the end of the show, he would have a simple closing remark “Amen”

 

#ChickenDrivers

This is what I see on a daily basis in my rear-view mirror. People who morph into chickens.  I'm stuck at a red light. A fun activity. Other than trying to distract myself from a blinker that sounds like "Let's go! let's go! let's go!" I turn my attention to my friend. My rear-view mirror.  The scene is someone looking down at their cell phone with a case of chicken turrets. Chicken fingers, thumbs, bopping heads and sideways glances. Looking out for cops or maybe a better shade of green. They don't care about the guy in front, me,  clearly indicating that I know what they are doing. I raise my hands in the air pretend I have an invisible cell phone and I point in a downward motion asking them to politely hang up the frigging phone. Well, it starts out polite. Soon chicken fingers turn into just a couple of middle fingers and a bunch of f-bombs. Chicken Neck is mad and drives like all madmen with a small penis, fast and loud. That's life #OnTheRoadWithDennyD

Old Bag Perfume

                                                                             OBP

 

I know it's not nice to call them old bags. Life-experienced may be more appropriate.  But I'm sorry. I just can't handle it. My lungs yell out.  I've heard them.  What the F is with the OBP?  After I run away as fast as I can and cough my lungs out, It occurs to me.  Maybe it's all part of their evil plan to weed out weak, allergenic, entitled pricks like me. You know, have a few laughs before they cash in their chips. I'm sure they're organized too. There are probably thousands of wrinkle skin people, who are pissed enough that they're getting older, who are somehow concerned about body order and have no, I mean no sense when it comes to scent. It's like that old lady who spices up her food with hot Sause but instead of hot Sause, it's a stinky moisturizer. Similar slogan. I put that smell everywhere. Any place that might cause a weird unrecognizable stink, gets covered up in stink.  

I'm sure they meet weekly. I've seen them at big M's, drinking senior coffee and planning their attack. I use the drive-thru for obvious reasons. I like to breathe between sips.  The ring leader is a retired school teacher who wasn't allowed to wear scent at school. Her name?  I won't mention it, just in case I get it right. Little Miss nameless had it all. Plastic boobs, Botox lips, big hair and fuzzy sweaters. She stunk as a teacher but she couldn't stink as a teacher. Oh, the sweet fragrance of Oxymorons. 

Can you imagine roll call at the Big M.   Okay Betty, you get the long line at the bank. Joan, you go to the casino and flush out the Keno players. Judy, you got the big box store and feel free to eat as many samples they can hand out before they faint. Now we know why the men go to the big T across the street. They know their wives stink and they found the only hiding place other than the hardware store to hang out at.

Heaven forbid they run out of their twenty-five-pound bottle and have to go to the fragrance counter. The scene must be a treat.

Excuse me miss, can you help me. The salesperson looks at her and thinks Oh shit, it's one of them. The lady says I'm looking for some moisturizer. The salesperson says Here's a popular fragrance that all the life-experienced ladies wear. It's called Old du toilet. The lady asks, Why is it called that? The salesperson chimes in, she wants to say Because it smells like shit and it probably should be flushed down the shitter but decides to be diplomatic. It's the best moisturizer for your skin (Thinks to herself wet paper bag wrinkled skin) with just a hint of fresh cut flowers ( Like a rose being crushed by a hammer) and essential oil.  The lady is now curious. No Really, what's in it? The salesperson looks at the twenty-five-pound bottle and reads the ingredients. Oh let's see. Moisturizer, embalming fluid and potpourri. 

Well, you do want to have nice skin and smell good on the way to, well you know.  There she is laying there. It is a sad day. After all the years of practice and she finally made it to the pros with three-quarters of a litre to go. I'm sure one of her friends will get the unused stink as a going-away present.  I can almost imagine the conversation.

Look at her. She looks so good. They did a great job on her. Good thing she had that head start. We will miss her, lingering smell. 

The above was created for your amusement. Just for a laugh. I like older people. I am one of them. But I don't have to stink as one. Please let me know if I do. 

Bald men don't use hair gel.

                        #OnTheRoadWithDennyD

Bald men don't use hair gel. 

Or do they?

If you see a bald man shopping for his wife and he leaves the store with a box of tampons, aspirin, a men's health ab edition, and hair gel, he may not be passive-aggressive.  And I'm pretty sure he is hiding something. Not that I had any experience in that sort of thing. Luckily for me, I still have some hair left. And I don't need to shop for my wife anymore. I don't have one, for obvious reasons. However, I still lack the courage to check out certain things. And I surely don't need other people checking my things out. 

Enter the jobs-stealing technology known as Self-Checkout. 

I have to admit. Not a fan, unless of course, I have to buy something a little too risky. I mean I have a reputation to fake. I'm just glad self-checkouts don't have mirrors. Can you imagine the conversation? The voice says Please place your item in the bag. Your answer I'd rather not thank you. You put all your stuff in the bag and get ready to leave when the voice returns. Please sanitize your hands and yes the mirror too you freak!

Diapers and Condoms

Strange Pairing at the Drug store.

 

Diapers and condoms. Here’s a pair. The order of the purchase says it all. If the condoms are rung in after the diapers. It just means that shit ain’t going to happen again. If it’s the other way around, it's like saying if I would have used this shit, the other shit wouldn’t have happened. 

Either way shit happens. It stinks. The good news, you can usually smell it coming, unless, of course, you step in. That's on you, my friend. Or at least your shoes. 

                    

Welcome to On The Road With Denny D

#OnTheRoadWith DennyD

Climb in, we are fuelled up and ready to go. Where the hell the road is going, doesn't really matter. What matters, is that nothing matters but now and how we get down the road. I try to find the funny side of this unreal reality called life and for your reading and or listening enjoyment, tell you the story. So buckle up, it could be a bumpy ride. Let the journey begin.....

Denny D