Wednesday, February 28, 2007
I have professed many times that I love my job. I'm happy and I'm pretty good at it and if my boss ever ran for King of the World, I would assassinate any competition. He's awesome. I've even been propositioned with alternative careers that paid more, but I didn't even inquire. Why leave paradise? OK, they wouldn't pay THAT much more, but still, more. And, OK, it's not really paradise but it could be. It could be if we would eliminate our Monday morning staff meetings and if I had power to terminate at will.
My office is a motley crew. This has it's pros and cons. Sometimes I want to strangle some of them, but since my boss is not yet running for King of the World, this would not be a wise career move. So, I try really really hard to play nice. Usually. And I understand that not everyone is as articulate as I am and able to process information as quickly as I do so I try to be patient. I'm no genius or anything, but in our shed, I am a sharp tool. Sometimes the dullards forget that sharp tools can be dangerous.
This is why the Monday staff meeting is such a chore for me. People operate in levels and, bless their tiny hearts, some people just aren't at a high enough cognitive level to keep up. They should not be invited to the meeting. This past Monday we had a twenty minute conversation about whether or not we should lock the door that enters our office to keep visitors from gaining entry without knocking. A valid conversation, I guess (I say let 'em in, but that's not the point) that should have taken 3 minutes. It took TWENTY minutes. Of debate. By idiots.
Sometimes weighing pros and cons is an excellent exercise. "Should I buy this house?" "Am I ready to be a pet owner?" "Should I go out with this guy even though he's only 'separated' from his wife?" ALL questions I have weighed the pros and cons of- big questions- all of which I was able to answer in 15 minutes or less. I cannot describe the agony of a belabored conversation about locking a door. Really. Excruciating is not the right word. That's too mild. This conversation probably gave me cancer it was so bad.
So, how do you handle it when work starts to suck.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Over beverages Sunday, Shanna suggested I become a therapist and Donna agreed I have a future in therapy. I now wish I had asked why. As I relayed this to my BFF, she reminded me that she had said the same thing less than a week ago. I deny that I have any gift for therapy, but I do like to hear other people talk and I find the human story quite interesting. As I rethink Shanna and Kim's suggestion, one thing comes to mind: I can and do often make men cry.
I think I know why I have at least one man sobbing before me every 4 months: I seem understanding.
Notice that I didn't say that I WAS understanding, I just seem understanding. There is so much about people and why they do what they do that I cannot comprehend, but I nod very well and am talented at making eye contact. This comes from my years of training during stare contests in jr. high. Thank you Mike from Ms. Cornelius's class!
Something else, too, I guess. I'm not all that judgemental. I am very opinionated, but I'm pretty good about living that whole "to each his own" philosophy. I mean, look at who I co-blog with! If I were to judge Killer by the fact that his balls are his identity, I'd be asking for prayer requests for him during my night classes. Yet, I absolve him in my heart.
I think it's a very nice compliment for your friends to say you'd make a good therapist. I told Shanna that I was way too, "Get over it and get off your ass," to make a good therapist, but in hindsight, I think she's sparked a great career thought for me. Think of all the awesome blogs I could post about men crying if I did that as my full time gig!
In all seriousness, every time I see a dude cry, I love him more- as long as he's crying for the right reason. If I'm standing there with a heavy object in my hand screaming, "GET OUT!" that's not the right time to burst into tears unless you are fully prepared to be called a whining pussy. Just an FYI.
By sheer fact that OthurMe's post on "how to eat coochie" almost made me vomit, I know I am not a lesbian. Yet, strangely enough, I "worry" that the reputation of being a lesbian is going to somehow spontaneously generate and I'll get a false label. Kind of like the whore in 9th grade who only slept with her boyfriend twice, but was then branded with a scarlet letter for the rest of her school career. Which, incidentally, lasted until 10th grade.
Peer teasing can be such a bitch.
When Killer says he suspects that Kim and I are closet lesbians, he hit a nerve. Kim's dad WHO IS A PSYCHIATRIST and his then wife actually asked Kim on her wedding day if she thought I might be into women. WTF?
I understand why. I cried and cried and cried the day Kim got married. I mean I fucking grieved. Broke down. Couldn't talk. Sobbed to the point of trembling. Was SMASHED at the wedding and especially after. Smashed with a purpose too... the purpose of making all of this simply go away. It's nothing against the groom, but Kim's marriage represented the end of days running together, wreaking havoc on innocent bystanders. It was like watching your very best friend be shipped off to a concentration camp. Marriage is so life changing- why change the PERFECT set up? But she did, against my obvious disappointment, and now she has a couple of kids and is happy enough. I'm glad it was her instead of me, and it's all ended up quite well.
I also have some paranoias that I tote around. One is that I'm actually borderline retarded and my whole life is a set up, designed to assimilate me into the culture. I have a low-grade fear that my friends are actually my "care takers" and are profiting quite nicely by simply being cordial to me. It could explain why Kim always drives. I have reasons for questioning this that I'll bring up some other time. I will add that Kim has seized on to this fear and has been refrencing it since 1993. By refrencing it, I mean she'll see a large white van pass by and say something like, "Oh! That reminds me. I need to call the clinic and give them an update on you." and then she'll go inside for a couple of minutes.
Friends. Ah. See why I didn't want her time monopolized by something as ridiculous as marriage?
You know, I do lover her. I think I love her more than I love anyone on the planet, but I would take anal penetration by an unlubed 12-inch cock before I'd french kiss her with my hand on one of her tits. I'm not homophobic by any means, but I'm also not homosexual- Regardless of the fact that I'm 35, I've never been married and I have 2 cats.
But if Kim and I were lesbian lovers, I promise you, she'd be the man.
I'm going to Las Vegas this weekend! It's extra special because I have been working the last 15 nights straight. I have a deal with myself. If I win atleast $300,000 this weekend, I can cut back to 60 hours a week. If I win $500,000 I will quit my current contract and go home right now. If I win $1,000,000 I will not only quit my current contract, but I will drive to the nearest airport and begin the greatest global odyssey the world has ever seen.
$999,999 and below is small enough, after taxes, to remain calm and rational. I would go home and invest in my future. A future where wiping ass is for recreational purposes only. $1,000,000 and up would undoubtedly throw my brain into overdrive and the impulse buying side would seize control in the melee. I would frivolously travel the world, paying poor locals to carry me from location to location, as I drink expensive, imported slurpees. That one dollar separating the two is a very important figure.
This blog would probably improve as well during that period of whimsical spending. I would be able to have some free-lance writers take my place. I already have my eye on a few people who are known to do a little free-lance work. Fringes, Neil, and Mist1 come to mind, I would add Mel, but I think she needs to focus on her current writing project right now. Everyone else would be encouraged to submit posts and compete for a paying gig. Unfortunately Liz is out of the running, since she already works here for free. She should really form a union.
I don't know about you, but I'm hoping for the $1,000,000. I really love to travel. I would even take Chad and Bam, my usual travel bitches, but they would have to walk from location to location. I can't afford to have the locals carry everybody. Plus, that kind of experience is much more special when you have someone who can describe how hard it was on foot.
This Friday I am flying out to Vegas, so I need all of you guys to throw out some mental mojo towards the Sin City. It might seem like I am the only one benefiting, but if you take a step back and keep an open mind, It's really gonna benefit all of us.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Scene: At a crowded rehearsal dinner I am sitting at the head table two seats to Liz's right. Two seats because Liz is always putting Kim, her BFF, ahead of my needs. (I suspect they might be closet lesbians, the wedding might be a clever ruse) Dinner is over, it was dry chicken, Liz was too cheap to spring for the steak. It becomes painfully obvious it is toast time. Kim, the de-facto maiden of honor, starts to rise, but I pull her down by her drab pant suit and leap up and begin the first toast of the evening:
Ladies and Gentlemen, we are all together at this Denny's to celebrate the matrimonial bond that will be created tomorrow. I remember many years ago when we created the "Liz in Twenty Years" betting pool. Eric was certain about his pick of "lesbian political activist", but I was self assured that my "spinster with 15 cats" pick was a lock. I don't think anyone chose "happily married". Although Og had "married to a foreigner for a green card", we won't give partial credit.
I would love to tell you cute, funny stories about Liz and her soon to be husband, but I think they just met last week, so the funny story will either be at their pre-divorce brunch or their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
I am offering my best wishes to Liz and her new ball and chain. If Liz can hold on to this marriage half as long as she clung to her virginity, it will be a long and secure endeavor.
I would also like to take this time to remind everyone that tomorrow is a theme wedding. You are all encouraged to come dressed as their favorite character from any of the "Cannon Ball Run" movies. Keep in mind the bride and groom are coming as Burt Reynolds and Dom Deluise, and I have dibs on Sammy Davis Jr.
Thank You and Mazel tov
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Well, blog reader, you're hearing it first. I haven't even told my parents or my BFF yet. I'm getting married!
It feels so good to finally be able to say those words. For 35 years I've been deeply committed to my solo life and now I am finally able to say something that makes me sound "normal". This willingness to unite to another is a huge leap in my personal growth! Let me say it again. It's a big step for me: I'M GETTING MARRIED.
I don't know all the details yet. I don't know where we're getting married- I propose a surprise wedding of which I know none of the details, but he has yet to confirm that this idea is okay with him. See how I'm including him in the planning? That is so wife-ish of me.
I have some other proposals:
I'm thinking the marriage should occur prior to 2018. Even though there is no rush, I would like for my parents to know that it went down and I'm hoping they'll be here within 11 years. I don't want to wear a wedding dress. I know that I'm striving for a sense of normalcy, but I am of the belief that wedding dresses past 30 are pushing the law of decency. He may disagree with this, but I'm pretty firm on this commitment. See how I just used the word "commitment"? HUGE step.
I also have expectations about how we share household duties. Since I work and plan to continue to work, I hope he is agreeable to mopping and loading and emptying the dishwasher in addition to assuming all responsibility for lawn maintenance. Even though we won't have any kids together, being in charge of all domestic duties is truly a rigorous job, even with only two in the house. Speaking of house, I have to move. My house is only big enough for me unless he plans on keeping every single one of his belongings in the garage.
I know you're curious about the lucky groom. Ya'll would love this guy. He's thoughtful and honest, appreciates wit, is adventurous and fun-loving. Plus, he recognizes how lucky he is be my future husband. Here's a rendition of what he's going to look like. His crooked smile is so charming to me!
The fact that I don't yet have a groom is beside the point. I've made the first step: a willingness to consider that I might one day want to get married. Please join my parents in celebration.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Comrades, history has shown us that great people do ordinary things extraordinarily. They rise up and cast off the shackles of oppression, take action against wrongs, and pave the road for rights. But, my comrades, what about those of us who believe the revolution would be better started tomorrow, after a good nights sleep? Should we not get to lead the march for justice just because it's really hot outside, and it looks like it might rain?
We have been held down for too long, and it is time we unite behind a flag of freedom and show this world what we are capable of. Our journey has reached a precipice, and we can either leap fighting into the abyss or continue leading mundane lives sitting in the grove of trees next to the abyss. I think I saw some hammocks.
No comrades! Deny yourselves the comforting embrace of the proverbial hammock and leap. Leap into the battle and bring the glory back to your fellow lazy brethren to frolic in it's warmth and glow. The Go-Getters have monopolized the glory for too long, while we sat at home in a recliner, eating nachos and watching them receive accolades and awards on the television, wishing we could reach the remote control and change the channel.
We must rise up immediately and join together to change our collective fate. We shall march on to the capitol and have our voices heard. Actually, lets march in that new mall across town. It has air conditioning and we can stop by the food court. But, with our delicious Orange Julius held high aloft in defiance, we shall be an opposing force of laziness for all the world to behold. Now is the moment of truth in your life. When you are elderly and cruising around in your motorized cart, you will be able to look back on this day and proudly proclaim, "I took a stand for lying about."
On second thought, we better rise up tomorrow. It is getting late and there is a "Sanford and Son" marathon starting in a few hours. Tomorrow, comrades, tomorrow we rise up and unite. No excuses.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
If I ever rule the world, I am going to make massages mandatory. Just like all those civilized countries that take 3 hour afternoon breaks and 2 month vacations, the United States needs to explore ways to relax, I prefer ways that involve oils.
I got a massage tonight. It was buttery comfortable. I feel asleep (which is no surprise considering I've been suffering from a tad of insomnia) and I told the girl to tell me if I snored. I did. Sexy.
When I jolted out of my slumber I had a thought hit me like lightening. "Nina Totenberg is a bitch." was flashing through my brain.
I do not know Nina Totenberg. She is a commentator for National Public Radio. I'm sure she's perfectly lovely, but apparently her story on the creation of sound effects subconsciously pissed me off.
When I'm getting a massage I'm always very relaxed and totally comfortable with a stranger rubbing all over me. The only time I get startled is when they start going toward my thighs. I can handle up to the knee caps, but after that I get ticklish. I start worrying that they're not going to stop "in time". I always wonder if there is some massage protocol that I don't know. A rule where you're supposed to say, "Enough. No means no!" But instead I clinch my teeth and bear it.
I always ask that they concentrate on my back. Forget the arm rub; it's a total waste of my time. They never listen. They have their routine and by damn they are sticking to it! I try to explain that I'm mostly just there for the shoulders and back and I find their commitment to "full body" disturbing. I want my shoulder blades pummeled! I want my spine cracked! I want my neck muscles picked up and slapped around! Anything other than that is the dinner and the movie; a necessary means to a satisfying end.
People have asked me if I would ever marry someone who was really poor. REALLY poor. Like, lean-to's in the alley poor. I always say no, with the condition that I can change my mind if he gives a good back rub.
I'm at work, all the ass is wiped. I can't think of anything to write, so I decided to draw some pictures. The theme is one I touch on often.
What are some other career choices I could thrive in? The following are along the self-employed, entrepreneurial slant.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
- Literally taken the shirt off of someone else's back
He won the shirt in a bet and demanded immediate payment. Hilarious.
My favorite part of being with Hey There Hal is his obsessive use of nicknames and catch phrases. I recently had a conversation with Hey There that went (something) like this:
"I was talking to Rage about Flintstone's vacation and Big Earl walked in and said, 'Hey There Hal, Andrew's looking for you.' So I called Rocky Top and come to find out P.J. and Squeezer were in the parking lot changing a flat when Blue Bird came out with a crow bar. You don't need a crow bar to change a flat! So you know what Hey There Hal did? I brought a bigger crowbar outside and said, 'Hey, Squeezer, try this one.'"
He laughs at the story, but I laugh because I am SO delighted at all of those nicknames! I can only follow about half of what he says because I can't process the names fast enough, but my god, I love hearing him talk!
I don't really have a nickname anymore. My dad called me "Mo" as a kid- Motor Mouth- and mom called me Lib, but since 10 I've really not had an exciting nickname that I could embrace.
I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that Hey There Hal is somewhere out there right now referring to me as "Tits McGee" or "Dolly".
Liz challenged me in a previous post. To my dismay the Liz challenge did not involve any blind taste tests of Liz. I still agreed to take part, reluctantly.
Killer woke up in an even more upbeat mood than usual. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and he was not required to wipe any ass for two days. There was no shortage of ass lying around filthy and untouched, but due to fortunate scheduling, it would be up to some other sucker to wipe them.
He glanced over at his alarm clock and saw it read 6:15. Years of working night shift left him with the inability to determine if it was AM or PM. He threw back the covers and maneuvered his large, stinky feet to the floor. It took a surprisingly long time to find a spot unoccupied by clothes, or other objects. After stepping on what appeared to be a small, wet cat, which squealed and ran for cover, he finally found solid footing and stood up. The extra thick, black fabric that covered his window was pulled aside and fresh, clean sunlight poured into the room revealing weeks of dirty clothes piled calf deep. "I really got to clean up today." After a few moments of deep thought, Killer realized he did not own a cat and leapt onto the bed screaming like a school girl. Killer thought to himself, "My life needs a laugh track for moments like this."
After a harrowing dash to the hallway and slamming the bedroom door safely shut, he went to the laundry room and pulled some clean clothes out of the dryer. Luckily, there is always an odd load of clothes living in the dryer, and he had a firm belief that wrinkles were very slimming.
The doorbell rang and Killer pranced happily to the front door, nothing was going to bring him down on his day off. He opened the door to reveal a beautiful young lady in a doo doo brown UPS uniform. Killer thought to himself about how unfortunate it was that even away from work his mind was barraged with that color. He quickly recovered and decided to try out his "game" on this lovely lass. "I have a package for you." She said in a surprisingly unsultry voice. "What a coincidence, I have a package for you as well." Killer said with a a seductive raise of his left eyebrow. "Uhh..here, this might be more along your lines." She pulled a box that looked like it had been dragged here from the warehouse. Hanging out the side of the box was a dejected looking inflatable sheep with "All Newly Designed Life-Like Orifices." Killer took the debilitated box and dangling sheep as the UPS/model walked quickly back to her shit brown truck. "If my sheep has an air leak, I'm calling your boss!" He yelled with growing indignation. "Yeah, a laugh track would come in really handy right about now." Thought Killer as he closed the door.
Killer stowed Shelly the Sex Sheep in his bathroom and headed out for the gym. A good workout was really needed to get his spirits back up.
Arriving at the gym, he was amazed to get the spot right in front of the door. "Rock Star parking! Things are looking up." He said to himself in the rear view mirror with a conciliatory wink. After reaching his locker, he realized that he did not bring any extra underwear. Not wanting to drive home afterwards in a pair of sweaty, wet underwear killer made the executive decision to work out commando style. After a quick glance around, he slipped his gym shorts back on, sans skivvies. As he headed out of the locker room he noticed a sign that had, before now, gone unnoticed. "All members must wear shirts, shoes, and undergarments on the gym floor." Killer smiled as he walked out with a jingle in his step, enjoying the feel of freedom. "I am such a rebel."
Killer powered through 30 minutes of cardio, which was always easier because the cardio machines looked out over the weight area and into the aerobic room. If you planned your day just right you can work out while watching the Yoga class filled with hot young gals. If you planned it wrong you watched old woman doing step aerobics. Killer made sure to plan right.
After cardio he sauntered over to the weights feeling good and deciding today he needed to show some strength to the ladies. He positioned himself right in front of the aerobic room window. He figured bending over for some Roman Dead Lifts would accentuate his supple behind. He strained through one set and decided to up the weight, just in case any ladies in the class had taken notice. Killer lifted the weight, bent over and realized it might be too much. He buckled down and gave it every thing he had. There was a loud rip and Killer felt a cool, luxurious breeze blow the small hairs on the back of his balls. Suddenly there was an uproar of applause and intense laughter from inside the aerobics room.
All the members in the rest of the gym area looked at the ruckus and noticed the Yoga ladies pointing through the window at Killer. He looked around nervously trying to find a way to minimize the outbreak. "What did you guys do?" He asked with a sheepish grin.
It was at that moment, while everyone shifted uncomfortably, that Killer came to the sad realization that there was no laugh track to accompany his comment.
He quickly scuttled sideways toward the locker room, when the rest of the gym burst into laughter. In his haste, Killer had maneuvered himself in front of a mirror. Killer finally realized he did not, unfortunately, need a laugh track for his life. There was enough laughter to last a life time.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
I was tempted to just never answer the questions, and wait until everyone started complaining, but that would have only been funny to me.
Paige, from Porch Productions, asked: "What was your truly scariest moment?"
When I was a brand new nurse, I gave a patient the wrong medicine. I was scared shitless they were going to die because I did not know what I was doing. It was possibly the worst ten hours of my life. I think every medical professional has at least one of those moments. It had no noticeable effect on them at all, but I still did not sleep for three days, and I actually looked up new career options, because I did not want to be responsible for some one's death. Now I kill people all the time with no remorse.
Wreckless, from Greenpiece, asked: "What are you afraid of?"
For my sense of humor to suddenly disappear and everyone realize what little else I have to offer.
"What are your fears for America?"
The religious right completely takes over and we become a Christian version of Iran.
"What is a book you would mandate or implore people to read?"
"The Ultimate Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy", by Douglas Adams. After reading that I realized the importance of humor to deal with everyone else going crazy around me.
"How did you get to your current job? Tell us your career path."
I am currently working at a small community hospital in Sacramento, CA. I got here by driving 34 hours from Mississippi. I left Highschool wanting to be a political cartoonist, and entered college as an art major. I would then evolve through, political science, history and secondary education, before settling on Sociology for my first degree. With the hope of getting a PhD by following the Grateful Dead and studying the children raised and "bus schooled" by the Dead Heads. Then Jerry Garcia died. My Mom was a nurse and she made good money doing it, so I started taking pre-requisite classes before I graduated with my Sociology degree. To make a long story short, I am a nurse because Jerry Garcia died.
"What is the scariest thing you ever did?"
For twelve hours I thought I had killed a lady. See above
Anonymous, from ?, asked: "Who are you involved with...Chad, Liz, Bam, or...?
Well, Liz and I are very much alike, so it would be like getting involved with yourself, which is way to metaphysical for me. Chad and Bam, the two guys I travel with frequently, share the unique pleasure of being the only two human beings to see my infamous, "naked ass dance" and lived to talk about it. Unfortunately it is all they talk about now.
Churlita, from Churlish Figure, asked: "If you could be any STD, which would you be?"
I have always said, if you are going to be an STD, be a big one. Initially I thought AIDS, but that is such a downer. I think I will go with Herpes, because you can't die from it, but you can't get rid of it.
Neil, from Citizen of the Month, asked: "Which language do you want to learn how to say testicles in next?
Ohh, I really think Klingon would be pretty interesting. I also really want to go to Africa, so Swahili would be great. But more importantly, I want the world to become so familiar with my testicles, that they develop a brand name that transcends all languages, sort of like Coca Cola.
Eau de Incognito, from Eau De Desiree Deux, asked: "Why did you go into nursing?"
Jerry Garcia died, so I thought to myself, "self, we have nothing to do for the next few years, lets go into nursing, until we decide what to do for a living."
"What does Liz do?"
Well, personally I don't know. I know she works for a big corporation, and I know she claims to work, but I really just don't believe it. So, I asked Liz personally. Here is her official press release, "Liz works hard for her money. She's informally referred to as the office bitch, but she's officially known as an Organizational Development Specialist- which means she specializes in developing the organization. She works with managers in her company to promote their leadership and team skills. She also scans each crowd to see which of the men have on wedding rings. You'd love her. I hear she tells dirty jokes during her meetings."
"Who was your first celebrity crush?"
Goodness, I am not sure. I guess it would have to be Allisa Milano. I always dreamed of showing her who was boss. (sorry about that)
"Do you like Sushi?"
Not innuendo sushi, but actual food in a sushi bar sushi?"
I do enjoy sushi a great deal. Both innuendo sushi and food in a sushi bar sushi.
EEK, from Expert Elephant Keeper asked,
"What is your favorite type of food?"
If you could see me in person you would probably think, "anything", but that would be wrong. My favorite type would be Thai food with Cajun food in a close second. I love every thing spicy, except innuendo sushi.
Fringes, from Sarcastic Fringehead asked,
"What is innuendo sushi? Do I really want to know?"
To preserve your innocent nature that is often at the heart of all your blog posts, I will only answer the second question. No, you don't want to know.
Othurme, from Immunopressed asked,
"Heads or Tails?"
Killer is always after the tails baby! (wink, wink, nudge, nudge. High Five)
Mist1, from To do: 1. Get hobby 2. Floss asked,
Is there an approved, legal usage for a crow bar? If so, what is it?
Good question. Through personal experience and numerous run ins with "the Man", I must say, in the eyes of the law, there are really little legal uses for a crow bar, outside of a NAMBLA convention. The legal ramifications for misuse can be severe.
Woman with kids, from Woman with Kids asked,
"Who is Anna Nicole's Baby Daddy?"
I wish with all my heart I could answer, "Who is Anna Nicole?" The real answer that I have bought into is, Anna Nicole's baby does not have a daddy. It is an immaculate conception. Anna Nicole's baby is the anti-Christ.
Heather, from DKY Bar and Grill asked,
"Who is the best teacher you ever had and why?"
Heather stipulated, "In a classroom setting", but I am not sticking to it. Every summer when I was younger I went to YMCA summer camp, and the Day Camp Director was Nick Nichols. The very first day I walked up to the camp he made me and my sister stand up in front of the entire camp and he introduced me as "Killer" because my parents had registered me by my middle name, Kelly. He always treated me like I was the coolest kid around, so all the other kids believed it. During the school year I was just a fat, goofy, nonathletic kid, but every summer I would become Killer again. I was good at sports, and always got picked first and everyone loved me. Eventually I stayed Killer more and more, until the uncool fat kid disappeared.
When I later took a job as Day Camp Director for a YMCA it was mainly so that I could be some other kid's Nick Nichols.
Man, that story is uncharacteristically sappy.
Liz, from Killer Rants! asked,
"Did you stare at the camel toe the whole time you were riding it?"
Go back and read my original post to understand this. Sort of, the carney running the ride had a camel toe so bad, I could not tell where the camel toe ended and her wedgie began.
Burg, from Deeper Shades of Red asked,
"How much wood could a wood chuck chuck, if a wood chuck could chuck wood?"
Using complex math and an abacus, I determined the answer to be 42.
Apositivepessimist, from Got Nothing But Toejam asked, in a comically Aussie accent,
"Have you ever thought about getting you dangly bits pierced or tattooed? What would the tatt be of?
I have a tattoo on my penis that reads, "Object in pants is larger than it appears."
and Finally rounding us out
Jester, from Jester Tunes asked,
"When was the last time you cried and why?"
I don't remember the last time I had a good sobbing cry, but I pretty much a wuss, and tear up pretty good at sad movies, or heart touching moments like "Extreme Home Makeovers".
"What is the one thing you have done, that you never would have imagined you would do?"
So far nothing. I have a very vivid imagination, and think very highly of myself. Actually, I could say, "still be a nurse." I did not really see myself doing it this long.
"When you are asked to describe yourself and you get a mental image to work from, how old are you?"
I don't know if everyone is like this, but I still picture myself as a young, twenty-something college kid. I have that problem when I am telling people some crazy thing I recently did and have to stop when everyone is staring at me with great consternation. It is at that time that I realize, what is funny at 23 is creepy at 33.
"Can you please explain quantum physics?"
No, I am have never taken a math class more advanced than college algebra. I am a mathematical idiot.
"If time travel becomes possible when is the first time/place you'll visit?"
I guess around 1 B.C. in the Middle East. I want to: A. See if Jesus was real and B. Clarify some shit.
Thanks for every one's input. And a special thanks to those few of you who actually stuck around long enough to read this far.
On Heather's blog she outlined her dream bar. I don't know if that is the sure fire sign that you're an alcoholic or not, but my BFF and I have done the same thing. Kim's idea is more clever. She wants to open a bar beside every Hooters in the country. This bar is called "Tight Ends" and all the waiters are hot young lads in football pants- only. It caters to women so that while their husbands are ogling the boobs next door, the ladies can be ogling the tight ends serving up their Cosmos. Cute idea, isn't it?
My bar is called "Stories". It's a multi-leveled establishment that follows the concept of that 80's hairstyle, the mullet: business in the front, party in the back. Downstairs is your "come spend daddy's money" bar: a stage, cute twenty-somethings pouring drinks, loud music, complete with ladies' nights, MTV Spring Break inspired games and two-for-one deals. The decor is almost space-age it's so modern; so techno. Plasma screens are everywhere and you order your drinks using your cell phone, blackberry, or the computer monitors stationed at each table. Come in, have drinks, hook up.
As you progress up the thick wooden stairs, so do you progress through the stages of life. The second story is for thirty-somethings. HGTV, ESPN and MSNBC are on the TVs. The music is not as loud. You have a mix of alt-country and 80's rock playing in the background as you sit in comfortable but funky chairs with friends and share stories over cocktails made with Grey Goose. There are pool tables and TV trivia. Come in, have drinks, meet new friends.
The third story is a bar with fine dining. Bring your wife, come here for a date, meet after work for drinks with clients. It's more upscale with a cigar bar, superb wine list, and salt-water aquarium. Come in, have drinks, connect.
The final story of the bar is "the artists gallery". This is a small area that is decorated more like a living room that like a bar, although there is one bartender present at all times. This room is a creative think tank. We have some Internet stations set up so that you can write while having your martini or coffee, we sponsor weekly conversations in this room where we have political discussions or artist workshops. We have cooking demonstrations where use food as a springboard for conversation. We have "sit down" comedy- where the patrons come and, in karaoke type fashion, lay their "rooster and waterfall" jokes on this crowd- this intimate group of witty and intelligent patrons. The sponsored events are by invitation only. Snobby, I know, but I don't want some lame ass thinking that this is too serious. We still have fun. After all, I find creativity springs from laughter. Come in, have drinks, create a bit.
The last story of the building, which is level 5 for those of you playing at home, is the office but it's main function is being a hotel. Small, with only 6 rooms, but still a place to crash for the night after multi-leveled drinking. The rooms would be expensive, but nice and the kitchen makes sure that you have a hearty hot breakfast sent to your room anytime between midnight and 10 am. All breakfasts include a bloody mary or a mimosa. Come in, sleep it off, start over.
I have it all planned. All that's lacking is the $14 million to get it up and running.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
This afternoon I woke up with two thoughts piercing my tiny brain. If I don't write them down now, they will be gone forever. We will discuss the merits of that later.
The first thought I had was a joke. I had made this up during my REM sleep and apparently my subconscious thought it was hilarious. It's not. It doesn't even make sense. I'm sorry you have elected to read this. You may think less of me in the morning.
"If a rooster and a waterfall got into a fight, who would win?"
"The rooster. Cocks could care less if the other person was wet or not."
Now, to call that A JOKE is to abuse the concept of what a joke is. But in all sincerity, when I was rousing from sleep around 1:00 this afternoon, I woke up thinking, "My God. This must be what it's like to be Dave Chappel." I thought for a few dazed moments that I had just dreamt the funniest joke EVER in the history of man.
I'm not proud of myself.
The second, almost simultaneous thought, was an address to Killer. Like many of you, he enters my dreams too. I have a challenge for you, Killer of Killer Rants! By Thursday of this coming week, will you please write a post that contains somewhere in it these words:
It was at that moment, while everyone shifted uncomfortably, that Killer came to the sad realization that there was no laugh track to accompany his comment.
In my waking moments, I saw Killer as part of a Far Side cartoon where that was the only statement on the page. Complete the image, please?
I have my own idea, but it involves a rooster and a waterfall and I think we'd all appreciate me keeping that to myself.
Friday, February 16, 2007
I work in an industry where there is an understood acceptance that self-help books contain the true meaning of life. I find this quite annoying. I am pleased, and somewhat humbled, to report that I am one of the few truly satisfied, usually joyful, very well adjusted taking up space in this world.
It's a small club I belong to and we have a rather exclusive membership. No artists or musicians are allowed because too often they're tortured souls. No recently divorced are invited because they carry hate issues with them for way too long. Neurotics are obviously left off the guest list although we will let one in if it's within 24 hours of his getting laid. Sometimes lovable alcoholics are allowed in briefly, if escorted by a member and if there is an open bar. Hey, even the well adjusted like to have good times.
You either have issues that plague you or you don't. I don't, and I'm not even from the Midwest.
I'm interested in the dysfunctional. You might even say I'm magnetically attracted. Their problems are like a free freak show that I observe for a brief period before piling my college-educated ass into my paid-for car and driving to my well-appointed home in the suburbs. Once home, I don't worry about being beaten by my meth-addicted husband, I don't refrain from answering the telephone because it may be a bill collector and I don't worry that my boyfriend's wife is going to find him tied up in my bed with hot candle wax being poured over his nipples (anymore). I don't worry that the scam I'm running will be discovered, I don't complain that my child is a teenage hoodlum headed straight to Hell and I don't cry when someone tells me that they don't like my outfit. No thanks. Those types of activities are reserved for people who either have issues or want issues, not for the gleefully content.
This is why I fell hook, line, and sinker, when a coworker approached me and asked if I knew "the secret". See, I don't watch Oprah- that's part of being well adjusted- and I didn't know there WAS a secret. I didn't know there was a book and a DVD and that the secret would change my life. "Why would I want to change my life?" I asked. His eyes shifted. "Everyone wants a better life." "Really? Weird."
I feel pretty damn lucky all of the time and the more he was explaining what the secret is and how the secret works, the luckier I felt. How interesting to be part of a spiritual pyramid scheme. How revolutionary the idea that someone else has to tell you how to be happy. How pathetically sad.
I mean that.
Today I came home and turned on Oprah, just hoping. I knew what channel it came on, which I found surprising. Today she was talking again about the secret. Just like the secret's law of attraction promises: What you hold in your heart you DO bring into your world!
So I listened for a bit while I was getting ready to go to a movie. On the show a woman asked if the secret (I feel like I should be capitalizing that) contradicted religion. Blah, blah, blah and then she asked, terrified and angrily, "So, people can just live their lives having fun and going to parties and not have to worry about the consequences?"
What kind of question is that? Isn't that part of the reason we have life? To have joy and bring joy to others?
Look, folks, I have a secret and that is that once Oprah finds out about something, it ain't a secret no more.
I hope that if you suffer from discontent that better fortune (which, in non-medical examples IS by design) comes your way. But if you're not going to take the steps to make your life better, please give me a call. I'd LOVE to be on three-way when you call your $200/hour psychic.
Fringes has done this a few times, and I always enjoyed the outcome, so I am going to steal another idea from a trusted blog buddy.
I would like you, the loyal readers of Killer Rants, to as any question you want. It can be to me, Liz, or both. No subject is taboo. No topic too sensitive. I will answer as honestly as possible, but I can't speak for Liz.
That includes an open invitation to all you lurkers out there who just stop by frequently to read and zip away without commenting. I understand my regular commenters can be intimidating, often their comments are funnier than the post, especially when bad mouthing Trampoliners. This is the chance to not be witty, just ask any question.
I'll even start off with a few freebies:
Politically I'm a Libertarian.
My shoe size is 13 EE.
I can refer to my testicles in 8 languages. the newest: in Tagalog (Philippines): Bayag
My favorite color is Navy Blue.
My favorite sports teams are the Chicago Bears and the New Zealand All Blacks (Rugby).
I've ridden on the back of a horse, a camel and an elephant, and all probably hated me.
So come on America, ask away. I ain't scared.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
It was 1998, I was a dashing young man working as a bartender while I trudged my way through nursing school. My clinical group was split into pairs and we were informed that we would be going to one of four locations for the next few weeks. An OB clinic, A doctor's office, the County Health Department, or the County STD clinic. Always on the lookout for adventure, I lobbied for me and my partner, Angie, to go to the STD clinic, without her knowledge or approval.
On the first day it doesn't take long to realize that the patients, as well as everyone who works in the STD clinic, are very abnormal. I had never known my county had a clinic dedicated to fighting STD's. I needed to get out more. We spent that, and pretty much every day, for two weeks, giving pregnancy tests to high school girls and sticking long metal Q-tips into guys pee hole. The most frightening statement usually made was, "Oh, you have got to come see/smell this."
One of the final days I spent the first hour with the STD boss who was showing us a real live "crab" he had just taken from a patient's nether region. Under a magnifying glass, they really look like crabs. Then they decided I was going to run the next case that came in, all by myself.
I am waiting in the exam room when I hear some coughing and a unwavering aerosol can approaching down the hall. I peak out and spot the receptionist pushing an elderly, dishevelled man down the hall in a wheelchair. Over his head she was holding a large can of Lysol and had not let go of the button the entire hall. She wheels him into the room, hands me the can, and quickly departs.
When the door closes I am struck by an odor that is forever etched into my psyche. It can only be likened to: Someone eats a big pile of moldy, stinky cheese then, a day later, releases his bowels onto a bloated dead skunk. The guy looked at me and smiled.
His name was "Ed". Ed could stand and walk, but not for long periods of time. he came into the clinic because he received a letter from the STD clinic saying that a recent acquaintance of his, who recently tested positive for HIV, listed him as a sexual partner. He wanted to get tested, and while he was here, it hurt to pee.
Ed was a very candid fellow, so I took the opportunity to ask what his secret was. He didn't appear very suave, debonair, or clean, but he was obviously getting laid. Ed was happy to share his tricks. Ed's brother was a crack dealer, and every week he would give Ed a handful of crack to trade for his rent money, food supplies, and Ed always kept a little extra to trade for sex from crack whores. Ed was a friggin genius.
I drew the blood from Ed to test for HIV. By now I was accustomed to the smell and had grown rather fond of Ed. He was optimistic and loved to joke around. It finally came time for the Q-tip in the teeter test. I helped Ed stand up and pull his pants down, then his long johns, then a pair of shorts, and finally his underwear. With each layer it became painfully obvious where the source of Ed's unique odor was located. Ed explained he did not trust his roommates, so he had to wear all his clothes all the time.
In order to fully assess the region I had to help Ed spread his legs. I don't know if you have ever tried to pull apart a hot grilled cheese sandwhich, but it was very similar to that. It was, and still is, the only time in my nursing career that I would ever come close to getting sick.
Ed decided to inform me that he had a hard time bathing.
Q-tip in, Q-tip out, Ed was given a box of handy wipes to freshen up as I stepped out into the hall to breath.
Angie, and half the staff, were outside the room. Angie took this time to remind me that I needed to do some patient education for our report. I gave Ed a great big bag of condoms and educated him on the cons of unprotected sex with crack whores. He educated me on the pros of sex with crack whores, which is their determination.
I then concocted a scheme in which from now on, all the crack whores would have to give him a sponge bath, pre-sexual coitus. Ed said that was the best idea he had ever heard.
I never did get to find out the results of Ed's HIV results, but I like to think he is still out there today, banging crack whores, but with a sparkling clean set of balls.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Valentines Day, V-Day, or as I like to call it, VD for short.
I have reason to believe that more STD's are transmitted on Valentines Day than any other day of the year. I feel it is my duty to inform you of this, so you might rethink any lurid plans you might have later today, especially you Mist.
I don't need a lot of fancy scientific research to back that statistic up. Some things I just know.
Years of working in the restaurant industry gave me ample exposure to the sudden rash of couples flocking to enjoy a pre-coitus meal, usually making googly eyes at each other and leaving a bad tip.
Add to that a couple of weeks of working in an STD clinic whilst in nursing school, which gave me ample exposure to the shocking rise in visitors almost exactly one week post Valentines Day.
This year will mark 33 consecutive Valentines Days without getting laid, on this, the most sexually prolific day of the year. I will be forced to fall back on my annual ritual. Have a few beers alone, and then take advantage of myself. I should be safer than you sexed craved maniacs out there today, unless a hangnail is sexually transmitted. I will wear a glove just in case.
I have taken the time to throw together a little PSA for you "love birds" out there.
* As a side note: If I retain my bitterness after the day is over, I might just regale upon you my most favorite and cherished nursing story, which just so happens to take place at the STD clinic. It involves elderly people, crackwhores, a wheelchair, an entire can of lysol, and some brilliant wisdom given out by myself.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
I have been bombarded lately with discussions about aliens. When I was home my Brother-in-law kept making fun of my Mother for saying she believed in aliens. Her argument is, "it is very arrogant to think we are the only intelligent life forms in the universe." My Brother-in-law never gave any argument for his view of no aliens, he would just say, "Ya Mama crazy, she believes in aliens." Followed by some giggling. He's Cajun, so that sort of behavior is expected. To be honest, I have a strong suspicion he was abducted at some point and probably probed anally. To quote Shakespeare, "The lady doth protest to much, methinks."
Upon returning to California, there is the usual debate about illegal aliens. Should we build a fence? Should we give them amnesty? Should we have them mop the floor when they come to clean the house? All of these are legitimate questions, but no one seems to have legitimate answers.
I would like to offer my opinion on both.
I can share my space alien theory very easily. The most telling proof of intelligent life in space is that they have chosen NOT to communicate with us. I imagine we are like the Killer Bees of the Universe. Everyone is unsure of what we are capable of, and it is best to stay well clear. If we ever manage interstellar travel there is going to be a lot of alien news coverage of our slow advancement through space.
When I lived in Mississippi, the only thing I knew about illegal aliens was based on two contingents: What I saw on TV, and the suspicion that everyone working at the Mexican Restaurant was one.
Now, after working for a few years in California, I have first hand knowledge of illegal immigrants at work. Their awesome! When I worked as brewer for a small brewpub North of San Francisco, bright and early every morning they all rode in with the kitchen manager and immediately began working, no talking, no goofing off, just work.
The drawback comes with their children. They have kids here and that makes their kids American, and although Mom and Dad want to work hard and make a living, the kids are truly Americanized. They don't want to work. They would rather hire some illegals to do it for half price. It is an endless cycle.
The solution is to gather up all the lazy, unmotivated American citizens, slap a sombrero and a fake mustache on them and deport them to Mexico. These people would not be motivated enough to make the arduous journey back over the border. We just refuse to take any more phone calls from Mexico and then they are stuck with them. Hopefully their offspring will be motivated and they can sneak back into America. By that time we will have a whole new crop of slackers to round up and ship to Mexico in return.
Monday, February 12, 2007
A few years ago I was gallivanting around Thailand with my two frequent travel companions, Chad and Bam. They are a bad influence on me. Chad usually makes me drink too much and Bam convinces me to do things I would normally think ill of.
The following picture is an example of the things they talk me into, and from the grimace you can see it was not very pleasant.
I can not blame the haircut on anyone but myself.
Now, what kind of friends would not only pressure me into having any procedure that would cause such agony, but take pictures of me while it was in progress? There was no, "Sorry Killer, we did not know it would be so painful." It was just raucous laughter and flash bulbs going off.
The next picture is a more expansive shot that will shed more light on the situation. I warn everyone out there with a weak stomach and preconceived notions about body hair to stop here.
wanted to get his head shaved, which they will do in Thailand for about a buck. Yes, I am getting my back waxed. Right across from our guest house was a hair salon, and BamBam was buying, so I got my hair touched up as well. During the task the lady pulled my shirt away to whisk away loose hairs and noticed my back forest. Being a sly business person she offered to take care of that area as well, for only about ten dollars American. I, of course, declined. I had no desire to inflict unnecessary pain upon myself. After several minutes of name calling and questioning of my manhood by my friends, and after the unknown workers of hair salon had joined in, I relented. It's Thailand, maybe a back waxing comes with a "happy ending".
I got up and expected to be led up to a private area to undergo the delicate procedure. Instead, I was moved ten feet from the chair to a small table in front of the main store front window. As I removed my shirt, which I very rarely do in public, I noticed that the foot traffic outside was pretty heavy. I positioned my self belly down on the table as the first of the gawkers stopped to see what was about to happen.
Being a third world country and all, Thailand waxers do it the old fashioned way. They use real wax that is being cooked in an old fondue pot, apply it with a tongue depressor and then unceremoniously rip it off, slowly and repeatedly. Disturbingly, the waxer would take the old, hair clogged wax and put it back into the fondue pot for re-use. After a few moments a young girl came in for a bikini wax and they put a partition between us. Her waxer ran out of wax after a few minutes and I saw her come and get some wax from our pot. I could not help worrying that if something happens to that girl, they will find my DNA on her hoo-ha.
During this event Chad and Bam both had their cameras out and were snapping photos, along with a few random tourists outside the store window. That was not nearly as disturbing as the wax ladies repeated offers to come back to America with me and be my wife. Her exact repeated quote was, "You marry me, I come to America and wax your back everyday." She was cute, but the last think I want is a daily back waxing.
By the time the entire ordeal was over, I got up, put my shirt back on, and was upset that the crowd outside the window dispersed without any applause or anything. I was exhausted from the torture, and a little disappointed that there was no happy ending. I was a little disgusted for the next few days because my shirt kept sticking to my back. I missed my protective layer of fur.
Another strange occurrence from getting one's back waxed is the sudden appearance of an ass hairline. I guess they have to stop waxing at some point, so it leaves an abrupt re-start of hair. Don't worry, I included a picture of that as well.
My bud blog friend, Jester, referred to me as Killer's "funny boozy sidekick". I thought about that and, although far from offended, I thought it was a little exaggerated. I mean, me? Boozy?
Then yesterday, as I was puking my guts up, instructing my BFF to call me every hour to make sure my body hadn't shut down, I thought, "You know, I am a little boozy." My marathon puke was all self inflicted unless I can figure out a way to implicate Absolute in my agony. It's all their fault for making such an intoxicating liquid.
Here's where the story gets worse. You know that agony of a real hangover- I mean the rare kind where you are seriously contemplating seeking medical assistance? There I was, truly regretting my over indulgence, when I bent over to pick up a piece of the trail of clothing that was laying on my floor, and I pulled a back muscle. I mean "snap!" Instant agony. Severe shooting pain. Total hunchback lock down.
Normally, I would kill this pain with a couple of shots of something smooth and liquid. I, however, have vowed not to drink anything stronger than Coke for at least a week. Maybe longer. If I knew when Lint was, I would consider giving up alcohol for those 40 days. I think that Saturday night actually took a few months off my life. I need a couple of weeks of clean living to help make up for the binge.
Although I don't think my hangover is related to my back seizure, I do know that this has been one fucked up weekend. I also know that when it takes you almost an hour to get out of bed and every twist you're making hurts like your entire body is having one giant charlie horse spasm, you wish you had a box of adult diapers laying around.
Bed confinement means lots of TV time. The silver lining is that I'll get to catch up on Magnum reruns and, since I'm skipping class Monday night, I'll get to watch Heroes for the first time this season. The storm cloud is that I can't bend enough to wipe my own ass. Killer, this is when I need YOU in town. Your professional experience would really come in handy for me right about now.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Friday, February 09, 2007
I am currently enjoying a multiple hour layover here in Chicago Midway Airport on my way back to Sacramento. They have some brightly colored rocking chairs placed along the concourse near the power outlets. I have set up shop in one of the above mentioned chairs, plugged in my Power Book and have decided to watch all the people race by in an attempt to make connecting flights.
There are a lot of ugly people here at the airport. I can comfortably make that statement. It is similar to when a black man refers to other black men by the nefarious "N" word. I can call ugly people ugly, because I am not pretty.
I don't just mean ugly in the face, or grotesque physical deformity, some people seem to work pretty hard to botch their appearance. A thirty year old man with a baseball cap turned sideways and tilted upwards, a young lady with her pants so tight it gives her a "muffin top" of flab trying to escape from her britches, it is these people that amuse me. It could just be a sign of my losing touch with the hip kids of today, but I like to think that people are going crazy, perhaps Al Gore can do a documentary about it, maybe he can pin it on Global Warming.
A golf cart just narrowly missed my toes it had an obese couple and their two obese kids clinging tenaciously to each other for safety. There should be a rule that if you appear to be in dire need of walking the entire length of the terminal, than you should be excluded from the handicap services. It would appear that using the comfort and ease of riding a golf cart through the airport might be what is causing them to need to right the golf cart through the airport.
A priest and a rabbi just walked by. That is not the set up to a joke, it actually just occurred. I feel an incredible urge to follow them to see if they walk into a bar.
If you are a priest and you hang out with a rabbi (or vice versa) it must be nonstop hilarity, because a lot of jokes seem to start with them.
Two guys in sailor outfits just strutted by. By sailor outfit I mean the black pants that flair out to monster bell bottoms and a black shirt with half sleeves and a flap on the back with white stars and stripes, and by strutted I mean seemed very proud of their garb. Why are we still forcing our military personnel to wear such a mocking outfit. The Village People ruined that outfit in the 70's, it and the Native American head dress are ruined and should be reserved for eight year olds on Halloween and gay pride parades.
A couple in their twenties just sauntered by holding hands, this is not bad, but they were wearing matching track outfits. I wanted to throw my foot at them, but by the time I got my shoe off I remembered I don't really have that as a special power. I am pretty sure i could have knocked them both over with one throw.
My ass is numb from sitting in this damn rocking chair. I am going to pack up and go block the moving sidewalk. Sometimes I just feel like being as big as asshole as possible. Do you?
Thursday, February 08, 2007
I was checking out Mel's blog just now and was fascinated with her excuse for not posting recently. Not just because it blamed us here at Killer Rants, but because it mentioned "Heroes", one of my favorite shows. She did not actually "tag" me per say, but I was searching for an idea, so I am going to
I want to be able to detach one or both of my feet and throw them at people.
The cheerleader would be in serious danger from Syler and I would quickly slip my shoes off, I would not wear socks to add to the effect, and detach my foot and hurl it with all my might at Syler.
Some of you might think that is not a very good deterrent, but you have not seen my feet. I attempted to post a picture, but apparently blogger monitors picture uploads and blocked them.
My foot would crash into the side of Syler's face, he would look stunned, and look around to see what hit him. At first he can't find it, but he follows the strange smell and spots the culprit lying on the floor next to him. Anger quickly turns to disgust as he sees the massive, size 13 EE foot, with ugly calluses and toe nails in dire need of clipping. He forgets all about the cheerleader as he flees in a panic to find some "Tough Actin Tinactin" to spray on his face, which has begun to itch, maybe from athletes foot, maybe from paranoia, but he doesn't want to risk it.
The Cheerleader is saved and forever indebted. I stand there hopping in place and kindly ask her to toss me back my foot. She eyeballs it, and then hesitantly declines. "You can heal yourself for Pete's sake. Just kick it over here. I saved your life." "Yes, and thanks, but that is just a really gross foot." she replies, backing nervously away from it.
As I hop precariously to the spot my foot sits dejectedly on the floor, I wonder if this is such a gift after all. I could get a pedicure every once in a blue moon, but who would be deterred by a smooth, supple foot caressing their face? With all the foot fetish freaks out there, someone would probably pick it up and steal it. I then realize like all the other "Heroes" characters, my gift is also a curse.
What would your Hero power be? Discuss amongst yourselves and then comment. If you want to write your own post about this subject, please mail me a dollar for copyright infringement. Mel is not charging me, because she has a book deal and can afford to be gracious.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
He had promised a redneck party, but we hadn't realized they would be authentic, backwoods, Liberty, MS rednecks. That's a whole new breed of country that none of us had ever encountered.
When we pulled up in Kim's Datsun, the scene looked low-key and charming. There was a cluster of old timers set up on the front porch of the modest home playing slide and steel guitars and a mandolin. The lead was singing Me and Bobby McGee in a shaky but determined voice. "This may be a dud," Kim declared, almost apologizing for hauling us deep into the woods for what appeared, at first glance, to be a Hee-Haw reunion.
We got out of the car, opened our beers, and surveyed the environment. Other than very young children, we were the youngest there. We made our way to the carport and engaged the hosts in conversation. My first encounter was with a woman, probably in her 30's, whom seemed much older with her rugged-face and smoke laden voice. She had brown nail polish that had grown away from her nail beds and was chipped. Her nails were yellow. I remember her most because I had never seen dandruff like that in my life. Huge flakes snowing around her, ever moving because it never stopped falling. Ah. Christmas in July.
The man with her also had that look of poor nutrition, no doubt reared by parents that made him drink beer at 7 so that they could laugh at him while he was drunk. I noticed a tattoo peeking from under his short shirt sleeve. "Is that a tattoo?" I asked.
"Sure is," he replied as he lifted his sleeve to show me. "Do you know what that is?"
"Ummm. Is that a spider?" He stared at me.
"Oh. It's a spider WEB, isn't it?"
"Hell no that's not a spider web," he said, spitting on the ground. "It's a tattoo of Liberty, MS. Did you know Liberty has seven highways that runs through it? I said SEVEN."
"Holy shit," I replied. "I had no idea."
The goat that was cooking on the Bar-B-Q had attracted a large crowd, eager to put something on their stomachs. They had been drinking all morning and it was well into the afternoon. After a short goat break, the band started up again and an old man asked me to dance.
"Why of course!" I said uncomfortably. He took my hands while standing under the carport and pulled me very close. He was very drunk. At first it was funny. It only became disturbing once he offered to rub me down with olive oil.
I too was surprised he said olive oil, but it's true. It wasn't Crisco or lard or anything like that. I guess they saved the good stuff for visitors.
Later, as evening approached, several of the children came running toward their parents screaming, "Grandpa's dead! He is behind the barn DEAD!" I stayed where I was as the locals ran behind the barn to find the patriarch. Moments later the group emerged from behind the barn, carrying my dance partner as he stumbled and swayed his was back to the carport.
He had passed out leaning behind the barn taking a shit.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
I am not a skilled blogger so you will find a new "C" post lurking beneath Killer's job opportunities post. I wouldn't even bother to tell you except that post represents 38 minutes of my life. That's the equivalent of 2 packs of cigarettes, so I thought you should know.
Speaking of minutes... and life...I have invented some new time management techniques that I thought I'd share with you. I'm not saying that these will actually work, but you can be the judge of that.
I'm going to start doing 80% of my grocery shopping during my lunch hour. The Piggly Wiggly has a real butcher and, although their coffee selection is very low class, I bought a 12-pack of Nestle bottled water for under $3 today. My lunch hour is usually spent doing some other time waster (i.e. napping) anyway. I might as well be productive in the produce aisle.
By the way, I've had two people over the past two days refer to Piggly Wiggly as a "locally owned" grocery store. I think it's a huge chain but I hate bursting sentimental bubbles so I let it go.
I'm cutting my leg-shaving ritual down to once a month. I realize that when I do finally shave it may take a very long time to get all the hair and unclog the drain, but on average, I'll still be saving time.
I'm scavenging at work for dinner. We often have banquets at my place of employment. The next time I'm at Piggly, I'm picking up a stack of paper plates and some aluminum foil. This will definitely be a dinner time saver for me. Those frozen pizzas can take forever.
I'm not calling my parents anymore. They call me enough. There's no need for overkill.
All new clothes, from this day forward, will be basic black. I may have a Gothic air that envelops me, but the time saved in not having to coordinate outfits will be immeasurable. I think Einstein did this and look at all that time he had to invent the Theory of Relativity. See? That could be me or you.
I'm going to stop going to pee whenever I feel the need. Strict adherence to a schedule, only! I probably spend almost an hour a day doing bathroom related activities. That's 2 episodes of Arrested Development missed every day! What a waste.
Everything disposable. Yeah, whatever about the environment. Washing dishes totally blows. It may look odd to serve home visitors coffee and mixed cocktails in Styrofoam cups, but I'll be free to enjoy myself instead of thinking about what a pain in the ass that dried grenadine is going to be to get out of that glass I just found under the bed.
No more reading. I like books and magazines, but enough already. It's always the same words, just in a different order. Big waste of time!
That will have to wrap this post up. I have some video games to go play.
I have been off work for almost two weeks now. I think it agrees with me. I don't feel guilty about not working, I don't feel bored or lazy, and I don't seem to have that old man retired syndrome where once you stop working you die. There has got to be a better way to live my lifestyle than working all the time. I have some ideas and I am going to throw them out there to you. Let me know what you think and if you have tried any.
I have heard theories that these people are mentally disabled, alcoholics, or just plain shiftless layabouts. I personally think I could qualify for any one of those, so how come I am stuck living in an apartment? They get to do whatever they want, wherever they want to do it. I love to travel, and would love to be a hobo. I have never spent much time on trains, but it can't be all that bad. I would be totally passive aggressive in my begging, "If you are going to be going into your pockets any time soon, I would certainly be willing to take any spare change you have in there. If not, that's okay, I am just going to sit here and eat the rest of my shoe. It's not as bad as it seems, but I wish I had not stepped in that dog shit a little while ago."
I saw an old movie that showed some Arabian prince who had over 100 concubines. Apparently all a concubine has to do is sit around with other hot chicks and occasionally feed some guy grapes or fan him with a giant feather. I think it would be worth it, just to find out what giant, mutant bird is providing that feather. Although I am willing to take my chances with an Arabian princes harem, knowing that when compared to 99 hot chicks, he would probably not chose me for sexual relations, I would prefer some rich woman's harem, if such a thing exists, but beggars can't be choosers. If any of you gals out there are thinking of putting together a harem, I would like to take a moment to point out that I can wave a giant feather for hours without complaining and I look great in a silky pair of baggy pantaloons.
A gimp is similar to a concubine, but usually it is only one person, and you have to wear a leather mask and live in a box. I don't think it would be as pleasant as lounging around in a giant room filled with pillows, but it would definitely be better than my job. The only real experience I have with the gimp industry is from watching Pulp Fiction. And, there was that gimp my parents had when I was growing up. I remember he would clean my room, and if I did not like the job he did, I got to put the ball gag in his mouth and ride him around the house like a horse. Man, I love my childhood memories.
Wow, let me tell you about this little gig. A free roof over your head, three square meals a day, and the occasional conjugal visit. I have been a free man my whole life and I don't seem to be getting as much action as a man with a life sentence. As a convict you never have to do anything, but not try to run away. Who would want to run away from the glorious promise of endless hours of free time? Sure, you might occasionally get your desert stolen by a 500 pound guy named "tiny", and there is the possibility of getting ass raped by a group of neo-nazis, but once I had a patient projectile vomit, it hit me in the neck and I could feel it's disgusting warmth slide down my shirt and eventually settle as a cold puddle around the small of my back. Ass raping might be a pleasant change of pace.
Those are just four of the many ideas I have to avoid returning to work. Anyone could be a great choice, but I am leaning more towards the concubine option. Mostly because I really want to see that big ass chicken that provides the feathers.