Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Mad Men

I went to the bookstore to buy my birthday present. I was hoping to buy Bukowski's Women. I've been trying to get the book since Katie recommended it to me.

But at the bookstore they are all sold out of Women. A clerk tells me he thinks all the Bukowski books were stolen a few days ago.

He's wrong.

The chain store has quite a few books of Bukowski's. But only one I was willing to pay money for.

Notes from an old Man.

Bukowski writes in the introduction how he loves the freedom of writing for the OPEN CITY and how he likes that it takes just a few days for his writings to go to press. I imagine Bukowski would have loved the internet. I am sure Bukowski would have been a blogger.

The chain book store has only one checkout stand open. I have to wait behind 3 or 4 others. I'm surprised this many people still read.

The checkout girl is from Britain. She has a loud laugh and a huge smile. An all England smile full of gray teeth. She is not under the impression that she should have to keep that smile to herself.

If she had been born in America her smile would have never appeared. She'd be to self-conscious of her teeth and her big personality would have a hard time showing itself.

But she keeps looking over me and smiling her big gray smile. She laughs and jokes with all the customers. When she finally gets a chance to ring my purchase up she asks if I've read a lot of Bukowski.

I tell her I've read everything. That's a lie. But she gets what I mean. She asks If I've read something I hadn't and I tell her I haven't. She thanks me for the "talk" as I leave with my book.

Next, I went that hip clothing store Abercrombie & Fitch. Purveyors of cool clothes and teen porn. They make a great catalog that gets them in trouble. I loved their catalog so much that I wanted to buy a hat from them. But all their hats where one size fit only. I don't like that kind of hat, so I bought a t-shirt. I still dress like I am 15. Layered t over long sleeve shirt.

I'm celebrating my birthday with card shark the way I celebrate every other Monday, getting drunk. But I get to wear my new shirt to TailGate's.

I like to get drunk. I like to get drunk a lot. And when I get drunk even card shark seems funny. We come up with all kinds of great schemes when we are drunk.

We want to make a website and stalk a girl. Send her the web address. Tell her we are not really stalking her, because we are, " like ironic and shit."

Like an advertising campaign for the date rape drug Rohypnol.


We show a guy in a business suit taking care of business. The camera follows the businessman as he makes his rounds in meetings, glad handing customers and getting signatures, making deals.




He moves on to another girl and then another girl. Each time he gets slapped. Finally we show him back at his place with original girl. She is seated on the couch, he is at the wet bar making a drink. She appears quite bored.

Flash to a close up of the drink. Two pills that look like alka seltzer splash around in drink.

End with girl passed out in bed and guy smoking a cigarette.




Thursday, November 29, 2007

You forgot my birthday again, didn't you?

It's my birthday. I started the celebration early last night. I hung out on the patio of my local sports bar making fun of all the regulars that came in. My buddy and I try and tell ourselves that we aren't just like the regulars. Because we are just hanging out there to be ironic. My bartender thinks we act just like the two old guys from the Muppet's. I think she's right!

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Boycott Burger King

I was 13 when I worked at the tomato factory. Despite being 13, or perhaps because I was underaged, my parents had no problem getting me a day's work on the last day of tomato canning. At the factory I worked on an assembly line. I stood over a conveyor belt picking out red tomatoes that were vine ripened, and placed them on another conveyor belt that shipped them off to get packaged right away. I was told to let the green tomatoes continue down the conveyor. At the end of the belt were large storage rooms where the tomatoes were gassed with poison which turned them red.

To this day I have an unnatural fear of being trapped in a large warehouse storage rooms full of tomatoes and the toxic gasses that would "kill ya if you breathed them in, so make sure you don't go inside where the tomatoes are if the the dial is switched on." Like Captain Kirk I know how I will die, alone, and surrounded by tomatoes.

I didn't die at the factory, but I got injured on my first and only day on the job. I cut my hand and it bled all over a few tomatoes. I still finished the day because working was the only way I was going to get paid. My mom placed a band-aid around my cut, and she told me I could take the day off if I wanted, but I wouldn't get paid. She said she wouldn't lie to the company for me. My brother and I were promised we could keep some of the money we make at the factory, so we could buy stuff at when we went to Disneyland. So I chose to take my damaged and bandaged hand back to the assembly line.

Like other migrant families wanting employment my family had to leave Florida and travel the country. To stay employed my parents had to follow the cycle of tomato picking. The cycle started with picking tomatoes in my step dad's home state of Floida and we followed the pickers to the second growing season in Georgia. And finally my family drove to Maryland for the processing of tomatoes. My step dad worked as a forklift operator in Maryland and my Mom worked in the warehouse as a shipper.

Despite the work and poverty, Maryland is full of happy memories for me. I discovered masturbation in a one room trailer no bigger than a Subaru while my parents worked and my little brother swan in the trailer park pool. For the first time in my sexual life I felt up on a non relative. It was an important moment for me, and must have been an important moment for the girl as well, because she asked me for my favorite shirt to mark the occasion and to remember me by. My brother, who had been making out with my gal's sister, eagerly complied with his suitors request. But I told my girl no. It was the first and only time I've ever stood up to a g/f. I guess I really liked my shirt. Afterwards I was glad I did not hand that shirt over, because my brother got in big trouble for giving away his t-shirt to a stranger.

That happy summer in Maryland Coca Cola introduced the world to new coke. But the convenience store run by the trailer park we lived in never received any shipments of the new coke. Instead the trailer park's store manager sold us his 4 month old supply of coke bottles for 50 cents a piece.

You may find this hard to believe, but the tiny trailer park convenience store had a library. All you had to do was bring in a copy of a used paperback and you could exchange it for someone else's book. I discovered my interest in incest with my new step sister wasn't shameful by reading V.C. Andrews' book, Flowers in the Attic. My new step sister thought I was "fox," and I got a peek at her chest, some of the finest breasts in the history of God.

I met the "librarian" on the first day we set up camp. She thought I was totally hot. She was right , look how cute I am in the picture at the top of the blog. I was 13 then. Tell me you could keep your hands off that. I don't think it was just my looks that got to this girl though. I think she was just really horny. I figured I had no chance with her, because she was 18, five years older than me. A real women. Turns out I was wrong, she would have slept with me, or anyone else, as she slept with my gross step daddy, who looks just like Charles Bukowski, on more than one occasion.

SO I must say, Maryland- good for getting the sex.
Tomato picking-dangerous and poorly paid work. But if you want to go to a theme park with my parents it's a lot better to go with your own money. We spend all day at the park and my parents refuse to buy drinks or food or silly hats and t-shirts.

I pride myself on knowing just what it's like to be a migrant worker. That's why I support the hard laborers of the tomato road. And that's why I have to Boycott the King. Unlike Taco Bell and McDonald's, his Royal Highness, refuses to pay 1 cent more directly to the hard working migrant farm workers.

"The deal, according to “Minding Your Business” reporter Ali Velshi, has McDonald’s working with a company representing immigrant farm workers. Under the pact, McDonald’s would make sure an extra penny per pound would go directly to the workers – a 75-percent increase in the cost of a bucket of tomatoes. “This is directly tied to McDonald's saying they're going to pay for something that's going to help the end worker.”

The report took a decidedly pro-worker stand. “It is not easy being a tomato picker,” Velshi argued. Even with the deal, he complained it will take the “best tomato pickers up to the poverty line” and they will still have “no benefits, no overtime.”

Don't you fucking dare eat at Burger King or I will bite your face off!

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Thanksgiving means I have to talk to you

If you come through my line I am required to speak to you, even though my Thanksgiving was uneventful and all you want to do is ask about me how my holiday went. I want to tell you that I only celebrate one religious holiday a year, my birthday. I want to tell you that I had to work this Thanksgiving just so you could buy all the dry ice and beer you need to celebrate, that most of my family is out of state this Thanksgiving, and all my friends had better things to do this year than invite me over for turkey dinner. So maybe I had the worst Thanksgiving ever and I 'd rather not talk about it. But you don't want to hear that. I'd like to stop pretending that my holiday was "pretty good," I want to tell you that I didn't even get the pathetic single friend "left over" plate from my friends who celebrated this Thanksgiving without me. I thought that shit was obligatory. I think my friends expect me to believe that they ate an entire bird, and that not a drop of stuffing was left. Bullshit.

Instead yesterday, a full two days after Thanksgiving and still needing my turkey day fix, I bought a pre-cooked rotisserie chicken from the deli of my grocery store. I made stuffing all by myself, and then I microwaved half a packet of dried mashed potatoes and covered them with store bought gravy. It was quite delicious, thank you. I bet you don't want to hear how I have nothing to be thankful for that I didn't make myself.

I am only talking to you because my boss told me that I have to. She was hovering over me as i was trying to leave today, she took my money drop and watched me listlessly scan the last few customers I had in line. I didn't want to talk to them, so I made no effort to pretend in front of her. I was pissed off, because I was already a good 25 minutes over my scheduled time to go home. And the only reason I got to leave at all was I looked over at my manager and gave her the "If you don't block my line off I will slit the throat of your first born son and drink his blood." She got the message and finally blocked me.

I rode the bike over to the library right after work to blog this story. Not because this is a particularly interesting story, but because I know you need to be on the inside of my inner mental life. I thought you'd like to hear that a second girl gave me a hug, that way you won't have to think I'm such a loser.

I'm on a roll. Lisa is the the second girl to hug me this week at work. She says she loves me, but then she called me old. She told me I looked just like another guy we work with. That dude is like 40, so I got depressed. Then she made fun of my pimple. I've had a pimple stuck on my nose for the last 6 weeks. It simply won't go away. It's so big the Astronomical Society has decided to rename my pimple, Pluto. They believe my pimple has a larger gravity constant than any object in the near Kupier belt. It's kinda cool that my pimple was named a 9th planet though. Kids look up me to me and want my autograph. People who come through my line feel obliged to ask about it. They wonder what how it's going and what my pimple is up to. "Does it mean you have 2 brains?" Lisa the hugging courtesy clerk asks. "Is that why you are so smart?" Yeah, that's right, Lisa. Which I guess is two more brains than you'll ever have."Why don't you just come over here and give me another hug?"

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

I get a hug from a girl

I'm a cashier. I spent yesterday and today checking out your groceries. Asking you for your value card. And trying to remember the difference between acorn squash and butternut squash.

Not much else has changed for me since I was moved from the customer service desk to cashier. But my sudden move to cashier has had benefits. I now get hugs from the hottest 17 year old bagger you've ever seen. I don't know why, or what I did to deserve it. But she walks up from behind me and says hello and then starts to awkwardly hug me.

Maybe she wasn't the awkward one. I was. I just stood there frozen the first time she hugged me. The second time I got a hug I was getting off work and she hugged me goodbye. I put my hand around her back on the second hug. She's so skinny I can feel her ribs. Feeling up on a 17 year old girl's skinny rib is as close to second base as I've come with a girl in 4 years.

Before her shift today I got another hug again. She surprised me this time by coming up from behind me and placing her arms around me. This time it really was awkward, as I have been farting all week. Not only have I been farting, but my ass has been smelling. My ass normally smells because I have to ride a bike to work every day after I take my morning dump. So today I decided to skip the morning shit and try holding my shit in all day. But my colon must be leaking, because I stank like shit all day anyway. I get a whiff of shit smell every time I turn around quickly, like when some strange, hugging hot chicks place their heads on the back of my neck and squeal at me.

All this hugging must be a generational thing. All the girl baggers and teen cashiers at my store are all so sweet and cute. They talk to me and say hi. It's like being back in high school, only this time I am kinda popular. I don't mean captain of the football team popular, but I get invited to the parties, and I can sit at the cool kids lunch table. So I take back all the mean things I say about Generation Y, because I am really pissed at all the girls I went to high school with. You never said hello to me in the hallways. You couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge me except in the library, and only when no one was looking at us and you needed help with the card catalog.

So I don't need you old chicks anymore. I am going to buy all the courtesy clerks at my work a ton of alcohol. I'm gonna watch them get drunk and film themselves and put their silly self-conscious videos on you tube. That's me in the background waving at you. Red faced and drunk my beer belly and smelly ass stuck in a bean bag I can't get out of. Pass me another beer, dude.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Generation Y is Short for Whiney

One of the best things about my job is working with young people. I'm getting old. I'm 36 going on 37. It's nice to be around all that youth. It rubs off on you. Keeps you young. Not only do I work with young people, I also get paid like them. It usually takes them just a few days to figure this out. When the kids figure it out they start bossing me around. They tell me how to bag groceries like I wasn't a bagger back in 1988.

"I've never bossed around someone older than me before."

I get told that a lot. Along with "So, if you are 20 years older than me how come I make more money than you and you still have to ride a bike or the bus every where you go?" I have to punch people after I hear that. If you think I might be losing control of my impulses, you're right. I was told I had "lost control" after I screamed at my 20 something bartender that she was a "Misanthropic bitch for placing the needs of animals (i.e dogs) ahead of humans." I was kindly asked to leave the premises. I did, but not before describing in some detail the latent pathology inherent in her world view.

I was sent to training this week to become a cashier. Something about how customer service is not my forte I think. I hate customers. They ask for shit all the time. I don't like that. I wished I was born in Russia or France. The people in those cultures hate customer service. I find a certain civility in that.

So now I am to be cashier. I must learn produce codes. Green Bell Peppers are 4065, etc. I am stuck in what is essentially a repeat of my customer service training class. My class has three persons. Myself. A 17 year old who graduated from high school at 15 and who then spent the next two years smoking pot. And a portly wanna be drama fag Gen-Y'er.

Drama FAG found me at lunch break. I had hoped to scarf down a cheeseburger and read my paper unmolested before returning to work. Instead I looked up from my paper when I heard Drama Fag standing next to me. I wanted to avoid him because he has an extremely annoying habit.

He has this constant running dialogue under his breath describing his every reaction to any incoming stimuli. Being seated next to him during training was like being connected via USB directly into the RAM instruction set for his brain.

"I don't like being away from home. I'm not used to people not caring about what I say. At home I'm surrounded by people who care. I lost my bus pass, but you probably don't care."

"I know I don't." I had my own problems. I had lost my wallet the day before. When I tried to get a new I.D. I found out that my drivers license wasn't just suspended it was revoked. If I want to drive again I will need to get a psychologist to document to the state for me that "my drinking problem" does not interfere with my ability to drive. I think we all know how hard that is going to be. Also I just got an email that Charles Scwabb, despite my massive talents and impressive resume, didn't want to schedule an interview for me. "We have decided to pursue other candidates whose skills and experience more closely fit the position’s requirements. "

I guess that's why they chose to hire a friend of mine for the job opening, instead of me. He has exactly 3 weeks of work experience as a Blockbuster employee. So you can see how I can't compete with that. I won't be stock broker now. I won't be getting my Land Rover, or Porsche Cayenne. So I am not in the mood to hear about your lost bus pass.

I left him in the Jack in the Box. I tried ditching him with the excuse that I had to go look for my wallet. I thought I was safe when he went back inside to the training class. I decided to stop for ice cream before continuing my search for my lost wallet.I grabbed my chocolate Cold Stone Creamery ice cream and sat at a patio table outdoors. I was reading the paper, when the sun was suddenly shaded over.

HE stood next to my outdoor table for 20 minutes. I never said a word to him, but I learned from his Gary Shandling voice overs that he thought it was hot outside and his neck itched. I never offered him a seat at my table and he never asked if he could join me. He simply stood a foot away from me merrily texting away to his girlfriend. He seemed content just knowing he was near human contact. I assume his helicopter mom was keeping track of him from the GPS function on his phone. He took several pictures of me as I ate. The chocolate ice cream stains down my shirt amused him. He wants to be my best friend.

I want to vomit on him after I learn he has been working as a video store clerk for 3 months.
"Blockbuster?" I ask. "You should be a stock broker. Get your series 49." I tell him. He smiles back at me. "Thanks. I'll think about it."

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Gout's got me down, but at least I wasn't born with 8 legs

I stand at work all day. At some point my foot began to hurt yesterday. I have no idea why. It began to hurt quite badly. If I was a girl I would have cried. It began to hurt right in the middle of one of those dreaded Western Union transactions.

"I'll need a local address for you sir."

"No, you don't."
Ok. I argued a little bit more with the guy. I told him that it was the policy of this store, not Western Union for him to leave a local address. But my fourth toe felt like it had bone cancer.

My ex-roomie has the Gout. He drinks way too much. I drink way too much. I can't think of any other reason, (other than the Bone Cancer) that my foot should hurt. I must have the Gout too. I have to stop drinking. If I stop drinking I will soon have to kill most of the people I meet in my customer service line. That's ok/I am getting moved to cashier anyway.

So I've got gout or bone cancer. My foot has swollen to three times it size. I can feel the restricted flow of blood in my little toe. Each individual red blood cell squeezing into my foot snaps my attention away from the really interesting things in life. Like an 8 legged girl. Born in India. (Where else?) 8 legs. That's like twice as many as a human quadruped. And Vladimir Putin covets all 8 of her legs. Icky! Vladdy, stay away form her you sicko.

Monday, November 05, 2007

My online activity consits of adopting Kerry Howley, not watching kiddie porn. Kerry might be famous, but I own her butt on Google.

I went to the library today to blog about my favorite adoptee Kerry Howley. I felt I needed to justify to some new readers* why I cyber stalk E-list** celebrities. I need to justify my stalking because I don't want certain readers to know exactly how creepy I really am.

Speaking of creepy, I know getting the word out about Kerry Howley through my blog is difficult. In no small part to the good folks at Google, who deemed it proper to lower my page rank a while back. I figured a lower page ranking would preclude me from furthering the career of any of the near celebrities I choose. I was wrong. If you Google "Kerry Howley" you will find my post ranks fifth. Dear Kerry, I own you now. At least on Google. I suppose you will now have to start answering my e-mails. And you will probably have to make me head of your fan club or something.

But today's problem with blogging had nothing to do with my lowered page rank and everything to do with the "robbery" of a cell phone I witnessed at the public library computer station I am working at. After the robbery a security guard tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to put my computer on " lock down" and "follow him upstairs."

Two cute girls, their jaws wide open and eyes bugged out, watched me all the way out the door. I am sure they were convinced I must have been viewing kiddie porn. But it just ain't true. I never view kiddie porn in public. That's just stupid, your just asking to get caught by viewing your porn in public! My "crime" was noticing that a rather large chested woman had walked off with a cell phone that wasn't hers. Now the cops are chasing after the largest chested thief in history, and I will have to go upstairs to view a lineup and make an I.D.

I used to work at this library and so my former boss and workmates saw me getting escorted upstairs by a park ranger. They must have assumed I had finally decided to use the Internet to look up how to blow up Hoover dam or something. I don't need the Internets for bomb planning. I have a friend who can teach me things like that. He was in the Army. And he might be half-crazy, but blowing up Hoover Dam would be child's play for him.

After making the I.D. I walked back to the computer to finish this post. A little later the park ranger returns. This time he shouts at me that "a police officer is coming to speak to you." Nice. No way these 18 year old girls are going to sleep with me now. You may want to ask me what does all this trouble creating this post have to do with blogging about the awesome Kerry Howley. Nothing at all. And you have no one to blame for that, but the Fascist Police State we live in.



The cops found the cell phone in her back pack. Once the kid got his phone back he decided not to press charges. All this CSI investigation for nothing. Only now I have to watch out for huge breasted women who type MySpace messages at the public library. I think I've created an enemy.


Never ask a cop how to spell Fascist just because blogger's spell check is down. They get upset.

*The price you pay for following him through reading my blog is ...well...reading my blog.
** Kerry, I don't think you are E-list. You are totally an A-lister in my book!

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

I might be "sick," but Halloween brings out the Slut Angel in all of you.

I'm sick, but not in the way you assume. I mean it's obvious I am a deviant. What may not be apparent to you is that my job has given me a cough. The cough has caused my voice to crack like I am 13 again. My nasal passages have been draining and tickling my throat. So I heave, spastic and uncontrollably on occasion, spewing forth wads of spittle into customers change and receipts. It's my little revenge on all of them. Little clusters of boogers are blocking oxygen from getting into my brain. I'm not all there today. But Happy Halloween to ya.

Nobody told me that I could dress up for Halloween at work today. I never dress up for Halloween. If asked why not I tell people my costume is an "ass-grabbin' serial killer," because "they look just like you and me."

I am not the only non Halloween celebrator at work. Good-girl Christian doesn't celebrate the "Devil Day" either. And even though she is unmarried and single at 34 she hasn't given up hope of finding her soul mate. "A vegetarian-christian." I may have to introduce her to Christian Cuddle parties. (thanks Katie!)

So much for the unslutty. Several girls I work with followed the latest trend in costumes for Halloween, the "sexy-whatever" costume, and by girls I mean busted up, worn out 45 year old women. Women who should never wear slutty maid outfits or slutty catholic school girl outfits. Ever. I just got a peak into the sexual fantasy life of a number of co-workers, people I had assumed would never entertain the idea of sex. I think we can all agree that ugly people should keep the sexual longings to themselves, or at least confione them to their basements where they belong.

Newsweek Magazine, the blog ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL, the TV show RedEye -(the best TV show on Earth)- have all talked about the slutty costume phenomenon as well. Apparently pre-teens can now find examples of the same slutty costumes all you older women wear.
The irony is too apparent here. As a society we over-sensationalize concerns we have for sexual offenders. I can't live within 5 miles of a school or church, but you lousy parents can blow 40 bucks on a slutty nurse outfit for your 9 year old.

Why is this costume available only online?

Monday, October 29, 2007

Please Stop Using Western Union.

Yesterday I had to place at least 15 western Unions in a six hour shift.
I had to call customer service 5 times because you can't figure out who you are sending money to. Western Union's take forever to process and your requests back up my line. Then all the people waiting for lotto tickets get pissed off at me. They get pissed off even more when I tell them the lotto is almost as big a waste of money as a money transfer from Western Union.

Seriously, I can't understand why anyone would pay 14 dollars to send 40 bucks to their cousin in Idaho. It's a waste a money. Why won't poor people just get a god damn bank account? There hasn't been a bank scare in 70 years. Who needs 40 dollars in three minutes? Just send money the way your grandma did. 12 dollars in the middle of a birthday card. Happy 12th birthday, Timmy. Inflation adjusted at a dollar a year.

Anyways, Western Union is as sketchy as it comes. All day I just send thousands of dollars to terrorists in Saudi Arabia and watch helplessly as a bunch of dupes and idiots lose thier cash to Nigerian 419 scams.

"Do you have family in Nigeria?"


Oh. Christ. Then can I ask why in hell you are sending 400 dollars to the "Governor of Nigeria?"

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Watch THE SKY, Dragon Flies Stalk Us.


Have you noticed that Tom Selleck is parked outside your house? It may not be because he's learned you have a fetish for facial hair. It may be that you are under surveillance from the new Dragon Fly robots, tiny remote spy devices developed by Homeland Security, and used to gather information on peacenicks and the evil doers, at least that is according to the Washington Post.

Quest was punished for not spying on you!

The Rocky Mountain News reports that: "The National Security Agency and other government agencies retaliated against Qwest because the Denver telco refused to go along with a phone spying program..."


ComputerWorld is almost as disappointed as I am.

"Privacy lovers who thought the Democrats would put an end to the controversial NSA wiretapping and Internet-tapping program should feel let down today. The Democrats are lining up to let the NSA continue to wiretap and read mail without court approval.
The New York Times reports that Democratic proposals "would maintain for several years the type of broad, blanket authority for NSA eavesdropping that the administration secured in August for six months."

Not only that, but one of the Democrat's proposals would give telecom companies retroactive immunity from prosecution for participating in the program. Telecom companies are being sued by privacy groups for turning over private data. If some Democrats have their way, the telecoms would be off the hook. "

Friday, September 21, 2007

May I Help You?

I already dread asking you that. I don't want to help you. I hate you, so I must love punishing myself like some kind of co-dependent housewife or something, because I always take jobs where I have to deal with complaints, assholes, and upset people, or just people in general.

Why do I forget that I hate people? I need to write my 800 page novel describing why I can't stand people. Upset customers are sub-human. Darfur, cancer, murder, War in Iraq. There are plenty of things to get upset about in this world. Being overcharged 39 cents for plums is not one of them. Except for you.

But most people are mindless. They don't think. If it affects them, if it disturbs them, if it disgust then they can fathom something like moral outrage. Otherwise we are all useless lumps of self replicating bags of sweat. So continue on soldiers, go ahead and spend 40 billion dollars taking care of dogs and cats, but oppose expanding health care to children.

Speaking of things that piss me off:

How come I didn't get invited to the Pizza Party? The pizza party was being held in the same office where I was filling out my w-2 forms and all the other mindless paperwork. Once I signed that paperwork, I was an employee. I was one of you, and yet not one person offered me a coke or a slice of pizza. Instead all you fatties in the front office made sure to grab your own slice of pizza and scarf it down before announcing the availability to the rest of the staff. OMG.


My employer doesn't think a time clock is a good enough device to track and log my hours worked. Instead we have to use a bio-metrics finger print scan to log in to work. I give DNA, my fingerprints, drug test, and personality test just so I can sell lottery tickets and refund spoiled meat purchases to you at a Walmart wage.

You have to love America. we don't require the President of the United States to pass through this many hoops. Can you imagine George W. Bush being asked to give drug test, or add a few numbers in his head while typing?

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Your grocery store wants to hire me

Can someone explain to me why I can't get a normal job interview? I walked into your local grocery store for the interview the other day, after spending about 2 hours geekilly filling out an application on one of those ubiquitous employment kiosks so many businesses are going to.

I knew right away I would get a job offer. My female interviewer asked me to shut the door behind me when I walked in. I think that's when she turned on the sex music. Maybe the sex music was already playing.

As with most interviews I've done recently I was bombarded with inappropriate information from a prospective employer.

  • Most applicants who want a job paying Wal*mart wages are unable to read
  • the job interviewer's mother is a "functional" alcoholic for the last 35 years
  • If hired I will replace the girl at the front desk "who can't calm down."
  • the interviewer is single
  • the interviewer has an ex-husband who left her, but he worked for the company, so when he left, she thought she'd get job there too (can we say stalker?)
  • she "really likes me" she doesn't want to lie about that
  • I had to submit to some kind of DNA oral drug test- now the FBI knows everything about me

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

My little trip to Las Vegas: Where I chat up a hooker for 30 minutes and get stood up by a waitress

The "Strip" is for suckers, if you plan to go to Vegas make sure you visit downtown instead. Downtown is where the action is. And by action I mean you can pay 1,000 dollars for a hand-job. I don't recommend you paying a thousand dollars for a hand job, but that's your business. Because of the high price for call girls downtown, I can't imagine what a hand job goes for on the strip. I would imagine you'd have to sell your house to get one.

I have this thing for homeless people, maybe because I'm almost one of them. Also I love strippers and hookers and drug addicts, so I could never tear myself away from the Downtown xperience. Maybe it's just because I fancy myself some kind of Faux-Bukowski. Twice I've tried applying to the post office for a job. They turned me down each time.

Whenever I visit the Freemont Street Experience I tend to overdose a bit on the good times one can have stealing sips of drinks off of homeless drunk girls, staring out at the stretch marked bellies of 25 year old pregnant chicks as they stumble through the casino slot area pounding down 3 foot high frozen drinks.

"Is your friend preggars?" I ask the friend of the obviously drunk and obviously pregnant woman. The friend is ugly, repugnant really and I would rather hit on her friend, the pregnant girl. But first I want to make sure that she really is pregnant. Neither of these girls is worth wasting my time on if they aren't such alcoholics that they will continue to drink in public at 6 months with child.

"Oh, no!" She slurs at me lasciviously. "She just had her baby." Neither girl can walk in their high heels. Both have that drunken sheen in their eyes that says they are ready to party. They head towards me.

"I call bullshit!" I scream to my friend. There is no way she had given birth yet, her belly is still hard, and if there is one thing I know about pregnant women it's that the belly gets not only fat, but hard. I chickenshit my way out of there and head out back on to the sidewalk. I make my way down the urine soaked street until I get to my favorite casino in Vegas. Mermaids. Say it with me my brother, Mermaids!

Mermaids is home to the one dollar fried Twinkie and lavish give aways. To prove how much people win in this casino they hang posters over the entrance. One poster in particular is beckoning to me, it tells me of the great luck a man named Jimmie had in March of 1984. Jimmie won 10,000 dollars on a progressive slot jackpot. I want to call Jimmie of Youngstown, Ohio and ask him if it's true. Or did the check bounce when he tried to cash it?

Mermaids greets you at the door in style with a real life Las Vegas Show Girl. At least the hostesses are supposed to be showgirls. Maybe these girls could have been showgirls at one time. But most are crack addicts now. Pitted faces from scratching at the "bugs." Pot bellies from bastard children scar their stomachs. They hand me Mardi Gra beads and then a raffle ticket. Every thirty minutes they call out a number. If your number is called you get to spin a wheel. If the wheel spins just right you could get 50 bucks in hard cold cash. I have to hand the ticket over to a waitress as soon as I make it inside. She tears it in two and hands me back my half.

"Want a drink?" she asks.

"Sure, a beer."

"What kind Icehouse or Miller?"

I decide to go with the Miller because I can't believe Icehouse is still being made. My guess is beneath the ground at Mermaids lies a large enough vat of Icehouse beer to to stage an Olympic styled water Ski show.

After a considerable wait my waitress returns with my beer. I notice she is white trash in recovery. Her hair is short and frizzy like she's had one to many bad perms. She tries to hide the condition of the hair by coloring it purple. But she is so not punk. Unless having stretch marks makes you punk. We chat her up. Tell her she is the best looking girl. She tells us how she was into drugs three years ago. I guess that her kid is three. She looks at me with awe.

"How'd you know?" She asks.

I tell her I have some strange talents. I get a few more beers. Then I get few more beers. Finally I get a few more beers from the girl. My five dollar tip is paying off, she is practically running to bring me a beer. I tell her I lost 4,000 dollars playing poker at the Bellagio. I tell her I will buy her drugs if she will hang out with me.

I ask her what time she gets off work. She tells me 2:30 am. I tell her I will be playing black jack at a casino nearby and to stop by after work. She promises to. She swears to. She asks me to stop drinking for the next 4 hours because she'd like to hang out with me, and I 'd better be able to perform, she warns me. I promise to stop drinking and I leave Mermaids with a goofy smile on my face.

I walk out side to a beer vendor next door. I order 2 red bulls and vodka. I complain about the 14 dollar charge. I stare into the biggest cleavage I have seen all night. The same two fat girls have sold frozen drinks and shots here for years. But "god they have big tits," I tell them. They agree.

I walk to another casino and see a girl with big tits. A blonde around 22 years old. I'd walked past her before, carrying a beer and screaming with delight. "Big tits!" She smiled back at me. So I am lucky to see her again. I climb up next to her bar stool and order a drink. I chat this girl up for 30 minutes. I leave to check on my friend when I return she is gone. I ask the bartender, "Hey, what happened to that girl I was talking to?"

"You mean the hooker?" He replies with an air of rebuke. Or at least I am sure he was being condescending, but I was drunk, so maybe he was disappointed that I didn't get to fuck her.

"Only a hundred bucks." He tells my friend.

"That's it?" Now I am the one who is disappointed. But I don't mind, I know I have a "hot" white trash slut waiting for me at 2:30 am. I play Paigow Poker instead of black jack. I drink the whole time. I wait until 7 am. At 7 I decide she is not coming to meet me after all. I head to bed. I will see her tomorrow. I will chastise her. And she will bring me a beer. She will try to soothe me, she will tell me she stopped by the casino and looked for me. I will believe her. I will ask her out again and she will have an excuse ready this time. She's got to pick up her kid tonight. She can't hang out. I don't care, because I just won $50.79 in penny slots while talking to her. I have to wait for an attendant to come hand pay me. I think I drink three beers waiting to get paid. Life is good.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

My computer still don't work

Everyone at the library has bad breath. Why?

I ate at Jack in the Box on the way to the library today. That was a big mistake. Jack's air conditioning is out and it was a 112 today. So I am sweaty. Jack forgot to add bacon to my burger. I ate the burger anyway. Now I stink like red onions.

A friend suggested to me that I apply over at Charles Schwabb as a stockbroker. I've already picked out my Land Rover. A 1997 edition. I am going to get new leather seats and a "kicking" Bose sound system. I don't care about the 13 miles a gallon. We have plenty of oil.

If I get the job I will give up being a communist. Because I would have finally learned that capitalism does indeed reward the best and the brightest. If I don't get that job I will never get my Land Rover. I will never get my iPhone. And I will end up working at Mesa Airlines. I will get drunk and guide one of their airplanes into the airport, or maybe it will just run me over.

Though I doubt I have earned such a quick death. I talked to a new car salesman about death in a local bar. He joked about the cute girl next to us having "a charmed life." I agreed. I told him she had probably never had a bad day in her life. The only kind of women I want to abduct are ones that lived charmed lives. The ones who never have bad days. I ant to beat them and chop off their feet and store them in the freezer. The whole time I chopped away at her foot I would scream at her, "Having a bad day?"

Nobody in the bar thought that was weird. The recently divorced new car salesman choked on his beer from laughter. He told me he knew a guy who could get me a great deal on a Land Rover as soon as I got my stock broker license. I can't wait to drive it.

Sunday, July 08, 2007

My computer is dead. Actually my roommates computer. But a computer from my local library is about as close to a computer as I have. Also, when I sit at the library all I breathe in is the disgusting bad breath of some of the library's patrons. Also they fart near me. They don't seem to care that I know.

I hope nobody near my terminal read that. So until my roommates computer is working, or I get a job and a computer I am on hiatus. Think of my blog like it is TV. Summer is repeat season. So go read something from before you started visiting here on a regular basis.

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Have you see my bottle of relish?**

I am not sure where it went. I have heard that quantum physics provides for the possibility that it simply “popped” out of existence. Doubtful I am sure. But it is the only possibility that I can seriously consider at this point. I can't remember the brand name, but it was spicy hot dog relish. If you find it, can you please return it to me straight away?

Food has been troubling me lately. A box of wheat thins sat on the edge of my coffee table. Its presence was disturbing to me. Not just because it was blocking the telly either.

I can anticipate your response to my concerns. You will tell me that Darfur is still awful. That getting so upset over a missing bottle of hot dog condiment is immoral or stupid.

But things just don't disappear. My materialist point of view has been called into question. The soundtrack of my brain has been playing creepy music from the Scorpions all day. Coincidence? I think not. The universe is trying to tell me something. How else do you explain my sudden use of English terms like telly? Certainly not just from reading Philip Davison. He's Irish after all.

Update # 2

After throwing a temper tantrum and scrounging my rubbish can I decided to eat hot dogs for dinner. I topped them with sweet relish packets I took from a local Circle K.

A few hours later I looked in the fridge. I found the bottle of relish exactly where I had left it. It is impossible. I tore apart that fridge. I saw nothing. But now here it is. Sitting peacefully in the door shelf. Mocking me. I wonder, did you find it and return it to me? What do you know of secrets found in Quantum Physics? And what do you want of me?

**Blogger lost the original wording to this post. I have tried to reconstruct it, but alas this is all I can do.

The Awesome Kerry Howley E-mailed me. I sent two e-mails to her and she responded to them with a witty retort.

Friday, June 29, 2007

I officially adopt Kerry Howley. She is my new Girl Friend

Kerry may not yet be famous. But that's because I have not talked about her. She is an associate editor for Reason Magazine. Which means she is a Libertarian.

I don't like to think about her politics, because they make me puke. But I do like to watch her on TV. She frequently shows up on my favorite new TV series Red Eye. Red Eye airs on the Fox News Channel.

Red Eye is almost as funny as the Daily Show. Which makes it 400 times funnier than Fox's other effort at humor the Half Hour News Hour.

I want the world and more importantly my readers to know about Kerry because I plan on having this blog adopt her. Doctor Von Monkeystein started an adoption program on his blog. It's called Adopt an Actor. I have taken a few liberties with his proposal by not adopting an actual actor, but by adopting a TV personality and celebrity journalist. I figure I can squeeze Kerry under the auspices of actor because she shows up on a TV show as a regular guest.

Either way I don't care about rules. I want Kerry Howley to be my adopted actor. I want Kerry to find my blog and ask me to marry her. The answer is yes, Kerry. I will marry you. I'll even drop out of the Communist Party for you if want.

In case you have never seen an episode of Red Eye, here is a fake transcript example of every Red Eye ever made. Funny if you know the show and it even features Kerry.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

I pedal

I stole another newspaper today. I am not going to pay 50 cents for the news. The valley has a terrible newspaper. I've done my neighbor a service. He won't have to read that dribble today.

Everyone's girlfriend is cute today. At the Circle K a teenager was dressed in cut off shorts over a pink bikini. A Mexican stood on his truck while getting gas and yelled at the traffic. I watched him as I pedaled away to Wendy's.

The hippy girl at Wendy's in her green top and boot cut jeans looked nice. She had a plain face and short hair. I didn't mind. Even though I don't like women with short hair. I have a rule. I won't date a women with shorter hair than me. I keep my hair very short because I am going bald. Going bald has opened up an entire new world of women for me.

I daydream a lot. I dreamed that I could get paid to blog about eating so much at Wendy's. They would send me a card for free meals and maybe an extra few hundred dollars a month. I would get write ups in the New York Times. I would write lurid fan letters to Wendy. I imagined fucking her in that rag doll outfit of hers.

A sweaty young black man asked me for a dollar. He had brought his younger brother in to the restaurant with him. Maybe he was going to show him the ropes, let him learn from his older brother how to beg for for a living.

I dug into my pockets and found 4 quarters for him. He left after I gave him the money. He told me he needed the money to buy food. He said it was hot and he was thirsty. He said he was going to buy his food next door. I don't think I believe him. On second thought I guess I do believeh him, I am just a little pissed that a vagabond would have better taste than eat in a place like Wendy's.

I bought the $2.99 meal because I am low on funds. I wasn't going to buy any more fast food. I was not going to buy the newspaper either. But I compromised. I decided to buy the cheapest meal on the menu after I stole a paper.

I pedaled home. I eat too much at Wendy's. I was planning a fourth of july party, because no one will burn flags with me. I had spent the previous 7 hours cleaning for the party. I did dishes. I swept the floor. I threw out trash. I listened to UFO loud on a Karoke stereo. I needed a break.

So I pedaled to Wendy's.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Doctors create Vagina from Stem Cells

I scoop Katie once again on all things Vagina.

"Doctors in Italy used stem cells to reconstruct vaginas for two patients suffering from rare malformations. The vaginal tissue was grown using stem cells from the patients' own bodies, ANSA said Wednesday.

In the first case, a 28-year-old woman received a tiny square of mucous membrane a year ago and has since grown a vagina. A 17-year-old girl underwent the same procedure Tuesday in Rome's Umberto I hospital. Approximately one in every 5,000 female infants is born without a vagina, the news service said."

First I told you about the girls with two vaginas, and now I find out there is a sure cure for girls born without one. Wow, Science sure is advancing quickly. I guess with 1 in 5000 women not having a vagina the market for a new stem cell vagina is bigger than just the Re-Virgin market alone.

And I am not about to make the obvious "Paris Hilton can go buy a new vagina now" joke that you all saw coming.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

The Drunken Mis-Adventures of Romius T.

I've been on a bit of a roll. Today, which is your yesterday, was the fourth straight day I woke up after 6 in the evening. Which is not to say that I don't get anything done during the day. It's just for me the day ends when you wake up.

I have a bad feeling about my chances of getting hired by Denny's. The manager still has not called me back to tell me I have the job. I've played phone tag all week with Denny's after two of the best interviews of my life. That's why I spent all last night applying for jobs online at a certain "prestigious" university nearby.

I better get one of these jobs soon. I owe $3.50 for an overdue book at the library. Add a total of $2.50 more on two other books. I am getting charged so much because some other asshole wants to read the God Delusion. The asshole must have placed a hold on the book because a hold won't allow me to renew the book. I'd return the book, but it is 115 degrees this week. I can't bike in that heat and the bus is 2 dollars and 50 cents round trip. Add a stop at Wendy's for lunch along the way and my bill for reading this damn book is 13 dollars. Which is like 13 cans of beer I won't be able to drink.

I was going to blog today about last nights drinking, but not a lot happened. I talked to a bartender over at Teakwoods that hates me. I had asked her for an application the last time I had gone in to that bar. That day she noticed that I looked different. "What's wrong you look a bit nervous." You see why I do so good at interviews.
I don't have a chance with this bartender because my good friend the FRO has dished quite a bit of gossip to her. And too much of the gossip is true. Not to mention that she is married. Not that that has stopped me before. Married women love me. I have to beat them off with a stick. Ask the Drug Monkey.

I got a headache last night even though I didn't drink any PBR. I don't have a headache today though. But my poop was brine yellow. I am not sure if brine yellow is even a color.

I mention my poop because it reminded me that I ate a lot of peanuts last night. Teakwoods gives peanuts away for free and you get to throw the shells on the floor. Folks in the Ghetto love to throw their peanut shells on the floor. Ask any redneck or ghetto dweller what the best part of their favorite bar is, they will nearly always respond with the "you can throw your peanut shells on the floor!"

Since I waited since to post last night's drinking story today, I will go ahead and post tonight's drinking story as well. We were at the Dollar PBR bar. Only today is not Dollar PBR. So instead we drank 4 or 6 pitchers of beer. The beer was warm and we stuck a plastic cup of full of ice in the pitcher to keep it cold. Then I would digg my hands into the cup for ice to put in my beer. I think this offended quite a few people at the bar.

The PBR Bar gets busy late at night because you can drink after closing time. It was getting busy about that time when a couple of FEMDOM girls walked in. One girl was dressed all up in pink leather spandex mini skirt. The other two girls were just bi-curious females along for the ride.

For those of you don't know about FEMDOM I'll explain. Now normally I don't like talking about my fetishes. Unless I am going to be paying $2.99 a minute to do so. But for you I will. Actually why don't I just let my master tell you.

Self Help Center Advice on Domestic Abuse:

"I bet I could end most cases of domestic violence by simply advising young poor women to allow their men to throw nut shells on the kitchen floor."

Monday, June 18, 2007

I hate to get all political on you

Sicko is the new movie from Micheal Moore. He does not care that someone stole the movie and put it on the internets. So I guess he won't mind me putting it on my blog. It's all there to see on Google Video. Proving to you that Google is good and not half as Evil as I claim it to be.

I figured since the movie is on my blog we could gather up some popcorn and watch it together. Because we really don't hang out together as much as we used to. I know you miss me. And I hope it's OK if I get a bunch of snot on you. I cry a lot at the movies. I'd like to think it has something to do with my sensitive side, but I think it's just because I am mentally unbalanced.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Is This The Dénouement?***

Denny's: The Interview Part Two

I did not ride the bus to the interview this time. I got a ride from a friend. I know what you are thinking. Things are looking up for me already. I would just like to remind you that I am getting driven to a second interview for a job that comes with all the free hair nets you can ask for.

I am greeted by the same server as last time. She asks if I want water "again." I guess that means she recognizes me.* Like I am some kind of rock star. Now I know what it feels like to be Britney Spears. Except I almost never have the desire to wear pink panties in public. I would wear them at home but my ex-girl friends tell me that my ass is too big.

I wait 10 minutes for Javier to stroll out from the manger's office behind the hallway. He tells me that he "didn't know I was coming for an interview" and that the General Manager "never mentioned me." Not even once. Nothing at all about me wearing clown shoes to the interview. ****
Once again I am not really interviewed. I get asked one standard question about how to deal with bad customers. Javier spends the rest of the time telling me how bad employees are these days.

"We used to think that only teenagers were irresponsible, but I know 40 year old servers who used to be managers that call in late all the time. They are always getting flat tires or going to funerals."

I was completely taken aback by Javier's use of the Royal We and with his inability to comprehend 40 year old managers that get busted down to server taking time off to visit dead family members before they get placed underground.

I think Javier just wanted to make sure I wouldn't make any racial comments. "Denny's is famous for that." He tells me. I am not sure if he is proud of that fact or not. But I look really white today. Khakis and dress shoes make me look middle aged. And white people are racists. So I am glad Javier checked me out for that. I told him I had a Mexican drive me to the interview. So I think he knows that I like Mexicans. I did not tell him I was married to a Mexican for 6 short months. Because Mexicans don't like it when White Men marry their women.

Javier did not offer me the job. But he did tell me that he would talk to the manager who forgot about me. I know you are all hope that I don't get the job. So I can keep going on this series of interviews. But that's because you have it out for me.

*I get it you know me. I'm famous. 37 people read my blog every other day. You know I like to I like to drink water when it is hot outside. And that I feel too guilty to ask for a free coke at an interview and yes that means I've got "issues." But what celebrity doesn't?

*** If I left this title as a comment on your MySpace I am recycling it because I am lazy.

**** Instead I wore my "fancy" dress shoes.


I've been Tagged by a monkee.

1. I have to post these rules before I give you the facts.
2. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. (You’re not the boss of me!)
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog

  1. I like sunflower seeds, but no longer eat them.
  2. Every road trip starts off with a bag of Funyuns.
  3. I did this list because I like monkee man not because I like being tagged.
  4. I can't think of any talents

Monday, June 11, 2007

I'm getting close to hired, because what you really want to read is a Denny's blog.

I won't do that. Waiter Rant is already funnier and more popular than I will ever be. Since they are so popular I am not going to link to them. So even though I won't turn this blog into the Denny's Rant I can tell you that getting hired at Denny's is a lot more of an ordeal that you might think.

I've dropped off applications, made phone calls and stopped by to set up an interview. I took the bus today to the interview even though Denny's is a bike a ride away. I didn't want to get sweaty for the first of two interviews that I must complete over the next two days. It was 103 outside.

You can take one of two bus routes to get to Denny's. The one I took drops you off short of the restaurant by three blocks, couple that with my 15 minute walk to the bus stop the dollar and twenty five cents I just paid the transit system is fools money.

The bus drops me off near a gas station and I get out and attempt to cut across the parking lot. I stumble and fall into a ditch covered in gravel. I slip no less than 3 times trying to get up. Suddenly my life is like some lame I love Lucy slapstick comedy. The bus driver stops the bus and opens the slide door. She yells out at me, "Are you ok?" A man stares at me strangely after he hears me mutter "my life is full of indignity like this."

The bus driver keeps asking me if I am OK. She doesn't get that she is only making things worse for me, by drawing attention to what loser I am. My shoes are now scuffed and dirty. And now I know I have the bus for an audience. The bus riders stand up to get a good look out of their windows. They saw me hop on the bus for a good 30 seconds, then jump off at the first stop, and now I can't seem to stand up without tumbling into a ditch.

Go the fuck away.

I finally make it to the Denny's. I get seated by the lone server who walks back to get the manager. Before she leaves me she asks if I want a soda or tea. I ask for a water. She returns with the water and a straw and a concerned look on her face. "Here is your water." She says. Then she pulls out a straw and asks if I want or need a straw. "We aren't really supposed to give you a straw, but if you want one you can have it."

I tell her "it is ok and I don't need the straw." She seems relieved. I don't know what kind of pressure the staff is under here about straws but it has me concerned. The manager sits down in the booth across from me. She is in her late 40's or early 50's. She looks just like every waitress in every Denny's or every truck stop you've ever been to. Only she doesn't seem as tired. Actually she looks refreshed. Like she just woke up from a nap.

She asks me If I have any experience and I tell her a little. Which is not a lie. She asks why I would want to be a server. I tell her I am a people person. Which I guess is a lie. That's when she basically ends the interview. "I hate interview questions, don't you?" I agree with her. And then she proceeds to give me every reason in the world to not take this job. She mentions the low pay and difficult work hours.

What really gets me is that I will have to provide my own uniform in the sum of 40 dollars for a black shirt my own tan pants. I get the money back after I quit I am told. I guess this is supposed to give me relief. They aren't stealing my money. Just hijacking it for the entire duration of my employment with Denny's.

The manager asks me one more question. "Can you take productive criticism?" I tell her "if it's productive." I have no idea why I emphasize the last word. The manger was testing me. She tells me a story about another Denny's. This Denny's has a staff with tattoos and lazy people. A staff of Mexicans who won't serve Hispanics. Even when spoken to in Spanish.

As the General Manager of 11 Denny's around the tri-state area she will not tolerate laziness or heavy tattooed people working for her. I inform her that I think tattoos are a fad. That I secretly detest the hipster wanna be's that get them. And I tell her that I am not the least bit lazy. Which I guess is a big lie.

But I did put on my size 11 workplace casual shoes for her. They are a size to large for me. I did not notice it until a week after I bought them. I really could not afford them, but I bought them anyway. I thought I would get a lot of use out of the shoes. I figured they would get me to stop wearing flip flops and sandals with my jeans.

My exGF hated me when I wore the flip flops instead of real shoes. Most of the time I wore flips anyway. And when she asked me why I did it I told her I forgot to wear shoes. Anytime I wore real shoes I told her I wore them just for her.

I don't usually wear my Doc Martens because I don't like them, but I did for the interview. I feel uncomfortable in my new shoes. But these shoes are Doc's so they will last me for years. I can't buy new shoes 'till these are ripped and torn. So instead I just keep wearing my flip flops with jeans. I'm 36. A good 15 years to old for that look. Also I am sure only women are supposed to wear flips and jeans. And I think that look went out at least 3 years ago. I'm so far behind in the times. It's not my fault girls get all the "cute" looks in fashion.

So fuck you all. I will wear my flips and jeans. And you can go screw yourselves. I have a really "intense" egg menu to go memorize.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

I'm not an alcoholic, I just crush easily on bartenders

Which is why I wished I hadn't upset one of my favorite bartenders of all time. She works at Groggies in Mesa. I haven't been to Groggies in ages. You should visit the bar and her sometime and make yourself a regular there.

If you do go, don't make the same mistake I just did. Pretending not to remember her after being away for so long. I think I offended Groggies best bartender when I replied to her observation that she knew me by mouthing the words, "no she doesn't" to my friend. Over and over again. Like I was embarrassed to know her or something. Which of course isn't true.

Now the bartender with gold highlights and curls hates me. This makes me nervous. When she liked me she used to put Tabasco sauce in my shots in order to watch me puke on my birthday. I have no idea how she will treat me in the future, but I can say it may be dangerous for me to go back.

That's not the reason I didn't say goodbye to the bartender when I left. I tried looking back at her as I walked out the door. I hoped we could at least make eye contact.

I remember when it first started to get weird between me and the groggies bartender. I think one of my friends let it be known that I "had a thing for her." Which I suppose is true, but we both knew that it wasn't reciprocal. So we never had to broach the subject. Once the subject was "broached" by someone all my "innocent" flirtations were deemed creepy impositions by her.

Not that she didn't flirt too. That little bartender has a sensational smile and she loves to flash it for you. But she saves those flashes to interrupt her normally grumpy personality just at the moment you may decide to "write this chick off, that she is just another stuck up hottie always in a bad mood. Then she'll look at you and her eyes will sparkle and she'll give you that smile. And she's got your attention. I guess I am saying she's like Bill Clinton now. She "locks" into you. And suddenly you feel like a jerk for even thinking anything bad about her at all.

And then with a twist and a turn she raises her cleavage back up and is off down the bar chatting it up with some tattooed poser. Leaving you to swallow down your beer and take off with your friend for the next bar. Not that the friend hadn't noticed how you gushed over her, so there is no use to playing it off. But you still try and look cool. You finish a small pitcher between the two of you and slowly exit the bar.

You look back two times as you open the door to leave, but the bartender is busy pouring drinks for others. She is too busy to notice you leaving. And when she gets back to your spot in the bar your absence will confirm for her all her mental impressions of you. All those inadequacies you see in yourself you hope that others don't. She sees them.

We forgot to pay the bill at another bar in town in Tempe. I was pretty sure I saw a friend of mine slip the bartender some cash. I guess she didn't need the money because she refused it. She used to work as a stripper, so maybe she is loaded. A fellow bartender and co-worker of the ex-stripper is here tonight. Very hipster cute. For a while I was worried that the co-worker was going to mobbed by the desperate men that frequent this dive bar. They crowd in on her and press their bellies into her back. But she gets a free drink out of it.

Hipster bartender's bill came to 33 dollars which surprised her. She looked up at the ex-stripper barkeeper like "you're going to rape me too?" But she piled out the cash and left it on the table without a fuss. She didn't want to make a big deal out of it. She was just hoping that she could drink for free in the bar that she works in. Not a crazy request.

The Palo Verde was dead tonight, but not as dead as the Re-Work lounge. A total of two other people sat at the bar at 9 P.M. on a Saturday. Bad. Arizona's smoking ban has basically killed this bar. It has no patio or smoking section. Just a jive jukebox and oddly smoke free clean shine to the furniture which I remarked upon. Dive bars should not be this clean.

The barkeep was 21. She was cute and personable. She cheered for us to come in and order a pitcher of beer. So we did. Whenever I meet a person for the first time I always do my best to creep them out. That way they know just where I am coming from.

The bartender asked us how what were up to. I told her we were hunting for fat chicks. Because we want to get laid. I asked if she knew any fat chicks, but she said she didn't. So I asked if she was a fatist, and she said she wasn't. Then I called her parents hippies. And she told me I was right. That her parents were typical Boomers that used to be hippies but now work for the "man."

"They even live in a gated community." She volunteered. Her Dad worked for Honeywell which in my mind made him a bomb maker. She claimed that he worked in fiber optics. I replied that I thought there was quite a lot of fiber optics these days in bombs. Bombs these days being all smart and such. She asked if we would like another beer. There was no chance in hell of that.

Next bar is a Karaoke bar that Foxxxlove does her singing at. I gave the most interesting interpretation of Gloria ever "sung" at that bar. Which to my dissatisfaction contained no hipsters to "get it." Though I must say that the aging Karaoke DJ who sung like Alice in Chains "got it."

We fled that bar to get Tacos from Jack in-the Box. 2 for 99 cents. The drive thru nearly let us leave without our waters. And then it was back to the Palo Verde. This time the bar had filled up with 2 cute hipster girls playing pool. We watched as the two beat the pants off a couple of guys. I think they went about getting those guys pants off the hard way. I am sure they just could have asked. Anyone in the bar would oblige.

The girls got served after 2 am. So did we but we had to "buy" our drink before 2 am. The male bartender nearly refused to give us the second pitcher of beer, but we reminded him that we already paid for it. He kindly poured us another pitcher. I poured out my old beer in a glass and poured myself a fresh cold glass of beer. I did not finish drinking the beer. And I didn't beat myself up about not drinking it either.

Saturday, June 09, 2007

8 year old gets molested by girl and then the law fucks him over by charging him with a crime

It's not everyday that you hear that an 8 year old gets charged with a sex crime.

8-Year-Old Charged For Sexual Conduct With Sitter.

But what makes this "crime" crazy is the 14 year old female babysitter is the molester.

"A mother is upset after a 14-year-old babysitter engaged in sexual conduct with her eight-year-old boy, and the eight-year-old was charged with lewd conduct. "

You heard that right, because the victim was a boy HE gets charged with a crime.

"The sexual conduct occurred during a game of “truth or dare” while the boy was being watched by the babysitter.Prosecutors say that, while the babysitter initiated the contact, the young boy was a willing participant."

I'm not certain who to induct into the Hall of Fame so I guess I will induct both of these kids. Here is more good news for both I guess:

"The district attorney’s office confirmed the charges had been made, and that they had been dropped. Other than that, they wouldn’t comment. The Division of Child and Family Services also declined to comment."

I will comment on the picture I included for this post. It turns out there is a running epidemic of people placing their children in microwave and conventional ovens.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

I put laundry in 8 hours ago

Random thought from one part of my brain to the other just popped in my head, "You have a load of whites in the washer. You might want to put them in the dryer."

Thanks, other-part-of-my-brain.

"Your welcome."

Your welcome? Really? You're going to take credit for remembering the load of laundry put in 8 hours ago? 8 hours ago? That load of laundry is now quite possibly stank full of mildew. If it's not mildew then we are on the cusp of mildew. The verge of mildew. You don't remember 8 hours ago and now all of a sudden you flash this little thought out of the blue while I am sitting here typing away in my black "wear the shirt and get a free bag of popcorn" Harkins t-shirt and you are going to take the thank you?

Maybe other side of the brain would like to change the subject. Do I remember the girl at the theater today? The girl that gave me the pity stare. Just because I was sitting by myself against the wall waiting for the movie Knocked Up to start. She looked at me funny because I was wearing the Harkins shirt and had my free bag of popcorn.

Why does this shirt need boobies?

Do I remember how she watched as my popcorn fell all over the place? And how she continued to stare as I balanced my dollar Souvenir cups, popcorn and candy, as I sank to my knees awaiting the opening call all by myself? Like I was screaming at her "I love me some movies. I love free popcorn and dollar sodas!!!"

She's going to feel sorry for me? She was having her fat friend night out on the town. Thursday is a good day to hang out with your fat friends. Not Friday. Friday is for getting laid.

Now she is asking herself why I didn't have any fat friends like her to hang out with on Thursday. Or why some cool guy hasn't made me his fat friend to hang with when he needs to get away from the girlfriend. Stop the pity stare, bitch. I will cut you, as soon as I put down my ziplock bag of M&M's. I can't pay theater candy prices.

Now that the movie is over, I can't stop staring at the hot girl with the goofy boyfriend on the way out of the theater. I run a bit to catch up with her badonga bong ass when it slips out of view. I don't know how much that guy pays for you, but whatever it is it's worth it. Badonga-Badonga Ass has chemistry with this guy. She looks likes she wants to be with him. Not at all like the Heigl chick when she made out with my man Seth.

"Do you know what the difference is between you and the Seth Character?" I am going to get asked this a lot. "Nope." I reply.

"You are 11 years older than him."

Fuck me.

Friday, June 01, 2007

Pray I get the Dunkin Donuts Job

I spent a good part of the day looking for a job today. Some of you look for jobs the old fashioned way. You look in the paper, go to an employment agency or you ask a friend about job openings.

Well I am not like that. I live in the Ghetto. Like most of the Circle K's around me.

ME: "Are you guys hiring? I'd like to get an application if I could."

Clerk of the store: "Um..we ain't got applications...just a forms to write your name and number down."

Me: "OK. So could I get that?"

Clerk: "Oh. No, we ain't got any of those either. Here, just take a sheet of paper and write your name down."

I went to a couple of convenience stores and donut shops. At all three stores the same thing happened. Exact same thing at the local Dunkin Donuts. Only there the clerk was cross-eyed.

"Are you sure you want to work here?" Asked the cross-eyes donut seller. He looked me up and down with his good eye. His look seemed to say, you look a little white and shiny to take this job, you ain't gonna stay long. "If so just write your name on this receipt tape and I will pin it on the bosses door."

I regret placing a real phone number down. "Why?" Asked my roommate. "Are you worried he won't give your number to the store manager? I bet if you brought a resume to the store you'd get the job."

The last thing I need to get a job there is a resume. No way they hire anyone with a resume.Resumes are reserved for white collar jobs and bankers. And the only thing this donut guy knows about bankers is that if play Monopoly don't be the banker. Bankers have to count money. And that provides your friends plenty of targets to ridicule your math skillz. Unless you want to cheat at monopoly by hiding those orange colored 500 dollar bills under your side of the board when no one is looking.

My roommate is convinced I am wrong. But I know better. Dirty, cross-eyed, retarded, wipes sweat on clothes, forget to wash? That's what gets you hired, in the Ghetto. Also I don't have anything mean to say about the corporate cunt at a local "pizza" other than you still work at a pizza place. Just because you dress like Stacy from What Not to Wear doesn't give you the right to frown down to the ugly people. You are not fooling anyone with that corporate gear. All that said I still think you are cute. And I like peperoni on my pizza. So don't get pissy and remember me in August "when you start hiring."