Yellow probably means “Veer Suddenly Across Opposing Lanes of Traffic”

2 07 2008

There’s a weird thing I noticed about San Marcos. In a city full of happily active police officers, no one here has any regard for stop signs. They sail through intersections like stop signs are suggestions. I’d bet you that many a cop’s kid has enjoyed a kick-ass Christmas on the dime of San Marcos’ careless citizenry. 

That all in itself isn’t the weird thing, though. The actual weird thing is the bald-faced fear of a driver in San Marcos who confronts a green light.

“What should I do?” they whisper. “Should I come to a complete stop? or maybe put the car in reverse…

OR VEER SUDDENLY ACROSS OPPOSING LANES OF TRAFFIC?

No, that’s what yellow means.

Pshaw, you, the reader, might say. That’s clearly meaningless hyperbole!

Pshaw my goddamned ass, I say. You haven’t seen it. Utter fucking terror, I’m not kidding.

Advertisements




I’m sure it’s actually because I carry around a bag full of money.

17 06 2008

I think my last three days spent without shaving have been worthwhile. For whatever reason–probably this sweet-ass babybeard–people are much less apt to be complete dicks to me day by day. It sounds strange, the magical five o’clock shadow thing, but I think there’s an actual reason. Actually, I there are several reasons. 

It could be that since this is a college town, and college is where beards are usually discovered by newly liberated freshmen, people see the beard as a sign of harmlessness, of comfortable conformity to middle class values. After all, who doesn’t understand a college kid?

That seems like a pretty good reason. On the other hand…

Everyone in San Marcos had an immense crush on Al Borland growing up.

 

EVERYONE IN SAN MARCOS HAS A BEARD!

 

Everyone in San Marcos prefers wooly, non-threatening men.

 

Everyone in San Marcos is, in fact, Kate Hudson.

 

…I do admit a tendency toward blowing things a bit out of proportion. The point is that the consequent scruff of not shaving for three days actually works in reverse: instead of being frightened by my manly face-pelt and thus give me their money, they are soothed by my manly face-pelt, and thus give me their money. 

It just occurred to me that we may very well be feeling the tidal shift before another massive Beard Wave.

Many souls will be lost. 

It will be the greatest simultaneous loss of human life since the dawn of all existence

Only the young and the females will survive once the Destroyer is awakened.

Abandon all hope.

It is coming.





The Last Bastion of Sanity

4 06 2008

I took a delivery out to a car dealership yesterday. This in itself isn’t that interesting, but the awful joke I heard, and its source, are at least a little bit compelling. First, the joke:

“Hell, I could sell suntan lotion to old niggers!”

Well, yes… Okay. The set-up to that won’t explain much, either, since it more or less came from a deep corner of left field. I was standing around waiting for the person with the money for the order, when a few of the salesmen decided to strike up a conversation with me.

“Well, he should be down any minute now. Say, how much does the cost’a gas affect you drivers?”

“It isn’t that bad, as long as your car gets decent mileage.”

“What you get in that ol’ Mustang–about 18?”

“About twenty-three in the city, I guess. A lot more on the highway.”

“Well, ol’ Mike should be down in here in a second…”

“And don’t worry about the tip–he’s got ya covered.”

“He might try to sell you a car, though.”

“Oh, I’m a pretty tough sell.”

A new voice from behind says, “Hell, I could sell suntan lotion to old niggers!”

The voice, the one from behind me, is pretty deep. Deep enough that you can imagine the man being about 6’5″ or so, and probably that kind of fat that country mothers call “stoutness”. It’s a smooth voice, not terribly stilted with some accent–local or otherwise. It’s a practiced voice, is what I mean. 

Anyway, I turned around and looked right into the face, almost eye level, with an Asian man who weighed about 130 pounds. Holy fucking cats, I thought. There’s no way I’ll be able to speak to this man in a rational way. I’d be laughing too hard, or freaking out at the plain fact of the image in front of me. The only thing more confusing than an Asian man with a voice like a big black stage actor would be a small dog with the voice of Lucille Ball.

I left after doing most of the talking. The hilarious/disturbing tableau stuck with me well into the night. I woke up this morning fully expecting Kelly to sound like that. I don’t know why that voice, along with that joke, just fucked me up for the rest of the day.

Okay. That’s my little story for the day.  





Why, yes, that is the creepiest thing I’ve seen all week.

31 05 2008

So I deliver pizza for San Marcos’ premier pizza joint, Valentino’s. I do not enjoy my job, but it has its perks.

One of said perks is the constant exposure to some of the weirdest fucking people imaginable. Yesterday, I had to make a “birthday delivery”, which sounds like I brought a screaming infant into the world, but really means that I took some guy a pizza that his mom ordered. From Illinois. 

“Aw, how sweet!” you might be thinking right now. And yes, it is pretty sweet. At least, it’s sweet until I tell you that the guy had to be in his mid-forties, and looked exactly like Andy Warhol. I even had to bring him some of our water, because he is apparently averse to drinking from the tap. Which is all well and good, but I’m pretty sure ours is exactly that: plain old city tap water. I don’t even drink that crap.

I told him, as per my instructions, that it was Culligan’s Filtered Water. This was, I imagine, to avoid a full-on OCD freak out, or at least to bypass a twenty-minute germophobic rant from some bespectacled middle-ager standing on his stoop in his Valentine’s Day boxer briefs. Yes, boxer briefs covered in tiny red hearts, with a tuft of graying pubic hair peeking out the top, to bring a sense of balance to the composition, I would guess.

Anyway, that’s one weird experience. More to come, I’m sure.





I Quit My Job Today: a Dramatization

8 05 2008

I’m standing at the urinal at work today, when the Big Boss comes walking through the door all in a huff.

“Thompson!” he yells, clearly meaning me, even though my name isn’t Thompson.

“Yes, boss?” I reply politely while trying whole-heartedly not to piss all over the floor.

“What the hell is all that–Jesus God!” he exclaims, pointing at my crotch. “What the Holy Mary is that thing? Did the Salvation Army have a closeout sale on artificial limbs?” 

“Well, yes they did, actually,” I answer sheepishly.

“Jesus man, put that thing away! I need to speak to you.”

“Okay boss,” I comply, turning to speak to him while pissing all over the floor. “What is it?”

Ack!”  he screams, jumping back. “You idiot, you’ve pissed all over the floor!”

“I see,” I say. I’m still not sure where he’s going with all of this.

“Anyway, I need to ask about what Little Boss told me earlier. Are you really quitting?”

“Why, yes sir, I–”

Before I can finish, he jumps on me and begins pounding me about the face and head with a hammer I did not notice him holding. As it punches neat little divets into my face, I can see with my good eye that it says “The Defector Defeater” along its handle. “Defector”… That’s me.

Later on, once the beating has ceased, he’s walking me back to my station, where I will sit, politely silent, until and only until he says that I can go. Along the way, I slyly pick up a long sharp piece of steel laying on the floor.

“Alright Johnson, you’ll stand right here until, and only until, I say you can go. Is that clear?”

“Yes b–”

“Goddamn it! You’ll be quiet when I’m talking!” Several quick blows from The Defeater remind me who’s in charge. “Davis, I’ve been pretty lenient on you so far, but if you don’t shape up, I’m taking you to see Big Big Boss.”

I nod, blood dripping from pretty much every square centimeter of my face, and wait for him to come to the point.

“And the point of this little exercise, Mabutu, has been–ACK!”

He finds it somewhat difficult to speak with ten inches of steel driven upward through his soft pallet.

“Yes, boss?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer, only meekly swings the Defector Defeater at my face. I deftly snatch it from his hand and drive another piece of sharp metal through his face, just for good measure.

Later on, as I’m signing my letter of resignation, I pause to reflect on how poorly the day has gone. Big Boss didn’t have to die, but he forced my hand. Further, I didn’t have to urinate all over his bleeding face while he lay gasping on the floor, but again with the hand-forcing. The stapled eyelids may have been my fault entirely.

Just as I walk out the door on the last day of my employment, a tall blonde secretary runs up and exposes her enormous breasts to me in a gesture of friendship. I’m not buying it.

“You tell Big Big Boss that I’m not falling for his tricks anymore!” I tell her quietly as I beat her about the face and breasts with my artificial arm. “You tell him!”

The last thing I see as I drive away from the building is Big Big Boss stepping out of his blonde ladysuit, shaking his fists at me and swearing: “I’ll get you, Thompson!” 





Snowballs, and a few unrelated tips to the porn industry.

4 05 2008

Have you ever found yourself in a position where you’re spending all of your time worrying and waiting for something to happen, and when it does happen, it all comes barrelling menacingly at you like Harry Knowles on rollerblades? Well, my life is a constant stream of exactly those kinds of situations.

I’ve been steadily dragging useful favors out of people to aid the transition and job search. Things have not been going well on that front. Aside from the confusion and other madness, almost everyone seems to be too busy to help out. The job search came nearly to a screeching halt, as I have to figure things out at my current job.

Well, I got my new car on Friday, and since then the entire world has been slicing down the lane at me like a greased-up luger. New car, help with moving, and a surprise job interview tomorrow at 11 in Austin. Holy fucking cats.

Anyway, I’m terrified about the interview. It’s not that I’m unprepared; it’s more like I’ve never been hired on the basis of a face-to-face interview. My credentials, and general word-of-mouth, usually get me in the door. Now I have to actually show up and impress someone who is willing to pay me an exorbitant amount of money to do a job for which I have little actual applicable experience.

Whatever. Just wish me luck.

A Word to the Pornography Industry

1) There is no such thing as a “hot load”. Since sperm are stored outside the body in the testes, which hang (in most cases) away from the core of the body’s hottest point, they are kept cooler than the internal temperature of the ball-haver himself. This is to keep sperm viable and, more important, alive. I understand that “he shot his ever-so-slightly cooler load all over her heaving breasts” doesn’t sound nearly as sexy as “his piping man-lava sprayed her teased bangs and ruined her favorite duvet”.

2) The sight of another man’s anus is not desirable in hetero scenes. If it were, we probably wouldn’t have purchased the damn movie in the first place. There is nothing sexy about having some dude’s pimply asshole winking at you while you’re trying to rub one out.

3) Jenna Jameson is almost as bad as another man’s anus. Seriously. Could you guys talk to her or something? She looks like several old footballs held together by Scotch tape and self-loathing.





Sure-footedness is not a state of mind

24 04 2008

It’s a good thing I wasn’t born a super-villain. If I had been, then many people would die on a fairly regular basis. I like to think that there would be a steady stream of super-evil atrocities issued forth from my sinister lair, rather than just one big ‘ol “Ka-boom! There goes Miami!” kind of thing. Also, utterly obliterating Miami would be like a second Holocaust, since the place is fairly brimming with elderly Jews. That’s just not for me.

I’m pleased that I’m not a super-villain, and also not a super-hero. That would simply be too much pressure, like having sex with George Clooney. I’m also pretty glad that I was there today to witness one of the truly pivotal moments in human history. These times only come along every so often, and those who are around to see them are surely blessed. I’m speaking, obviously, of watching a young man about my age take a fairly graceful tumble from about fifteen feet flat onto solid, unfriendly concrete. It was, in a word, majestic.

In several more words, it was also completely fucking terrifying. Some carrier of a particularly virulent strain of dumbass decided to go prancing atop a row of plate steel racks without the benefit of a) a hardhat, b) a safety lanyard, and c) awareness of the force and theory of gravity. I do the same thing all the time, but, for reasons evidently unknown to the poor now-misshapen sap, I rarely lose my balance. I credit my intense dislike for having things on my body forcibly rearranged as the leading factor that keeps me head-up and not in traction.

Anyway, the guy was just hopping and skipping–yes, literally skipping–on top of these racks while attempting to satisfy some as-yet unknown purpose. I was watching from the safety and comfort of a forklift driver’s seat some thirty yards away, all aquiver with trepidation and, I admit, some measure of excitement. It just seemed inevitable that something bad should happen to the poor fucker. Firstly, he was breaking more-or-less every applicable safety rule, especially the one that states “Do not skip on top of things”; secondly, he was wearing a Creed t-shirt. Karma is a wheel, and also despises Scott Stapp.

Anyway, I had only been watching for about a minute when he fell. He either misjudged the distance between the floors of the racks, or lost all motor function while skipping like a bearded schoolgirl. One second the asshole was up in the air, the next he disappeared from sight. It happened in literally an instant, like diarrhea farts.

Well, long story short, he got hurt pretty badly. I’m almost positive his clavicle was broken, but I can’t be sure. There were far too many unnatural angles in that area to be certain. He’s a pothead, so he’ll lose his job, and he’s a temp, so there aren’t any unemployment benefits. I’m just glad he wasn’t one of my minions. I won’t even begin to tell you how hard I would kick their asses for that level of stupidity.

How does all of this relate to the superhero angle? Well, simply put, if I were a superhero, I would have been able to dash the thirty yards over to him the instant before he fell. Not to prevent it, though.When the gods are handing out object lessons, I stand clear. Mainly, it would have been so I could have had a front-row seat to a fucking fabulous pratfall.

Seriously–kudos, my good sir. Kudos.

Dumb-shit.