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.





It’s 3 a.m. and I must be lonely

24 04 2008

Just kidding. I’m not going to get all maudlin or post Matchbox 20 lyrics. It’s just three in the morning, and I’m wide-fucking-awake. That probably won’t be the case two or three hours from now, since I’ll be at work.

I pulled a muscle in my back this afternoon by dragging around whoever-is-reading-this’s mom, and couldn’t get to sleep. So what did I do? Why, I took two of my brother-in-law’s migraine muscle relaxer thingies, of course. Two of these little red and white bombs make him “loopy”, so I should be flat-out circular in a little while, since he outweighs me by a good forty pounds. Oh well, at least my back won’t hurt.

Anyway, I wrote a thing about the dog. It’s on the laptop, but I’m not, so you won’t be reading it tonight, by God. It’s kind of funny, I guess, in a weak sort of Garrison Keillor kind of way. Speaking of which, have you ever seen that guy? Christ Almighty. I wrote a thing about my pug, then immediately referenced an author who looks like one.

Don’t believe me?

     

There. Told you.





Fine, I’ll give the baby back.

22 04 2008

Sorry I haven’t been updating like I should. You guys are like family to me, seriously. Well, if you discount the fact that I never (well, rarely) discuss anal sex with my family, then we’re practically cousins. As it happens, I’ve been neglecting you for a good cause: this guy’s blog archives have kept me from your grabby, suffocating, loving arms for the noble cause of selfish entertainment.

And now for a witty segue!

*whispers offstage*

Oh, okay. Ahem. And now to completely change subjects without so much as a second’s warning!

There’s nothing more apt to make me sick with glee/sickness than the thought of stolen babies. I can’t remember what made me think of this–maybe I read something about it earlier?–but I just wanted to go on record as saying that I do not support the theft of infants for personal gain. If by some strange set of circumstances someone should steal a baby in the name of charity and humanity, well, I could get behind that, I guess. Just so long as there’s no money changing hands, I’m peachy keen.

Speaking of stealing babies, I’m still looking for a job in the town to which I’m about to move in little more than a month. Holy fuck, is that right? A little more than one month? Christ Almighty, I’m beginning to panic. Or rather, I should be. At the moment, I couldn’t give a shit if I stole someone else’s shit and was simply looking to make a quick buck.

Too many nights where I only get two or three hours of sleep, followed by nine straight hours of work with barely a breather, have turned me into something resembling a zombie. Well, a zombie who doesn’t eat brains and is vehemently against the theft of infants for personal gain. Just so that’s clear. Some zombies have no social mores.

I’m not one of those.

Goodnight everyone.





I hope you go blind. Seriously.

18 04 2008

There is a time and place for everything, guys. The Byrds said it much more prettily than that, but the concept is the same: there are appropriate venues for specific actions. Tennis should be played on a tennis court. Crack should be sold in the ‘hood. Anal sex should always be performed–always–in the butt. When one or the other of a proper couple is altered, the universe becomes imbalanced, and has to right itself by giving us television shows like Lost, and by inventing ass cancer.

Having said that, I swear I caught a minion jerking off in the bathroom today.

I won’t go into too many details, because we all know what jerking off is about: not so much the “jerking” as the “off”. Suffice to say that I went searching for one of my wayward minions today, a kid who conveniently wanders off whenever there’s work to be done. After about twenty minutes, I ended up quitting the search on the reasonable, mature, wholly defensible grounds that I had to take a massive dump. By “wholly defensible” I mean that no one in their right mind would ever require me to prove my assertion that I had, in fact, taken a massive dump. However, I digress.

Upon entering the shop bathroom–one toilet stall, one sink, one urinal–I noticed a pair of (safety-write-up-worthy) Nike basketball shoes swinging around haphazardly beneath the door of the toilet stall. The toes were pointed straight out, like someone stretching early in the morning, which is completely understandable; the only problem was, it was almost lunch time.

I didn’t stick around and watch the show, because I would like to achieve at least one more guilt-free erection before I die, and there’s no way I could ever a) get it completely up, and b) have sex with The Girlfriend without the image of a self-abusing minion popping into my head.

Obviously, I didn’t want to call his name or knock. I’m usually pretty polite about things like that–when and if they come up (accidental punnage, sorry)–but remember, I had to unload a book-of-the-month-caliber steamer posthaste, and this little jerk-off (sorry again) was wasting valuable clean pants time. So, before I left the bathroom, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of…

After a stern talking-to from my supervisor’s supervisor, I was compelled to apologize to the man I had terribly embarassed by my insensitivity and lack of couth.

“Sorry, Garrett,” I said sheepishly.

“That’s okay, Kenneth,” Garrett cheerfully replied around a massive lump of chaw in his lip. “I know you weren’t trying to pull nothin’ over on me.”

“Yeah, but you know how it is…”

“Hell,” he retorted gleefully. “If it had been me, I’d have sent Barbara in there after ‘im!”

Yes, Dear Reader, you understood that correctly: “Garrett” is not my minion, but a regular employee who has been with my company for thirty years. He is also a Vietnam veteran, gun enthusiast, and a devout lover of snakes. That last attribute came in handy when I told him that there was a big-ass snake in the men’s room, but I couldn’t figure out whether it was a king snake or a moccassin.

It took maybe ten seconds for the entire event to transpire, but it was worth it, if while viewing only from the sidelines. Garrett had burst into the bathroom with a broom and small wastebasket in hand, and a full-face welding mask on with the tinted lens pulled up. He looked, in short, fucking scary.

Garrett assured me that the scream from the bathroom most likely came from the minion, who may or may not have been actually jacking off. Garrett wasn’t sure, since he was looking at the ground for the snake. The minion was so embarassed, I assume, that he took the rest of the afternoon off, leaving without even getting his paycheck.

All in all, I’d say it was a good ten seconds spent wisely.