An Update from Dairy Treat

9 03 2008

I’m sitting in the local greasy spoon, listening to these two odd guys bitching and moaning about Bellville. It strikes me that maybe they’re vagrants, or something, since they keep trying to fall asleep in the booths. However, they’ve paid for their food, which means they either have money, or are about to rob the shit out of this place. If that happens, well, let this be my last will and testament. I only have about five dollars in my pocket, but goddamned if these two asswipes are getting it.

Besides, I’ll be the first one to let them know why the grocery/gas station across the street should be robbed. Speaking of thieves… Jesus, do you know I spent six dollars on a gallon on milk there? Yeah, I would think that qualifies them for a good hard robbery. Assholes.

The Girlfriend just left, after having a greasy, gross lunch. She’s on her way home to Oysterfest, where she won’t be able to eat any oysters, since they’re all toxic along the gulf coast this season. I forget why exactly, but something having to do with the tides and chemical companies had rendered all of the Texas oysters poisonous.

I miss my damned girlfriend.

I’ve gotten used to these weekends where she’s with me, just wiling away the time until Monday morning. Then, fucking Spring Break comes along and she has to jet on home, because apparently you can’t stay in the dorm room you’ve already paid for. Whatever, she needs to see her family. I’m just bitching because I can’t go this time, for the simple reason that I’m a poor bitch with too much shit to do. I hate being a responsible adult.

More country music being piped in from… somewhere. “Two of a kind, workin’ on a full house.” Garth Brooks if I’m not mistaken. You’ve got to love the idea behind that, though. Imagine how many people were singing that song when it was popular. Old women, little kids, preachers, teachers, and every other kind of American staple; every last one of them singing to the best of their abilities. And, every last one of them singing about fucking.

Well, that’s it for now. More later, as I figure out what I’m doing today.


Girls, gummy worms, and a near fistfight

6 03 2008

So, not too long ago, a girl from my work invited me out to dinner. Then, after I refused, it became a private lunch invitation. After my second and final refusal, it became a fried chicken lunch at the picnic table outside work. I accepted, on the reasonable grounds that, hey, fried chicken.

Anyway, she bought all the food, since, as a true gentleman, I had no intention of doing that. Everything went swimmingly, until five minutes in, when I mentioned I have a girlfriend. Then she stormed off, leaving me with twelve choice pieces of dark meat, and some delicious rolls. I considered going after her to apologize but, again, fried chicken.

She never came back to the picnic table, although she did pass the doorway looking out at me in a very rude manner, like I stole her chicken, or something. And that, I assumed, was that.

A few weeks later–today, in fact–I was giving helpful hints this guy who looks just like Luis Guzman. In case you don’t know what Luis Guzman looks like, picture Tom Cruise in Top Gun, then forget about him because he looks nothing at all like the hideous sin against nature that is Luis Guzman. Anyway, the guy was impressively ugly.

I had assumed that I would be assisting young Luis with an honest mistake involving measurement. I was wrong. Apparently, all I managed to do was make him look like a shit-for-brains by explaining very calmly that math is key to solving number problems. Or some such thing…

It also turned out that Luis was heavily interested in fried chicken girl, who kept passing by and pausing near us as I went through complicated abstract theorems like the 1/16 markers on a tape measure, and why a rectangle must have two pairs of matching sides. God knows what she wanted, but it became pretty obvious that Luis wanted nothing more than to beat holy hell out of me for being… I don’t really know. Patient with him despite his smothering ineptitude?

Anyway, it so happened that he said the following:

“You wanna fucking do something about it, bitch?”

“Hell no, man. Why the fuck would I want to clean up your mess? I didn’t fuck all of this stuff up. You did.”

Apparently, I’m a little dense when it comes to people trying to start fights with me.

No, bitch: you wanna do something about it?”

Oh. I get it.

“Sure. Go ahead–do something.”

He stood there for a moment, kind of swaying back and forth and trying to look menacing despite having no chin and a top lip that wouldn’t cover his teeth. I didn’t say a word, or change my expression from that of calm wonderment.

“Pssh. I wouldn’t waste my time witcho’ punk ass.”

“Oh, okay. Why don’t you get to fixing all this material you fucked up, then? Otherwise, I’ll write you up, and then you can “do” something about it from home.”

Luis is a temporary minion from another department, and for the time being is under my authority. He didn’t like it very much, but hey, fried chicken it’s not my problem what minions do and do not like. Chicken girl was watching all of this from the sidelines, evidently impressed with the balls it takes to stand up to such an overbearing oppressor like me.

Sadly, that’s only what Luis thought. He looked at chicken girl, and she kind of just rolled her eyes and looked at me with. I did the same thing, and looked at the wall. It seemed an appropriate response.

The rest of the day went smoothly. Chicken girl hardly glanced at me, despite hovering around my area for no good goddamned reason, and didn’t say a single word. Luis, on the other hand, ended up “feeling sick” and went home early. Asswipe.

Anyway, that’s my little story. The moral? If life hands you lemons, don’t return the free chicken.

Also, gummy worms: get some. They will rock you.

…and The Girlfriend said, “Hurl!”

5 03 2008


I’ve been planning to write about this for a while now, but only just got around to doing it. It’s about the very first time my girlfriend got actually drunk. (Girlfriend, I won’t tell them the whole story. You’re welcome.)

It all started out as a bit of curiosity on my part. She had seen me drunk on at least one occasion, and yet, even on New Year’s, she wouldn’t get past the “Little Bit Tipsy” stage. I thought, in the spirit of fair play, that we should get drunk together and have a grand old time. That way, since I knew we’d be together for a good long while, I could be prepared for later events in life, like when my constant pessimism turns her into a raging drunkard.

We went out to a local McDonald’s to eat early that night, on the grounds that it was close to the liquor store, and pretty cheap, to boot. From said liquor store, I had procured one small bottle of Seagram’s gin, one can of maraschino cherries, and one little squeezy fake lime thing. All told, I spent about twenty bucks.

Now, The Girlfriend doesn’t like beer, but has a taste for wine. Being an experienced drunkard, I know that overindulgence in wine can lead to the most god-forsaken hangovers anyone could ever experience. She wasn’t sure if she liked gin, but I was reluctant to just shove her into Brown Liquor Land just then. Also, I hate the taste of vodka, so that was out. So, Seagram’s it was.

At the house, we had a few little gin-and-Sprite mixers at the kitchen table, a little conversation, and some laughs. I’m a fair and decent bartender, so I mixed them pretty moderately. The Girlfriend, with her incessant curiosity, decided that she wanted to find out what gin tasted like by itself. I thought this a rational, natural desire.

Of course, I didn’t plan on her slugging down about five shots’ worth at once, which she did twice.

Flash forward, twenty minutes later: Still at my kitchen table, I had been relegated to drunk-sitting duty, not always the most pleasant of tasks. Either way, I made the best of it, and found most of it quite amusing. After a while of her falling out of her chair and feeling dizzy, I suggested that she try to eat the rest of her McDonald’s burger. She found this idea to be repugnant, and went off to bed feeling pretty squeamish.

I went back to the bedroom to check on her, not fifteen minutes later. She lay more or less asleep at a relatively normal angle on the bed. The noise of my entry into the room woke her, and we spoke briefly:

HER: “What time is it?”

ME: “It’s, uh, nine-forty-five. PM.”

HER: “Oh.”

I sat down on the couch near the bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. However, The Girlfriend had imbibed too much gin to simply lay back and relax. She warned me that she felt ill, and attempted to lay back down. Within seconds, she was up again, asking in a thick voice for a bag , or something, to throw up.

ME: “Oh, Jesus.”

HER: “Hurry, I–”

And then it happened: the drunk-girl hurl. Conveniently, the little cardboard box my puppy came in–and called home–was located right in her path.

To her credit, she managed to save both of his toys, and not hurl on any of my things.

I held her hair back as she evacuated some things, and she cried a little. Apparently, girlfriends don’t like boyfriends to see them puke. I think it’s an important step in any relationship, but I’m not anybody’s girlfriend.

She went to the kitchen to brush her teeth, with my assurance that no one was in the house. Upon arriving in said kitchen, she was heard to remark:

“Aw, crap.”

Because of the presence of my brother and step-father, both of whom then heard the whole story as The Girlfriend attempted to make conversation. It did not go swimmingly.

The next day, she felt fine and dandy, as usual. What little embrassment from the night before seemed to be more or less forgotten, since pretty girls just have that way of getting away with terrible things.

As penance for talking her into it, I got to take out her befouled box and burn it.

Well, that’s the (heavily abridged) story. Goodnight.