It's Hard to Hate a Retard.

It's so true, how can you hate a retard? It's not their fault they don't operate on our superior level of intelligence. It's that same higher standard that constantly has me wondering where my glasses are, where I left my keys, and at other times trying to remember when I showered last. Maybe guys like Gary here have it pretty good. You grab onto a couple of favorite things in life, cling to them like your security blanket and never let go.

A few weeks ago I had a doctors appointment, and as expected, I would have a long wait to get in to see her. In the waiting room was Gary, pictured above. Let me tell you about Gary. Gary drools a lot, that's my first chuckle. Gary also has a fake tattoo on his right arm, or a sea horse...that's a chuckle. Gary also has a black binder with Mylie Cyrus articles, creepy funny. Gary is a huge Mylie Cyrus / Hannah Montana fan. This binder had photos, articles and I may have even seen a lock of her hair, I'm sure the rest of Mylie is safe in Gary's basement. Gary was there with a PSW (Personal Support Worker) that watches over him throughout the day. She went in for a doctor appointment and left Gary with the rest of us.

And so we begin with my Gary tribute. To the man that pulled out a melted half eaten Kit Kat bar from his pocket and ate it with a crooked sideways smile on his face, cheers! To the man that pulled out his photo album/scrap book and looked, and giggled while staring at Mylie Cyrus, cheers! What? You think that's wrong? An older man staring at a teenage heart throb like Hannah Montana? I beg to differ. Gary is working on the level of a ten year old or less. He had velcro shoes, unable to tie his laces, sitting there with a stick on tattoo of a sea horse, I don't believe he's a threat. In fact I would go so far as to say it's puppy love on Gary's part. The last time I had a stick on tattoo was around ten years old, and girls weren't even on my radar yet.

And now for the finale. Gary was finished oggling the photo of Mylie/Hannah Montana and calmy placed the binder down beside him. Slipped his hand into his pocket. Innocent enough for you? Then started rubbing furiously like a contestant on Survivor trying to start a fire. He was definitely into himself, God bless him. The look of horror on a young lady's face in the waiting room was worth my prolonged wait. The assault on his genitals lasted only a mere minute, if that, and if Gary managed to rub one out in that time - good job!'

Gary's assistant came out shortly after this episode of retard/teenage lust and stole Gary from me, out the door. I hope I see Gary again one day, but until then, everytime I see a dog humping someone's leg, I'll think of my friend Gary.

Headaches.

Todays beef is all about headaches. Maybe it's my unhealthy lifestyle or maybe I have so much anger in my head it tries to break out. If I had to describe this one it would be an angry pimp trying to break down a door in a cheap motel. It's violent, ugly and something I badly want to go away. Over the years I've tried many different medications, and thankfully, Advil for Migraines helps the most. No one likes headaches, mine just seem to come when I have a day off...maybe I should stay at work. Why write about a headache? It's my way of getting back, you can't really go punching yourself in your own head to punish a headache, that's counter-productive. So screw you headache, hopefully you'll go away soon, until then I am at your mercy like a nerd getting shoved in a locker by the school bully.

Had I known almost seven years ago when we moved into our house that I had a pink garage door, I'd have painted it. I didn't know until last night that it was 'peachy pink.'

Many years ago when I had applied to the police department and jumped through all the hoops for the physical and written exams. I was then sent for a medical and passed the doctors exam. It wasn't until I went to the optomologist that I found out I was colour blind, I failed the Inshahala Eye test, miserably. I didn't believe I was colour blind since I had worked at Tip Top Tailors for a number of years. Matching ties and pants and jackets never seemed a problem, I was never accused of dressing someone poorly, only myself in later years. I was entitled to get a second opinion and by God, off I went, I ain't colour blind, dumb or stupid. I failed again. I was able to pass the Farnsberg D-15 test which indicated I was, ready for this my black friends....'colour prejudice.' Oh yeah, fabulous, but in my head that meant I wasn't colour blind, just a little off in some areas. I figured I was still good enough to pin point whether or not the dude breaking into a car was white or black though, or even a shade in between. I went back to 40 College, the police headquarters and spoke to the head recruiter at the time, a nice tall black lady. Can you see how this is going to go? "I'm not colour blind, I'm just colour prejudiced." With a tilt of her head and a raised eyebrow, I was dismissed and sent packing like a homeless person thrown out of a five start restaurant.

Years later that colour problem has bit me in the ass again. My wife made the comment about our pink garage door, at which time I asked her to repeat herself. "Pink G-A-R-A-G-E Door" That's what I though you said dear. Shoot me. Six and a half years I've been gracing the neighborhood with friendly waves and kind chit-chat, all the while they've been laughing at me and my pink garage door. It's hard to feel like you've accomplished anything in your neighborhood when you just found out you have a pink garage door. I feel like they look at me now as the guy that married a chick just to keep the gay lifestyle hush-hush. I feel like the guy that they wonder about whether or not I'm cross dressing and dancing around the house in makeup when no one is looking. I feel that my neighbors only talk to me out of pity now.

Well that will change soon. I promise you. Atleast one neighbor was labelling my door as "flesh color." That will soon change, so if you want to see a pink garage door, then I suggest you make it a two-for. Come see the garage door and one embarassed home owner. I can't wait to find out what colour the rest of the house is!

Happy Trails.

Sorry? Not in this lifetime.

This is for the customer that very politely and sheepishly asked for me to apologize to the bus load of cattle for being late. "They are very stressed that you are late." That's kind of funny Igor, in fact it's almost as funny as your Transylvanian accent. "Can you tell me why you are late? People have been waiting for a long time and no bus, you should apologize to them." And it's at that moment that every working person in the public sector has to make a decision. Is it worth telling this jerk off to fuck off? Can I actually voice what is going on in my head, like "Get the fuck outta here, apologize for what and to who? Like I give a fuck!?" That's what the voice in my head started screaming. I really like to end these episodes quickly, and sometimes the quickest way to end them is to go from 0 to 100mph in a flash. That's also what gets you your customer complaints or a beating, but again, balancing the fun to pain ratio, fun wins hands down. I stayed polite and droned on about all the reasons the bus was late, and how I am the only bus out here and how I'd really like to see another bus out here to help out...well this all goes on while we are still sitting at the intersection waiting to get out of the station. So to you my fine Eastern European friend who was voted spokesperson for the down trodden, I have this for you.

Go and fuck yourself. I'm not apologizing for shit. Do you think I like pulling into the station and seeing thirty dirty faces looking at me with hate when there should only be five or six of you mother fuckers waiting for me? No. Do you think I really want to talk to you, at all, for any amount of time? No. In a perfect world the transit company may pay you for your time when a bus is late, it would be like a part-time job after your day job cleaning the washroom stalls in the basement of the office towers at King and Bay St. Yes those same office tower washrooms where many a married man has gone into for a gay tryst. As far as your punishment for suggesting a ridiculous idea like that? I'd like to wrap your head in duct tape...around and around and around. Then I'd start hitting you like a dollar store pinata with broken hockey stick. See you on the next Speakers Corner fuck nut.

A Roll of Saran Wrap and a Polaroid.

"Next time have the smoke on your time, not ours buddy."

That's how the latest episode started as douche bag was exiting the vehicle. You can rest assured that yours truly is more than able to handle a minor speed bump like this comment.

"Hey mouthpiece, come here and take a look at how far this bus is ahead of schedule, that smoke was on my time not yours."

And as he turned to fire another volley from his lips that have probably touched more man cock than a reusable catheter in a hospital, I blurted, "No, screw you, enjoy your mediocre life, good-bye." And the part that comes next...you guessed it. The SCS symptoms presented themselves. This fella looked like an executive forced to travel public transit because his boss was mean enough to confiscate his keys before he could drive home drunk and run head on into a light pole, dammit. The 'Stunned Cunt Syndrome' look may sound harsh and crude to be called something so obviously feminine...and you're right, but I didn't make up the name. "Screw me?" And almost like the fat kid in high school who's about to get his first grab of tittie I confirmed his thoughts, "yes screw you, have a nice night." Small victory, mostly in my head, and until that customer complaint comes in, I am racking this up as a win.

As far as my time management guide goes, I think I'd like to wrap you up in saran wrap with a couple of piranha between the plastic and your nipples and gently poke at them until they furious and angry. I would also like to take a polaroid of you and post it on the side of my bus as I drive by your neighborhood daily, saran wrap, fish and a look of pure panic on your moisturized face, douche bag. By the way, if you are going to throw an insult at me, make it one that is going to hurt. "You're driving seemed amateurish." "I though Miss Daisy was driving us." "I like your third chin, it's a nice transition to your chest." Fucking amateur insulter...go and die a lonely death, please.

Sunny Days, Everything is A - Okay.

Today was a great day. Surprised? You should be, I don't have many of those. Let me tell you what a good day is in the world of Hrdnox. I started my shift as usual with the sheeple travelling home from work. I even remembered my sunglasses today so the bright burning sun didn't hurt me too much. I hate the sunshine by the way, I'm much happier at night time when people can't spot you as easily peering in their windows. When I arrived at my subway station and left to shake the dew off the lilly (that means pee), another operator cornered a turn and crunched my bus's rear end. That's awesome. I can tell you that the sound of "no work for an hour or more," is comparable to two sumo wrestlers wearing pots and pans running at eachother full tilt. It was music to my ears, I thought some lucky bastard is going to get out of work for a while. As I came out of the washroom I saw the ass end of my bus wrinkled up like a puppy dog pug's face. No work for an hour and a bit, that's awesome, or as Paris Hilton has taken to saying, "huge." That's H u g e....learn it and start saying it, you'll get in with the cool kids folks, just follow my lead.

Later on in the evening I was fortunate enough to spot a fake transit pass. I also had the fore thought to close the door behind my law breaker so he wouldn't be able to bolt right away. When I took the pass he was stunned and confused when I told him the officers would like to interview him and he'd have to stick around. Unfortunately for me, lucky for him, no officers were available. They were all tied up with underage smokers on a platform somewhere and were busy issuing warnings to the hethans. The above mentioned transit pass holder was suffering from a case of SCS (look that up in my previous post). I let him go, no sense in waiting for the understaffed, undermotivated, underequipped security dept. to show up, they'd only issue a warning anyways.

Thank you super punk, you made my day.

So to all of you that made my day great, I wish you the same! Thanks.

Angry Customer Magnet

Standing at the station yesterday a bus pulled away from the platform and left a customer lunging onto the road for it. After huffing and puffing for a few minutes dumb dumb zeroed in on me. I must have a sign on my head that reads Customer Complaints and Bitching Zone (I have a large forehead). I don't make myself open for conversation, I'm not smiling, and I'm using looking angry with a smoke in my hand...that's called my game face. I wear the game face for the nine hours or so that I am in the publics glare. I don't want to talk to anyone and you may think I am in the wrong business but I love driving and I like what this job gets me, pay pension and benefits. Now I totally understand why a guy would leave the driver seat to become a traffic checker on the routes...the promise of working undercover and out of sight and mind appeals and is probably worth the buck or two less an hour.


The barrage starts with "WHY DID SHE DRIVE AWAY WHEN I'M RIGHT THERE!" to which I replied, "I would have left you there too, once the bus starts to pull away we don't stop for anyone." I was hoping that would put an end to it. I was greeted with what I have called through the years, "SCS." SCS in it's medical terminology refers to the "Stunned Cunt Syndrome." If you ever drop a line on someone that to their fragile mind is so far in left field that they can barely grasp what you are saying, you will be greeted with a puzzled look, and no words coming out of their mouth, SCS buys you a moment of silence. One of the side effects of SCS is that they become more angry. If you are smart you do a quick follow up, for example, "Go and call customer service, they'll be happy to listen to your complaint, that's THEIR job." As a double treat, I was greeted with the SCS stare once more....and I so badly wanted to kick him in the nuts, I doubt he would have felt it. He mosied back to the platform and I kid you not, the kettle was brewing, boiling like a pressure cooker in his mind. It took half a smoke before he finally blurted out in the midst of a crowd "YOU FUCKING GUYS! FUCK YOU!" That's a great move, basically no one else really knew what he was yelling at or who he was yelling at, we were more than 50ft apart. I'm guessing some folks thought he was just an unfortunate victim of turrets and he was spouting off the first words he learned when coming to Canada. Swear words are always the first and most interesting to learn of a new language. Nine years of french class and all I can remember is how to ask a girl to bed down with me for the night and how to call you a shit head.


So to my new friend that I will probably see every night for the next three weeks of this board period, fuck you. Maybe if you didn't walk so friggin slow to the bus platform assuming the bus wouldn't leave until your highness got there, you would have caught it. Maybe if you didn't run out into traffic like a dog chasing a ball you wouldn't have made such a fool of yourself. And finally when you ask me why someone else did something else...how the fuck do I know? I had three people with fake passes that didn't get to confiscate last night and that didn't make me half as mad as you bothering me mere minutes before my start time. So please sir, here's what I would like to see you do...


Go buy a GM car, just a small one, like a Cobalt, they are cheap now. If you buy enough fake metro passes and save the money you don't have to use on them for a new car you'll have it in no time, and give up the strip joints and drinking during your lunch breaks too. Take that car to and from work, everyday, take pride in car ownership. I can only hope that when the GM assembly line worker who was putting your car together was a little distracted when assembling yours. I mean can you blame them? They are all going to be unemployed shortly and their head is not in the job they are doing. That worker isn't going to put the TLC into your car when he or she is worried about how they are going to buy groceries next week. So when that worker forgets to connect you airbag, maybe even not tighten the brake line we can understand. Then when you are pulling up to a red light and your car doesn't stop, slow down or show any sign of response, much like my wife when we are making love....you'll understand. Then when I come sailing through that intersection, unimpeded by traffic or a 50km/h speed limit I want to hit you full out and punt you into another part of the city. In fact the look on your face the instant before my bumper connects to your forehead would be that SCS look...Stunned Cunt Syndrome, how ironic. The look you had when we first met is the same look you'll have when we part ways. Fuck you little man, I wish I never see you again, I wish I never see you again, I wish I never see you again, as I click my ruby red slippers.

"It's always funny when it's someone else!"

Mark