Sunday, January 27, 2008
I wasn't gonna stay and help out. I was tired of working and not in the mood to be nice. But then I remembered that I should have been fired by now, so I decided to help out after all.
I keep making mistakes on taking WIC checks. I got written up for it a while ago. We get written up for any mistake we make. For instance, if I were to make a mistake like giving you too much change, or I forget to "greet you," I can get written up. I have hundreds of customers a day, so I literally have hundreds of opportunities to fuck up everyday.
After a second write up you can get fired. Thing is, they have no intention of firing me. If they did every cashier and worker at this store would be looking for a job right now. Imagine at your work if you could get fired for forgetting to turn you computer off, or something silly like that. I don't know what people with real jobs do or how they could make a trivial mistake. But the truth is we all make mistakes.
The only reason we get written up is because management assumes that we will eventually try to file an unemployment claim. It's an understandable position for them to take. I mean with unemployment benefits, food stamps, and free health care I'd actually make more money if I got fired.
You'd be paranoid too if you paid such crappy hourly rates and forced your employees to wait so long for their benefits to kick in. Frankly, Walmart probably pays better than the company I work for. So I guess Walmart wins. And I lose again. At least now I am no longer paranoid about getting fired. It seems they have no intention of sticking to their guns, I have not had my hours reduced, or been placed on probation, or anything like that.
Nobody has really threatened my since my first couple of write ups. I think that they won't because they know that I will always stay late for them. Management only schedules cashiers for 30 hours a week. I need to work at least 40 hours just to break the 250 dollar mark, and that's only because I claim except on my taxes.
Uncle Sam wants to give me a three hundred dollar tax rebate I have to repay. D-Cup knows that George Bush doesn't like poor people. I won't make enough money to cover my income tax bill this year. And now he wants to give me three hundred more of it back. That's a weeks salary. How the hell am I supposed to pay that back? I can't. Unless I get a second job. Maybe that's what George really wants poor people to do. Take that second or third job they plan on stealing away from the immigrants in Arizona, and give them to us, the working poor.
I think we all know how much I love working in the first place. I can't stomach the idea of getting a second job. Christ, this is only the second job I have had for more than three months in the past 5 years.
None of the preceding has anything to do with the fact that I spent my day off yesterday completely unproductively mired in government bureaucracy.
I took the bus to the DMV. Only the bus route has been changed because of road construction. Only know one felt the need to tell the bus passengers this. So I get jerked around by the meanderings of a crazy bus driver. Eventually I figure out which route and where I have to stand to catch the right bus, but now I am 2 hours behind schedule to get my drivers license back.
I wait in line for just a second and I catch what think is going to be a break. The line taker creates a special line for folks getting permits and licenses who have their paperwork filled out already. Yeah me! I jump way ahead in line and it will be just a few minutes before I am called over to the DMV agent. Just as my number is called though the manager of the DMV stands up and announces that the computer system is down. They can't make licenses. They can't even look up your record in the system.
Great. I just ask my question anyway. I go up to the agent and ask if I need to get my SR 22 insurance before I can get my license reinstated. She tells me "yes." So the trip was for naught. I thought I might need to get the insurance first, but I chose not to. So I am not really disappointed with her news. Now, you would normally assume that money is going to be the hardest part of getting SR-22. You'd be wrong.
A few weeks ago I lost my debit card, along with my state I.d. Because of that I haven't been using my bank account. Which I am sure is over drawn anyway. I can't write a check or pay by check/debit over the phone and I can't fix my account because I need to get another i.d. I sound like some kind of retarded step-cousin or something. My mom wants to know if I am going to deposit my birthday money. Very soon, mommy. I promise.
I feel like a 5 year old who was told not to touch his Aunt's favorite vase, and did it anyway. I am not quite certain how an almost intelligent 37 year old person puts himself in these kinds of situations. I guess I am just Ghetto like that. I blame my Mom. My mom never got a drivers permit until I was 20. So maybe it's just genetics. Two generation of idiots is enough. That's why I only spill my seed into my blanket and never in a real women.
Women don't want my seed. All of my girlfriends are pregnant, have gotten pregnant, or will be pregnant by someone else. Plenty of them have done so while we've been dating. They insist that I wear a condom, but allow some of the skeeziest dudes to go all bareback in them. I guess they just get off on rubbing their big fat bellies while they straddle me. All the time thinking what a genetic loser I am, and hoping I will stick around long enough until the WIC checks kick in. Then they can dump my ass and put the moves on the guy who rides a skateboard to work. "At least he's athletic." Bitches can smell Darwinian fitness, and the world is tuff and set against me.
That's very unfortunate, as you all know, I have something of a lactation fetish, which I why I totally still love Britney Spears. Britney and I have a lot in common. Half the stuff she does, I think, "I can see why." I am not quite certain why the world is so sure that Britney is really all that crazy. If you think about all the crazy shit you've done in your life, and then it magically got reported in the paper or magazines like the Sun or Star, then I think we'd all think your a crazy little pony too.
And am I wrong? Is Britney's body coming back a bit? Lately she's been into wearing strapless and see through tops. Her tits are bigger that when she was a dream queen. And sure they sag a little, but they'd look good if she wore a bra. And from I can tell she still looks good in jeans. That's better than I can say for most of my girlfriends. Most of whom only look better in those mirrors that say objects are larger than they appear.
I am not calling most of my girlfriends fat. They aren't really fat, by American standards. Mostly they are just pregnant with their ex-boyfriends sperm, or their soon to be new boyfriend's spawn. I usually figure this out as soon as they get around to telling me that the reason we haven't had sex in 3 months is really that only I haven't been getting the sex for the past three months.
Ok. I am going to pause here because I am really craving some sunflower seeds. It's 1:32 am and I need to get my ass to Circle K before the homeless people take up spots on all the corners of the parking lot, and I have to worry that one of those asshole homeless vets is going to steal the bike. I don't care what Bill O' Reilly says about all the benefits "unemployed" vets get. One of those benefits is not taking my only mode of transportation.
I just got back from the store. I got my sunflower seeds, and I bought a giant 24 pack of coke. I am set. So sit back and enjoy. If you've made it this far you must enjoy hearing that inner voice of mine. Because this is exactly the way it talks to me all day long. Only I don' t have a voice recorder or a type writer with me at all times.
I warned you about the store I got my seeds from. And with some good reason. As I made my way up the handicap ramp on the bike I spot 3 black homeless people blocking my path. Now don't get me wrong. I've got nothing wrong with black people. I got nothing wrong with homeless people. But you combine the two after 2am and this slow fat white boy with less upper body strenght than the average 17 year old female carryout is going to be a bit intimidated.
I place my bike against the wall and I notice an old man talking to a woman in a black leather skirt and long leather coat. Then I realize the old man isn't talking to women. He's talking to a prostitute. She tells him to buy some beer and they can go back to her place. "No one is home right now." He tells her that he's rented a hotel room for the night. The hooker is quite pleased with her john.
She looks OK for a hooker. She's about 45, blond and thin. She has on high heels and she's painted her toes a bright "hooker" red. Her look says she understands something about fashion, but she get something wrong the way a person who spends most of her nights on the street would get it wrong. Her look says high fashion call girl if by high fashion call girl you mean a 26 dollar motel 6 and a 5 dollar bottle of wine and a 100 dollar a night hooker. There is too much leather going on here. Her hair is stringy and she has that wet hair-sprayed look that is all the rage in the trailer park.
On some young girls before they get knocked up, the wet look is ok. And I guess at one time or another every Mexican woman under the age of 50 has used the look, so maybe it's cultural bias of mine, but I just don't think spraying your hair stringy says "classy." Even if you pair it with nice footwear.
I lug the 24 pack on the middle of the bike frame. It's awkward and I have to shove the sunflower seeds into my front jacket pocket. I ride back home against traffic with my vision obscured by my hood. It keeps falling down over my eyes, and I can't see where I am going. My gloves have a yellow glow to them which I now recognize as the residue from boxes of frozen food. I should have taken the advice of my superiors and used company gloves.
Half way home I hear the pluck of the Frito-lay brand sunflower seeds falling onto the wet pavement. Shit. Now I need to circumnavigate back towards them. As I turn the bike around I feel something give. I think it's one of the muscles that supports my balls. I feel a pain from my thigh to my member. I reach down to pick up the bag of seeds, but I am too lazy too exit from the bike. I squash my balls like I am trying out for a cameo on America's Funniest Videos. "ahh. Fuck me mc butter."
So now I am back and I am just typing it what you just read and what just happened. I still haven't opened my back of seeds and I need to pee. Also I want another coke, but I think caffeine at this point will mean another restless sleep for me. I do have sprite 24 pack in the fridge and I will probably go get one.
Who knew I wrote porn trailers?
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
I'm feeling repressed anger. My blood pressure is high. My face is blotchy. I'm having bouts of bi-polar. I'm taking charge of the universe.
She tries to start trouble at a thanksgiving after meal family football game by inviting daydreams ex-boyfriend. I set up ex-boyfriend by passing on a chance to intercept a pass sailing towards him. Instead I brace myself and let him reach out to catch the ball. I stick an expertly placed elbow into his forehead and he drops like limp biscuit. The ball deflects upward and I catch it and run for an uncontested touchdown. Nobody tries to tackle me because everyone is so concerned about Ex-b/f. He stays three days in the hospital just to get sympathy from daydream.
So me and bitchy best friend have words in a bagel shop. And I call her a cunt. And she tells me that my g/f has cheated on me. Then she tells me she is "turned on" and wants to have sex with me. I tell her she just want me to say "yes" so she can run back to Daydream girlfriend and tell her "told ya so."
Bitchy best friend knocks on the door in a trench coat and tells me she is going to rape me and she does. Daydream girlfriend calls me afterwards and tells me, "she wants to get back with me."
I've got to do dishes though. I should have taken M.'s invitation to dress up in a naughty french maid's outfit for me and clean my house for 10 dollars and hour. I can afford it because my wallet is fat. 275 dollars fat. I'll be eating Manwhiches tonight. I've got a bottle of Oil of Olay for my face. Brand names, not the no-name stuff. Because you suckers can't play poker. I check raised you on the river. And you never saw it coming. But I can't spend my money on M's cleaning services, and anyway J. has asked me to stop picturing M in the French Maid outfit. So I'll save my money. I need to buy SR/22 insurance. Your government has agreed to reinstate my driving privileges. Watch out bums. I am coming after your ass.
Today at work people stink worse than me. I smell the Diaper lady all the way at the other end of the register. Somebody needs a change I think.
I have to work Customer service today. This is the second day in a row. They weren't busy early in the day, but I had 10 Western Unions before 6 pm. After 3 or 4 Western Unions you start hating the human race. After 6, you question your sanity for working. After 10 you just drift off in a psychotic state. The person at the keyboard types information and Hershel Walker like, your real personality shakes and marvels at how the typist keeps typing. "That guy is crazy." Your real personality says. "Which one of us is the real one?" Asks the the other personality.
Heck if I know.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
I get to describe this hug. But the description has to be edgy. Otherwise L. says she isn't going to read my blog anymore. I tell L. that my blog isn't "edgy" anymore because she has forbidden me to blog about the hugs she gives me at work. I ask L if we can post pics of her on my blog. I figure a pic of her hugging me will prove to all of you out there that I am not gay, or a pedophile. Or at least not gay. But she rebukes me, sighting "possible stalkers" as the reason she won't be featured on the blog. I tell her if we charge guys $1.00 to get a cyber hug from her, she could make enough money to stop asking me for quarters everyday. No dice again.
Now that I'm allowed to blog about the hugs that L. gives me again, I still have to worry that my stepsister will read my blog, now that I looked her up on myspace. I am pretty sure she's gonna have a cow over how I depicted our childhood.
Even if sis never finds the blog, I can't imagine she reads, I still have to worry what Card Sharks's g/f thinks of me. At the Five and Diner I mention that I went to the see a movie on my day off yesterday. He asks which one. I tell him Juno. He vomits ketchup across the table at me. "You really like teen girls, don't you? That's not just an act." He can barely control the laughter. I calmly reply that the movie has made like 65 million dollars, so I am hardly the only person to see the film and that it has gotten rave reviews. "Plus" I add. "It's not like I watch Nickelodeon or TIVO Zoey 101 or something creepy like that. "You watch Hannah Montana." Counters Card Shark "I don't watch entire episodes of Hannah, I just flick it on to see if she is wearing a short skirt."
L. hates Juno and thought it was over-hyped. I agree that it was much too hyped but I still thought it was a good movie. But you can totally tell the female character was written by a dude. A 16 year old girl who loves punk music and knows more about old horror/slasher films that the prospective 36 father is completely ludicrous. Not to mention that Jason Bateman as the adopt a dad turns in a fine performance as the ass grabbing, not-quite-sure-I-am-ready-to-be- a-dad, 30 something that all men my age truly are.
It turns out though that I may have been a bit to tough on the writers of Juno. The drudge report is highlighting the case of a 13 year old girl who was arrested for sexually assaulting a couple of boys on her bus route.
There is not much to the story as one of the 311 commenters on the web points out "My problem with this whole incident, IS, what in the world, ever possessed the Reporter, and then the Editor, of this RAG. to print this story, in the first place. There are FEW FACTS, no names, little Information, and not likely to get more, in the future."
Judging by the fact that this story with no facts, pictures or information can spark 311 comments, it's no wonder that Drudge has it blasted on his front page. Kudos to the girl for her induction into the Jail Bait hall of Fame.
And from Gawker, another Hall of Fame candidate ... Creepy Celebrity stalker website narrates
HS: Taylor Momsen, aka Jenny from (cult show) Gossip Girl, wearing a very short skirt... I noticed her because she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, showing her underwear to all... on the 1 train, heading uptown. Got off at Lincoln Center, looked lost."
I think this guy is full of shit. First off I don't see any underwear, and I have photoshop technology. And sometimes I think girls just cross their legs because of poor circulation. Poor girl probably has juvenile diabetes. I'm sure her doctors have warned her that wearing underwear causes loss of circulation, and not crossing her legs in public will mean amputation of those legs and toes for sure. Which would seriously lower her hottness factor by a shade or two. Excepting for certain really perverted fetish sites.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
God wants you to jack off, because puking on a fat chicks is mean, and anyways that's what I get to do.
I think it all began after I stopped masturbating. It's been 2 days now. And suddenly all you fat bitches look good again. As good as fat bitches look, I might be gay. I watched Brokeback Mountain on HBO by myself last night and cried at all the sad parts. And there was lots of sad parts in this movie. The saddest thing about the movie is the director Ang Lee's vision of romance and sex. Ang thinks Americans idea of homo's sex is the horseplay of 7 year old boys. Later in the movie I guess Lee feels bad about his depiction of gay sex, so he makes sure that the hetero sex is just as "horsey" as his gay sex scenes.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
But someone else at work does. He is the director of write ups. And he had many write ups for me and my pals. I think the director of write ups will have 20 or so "counselings" today. The counselings are warnings printed out on computer paper that we must sign without reading. First comes the warning , then comes the write up, and then suspension, and finally termination.
The counselings are purely bogus. They are used to show "just cause" for any firing made. That way the store can deny any unemployment claim they get. The director makes no attempt ensure the accuracy of his records. I get written up for days that I am "tardy" even though there where days when I was asked by management to make a change to my schedule. I point this out to my boss. Who at first denies my accusations but then he remembered that he was the supervisor who asked me to make the change. "Well, but still" is all the director of write ups can offer as excuse.
I politely ask if now the timekeeper will be written up for making a mistake, as I was just given another write up because of a similiar clerical error I made. I get no firm commitment from the Fuhrer. But just like Heidegger I have no problem ratting out Husserl. I will bar him from the university, and laugh at his decline in health, and even after the Allies have retaken Freiberg, I will suffer no harm. Heidegger went on teaching, and I will go on checking out your groceries, and you, the good people of the world will be no wiser.
My Existential Angst is acting up today. Maybe it's because I drank a tall 32 ounce can of Foster beer last night. My liver doesn't process alcohol anymore, so I get depressed and moody easily.
On the bike ride home from work I grapple with Truth. Because Heidegger got a few things right. Like nothing matters. If a starving Ethiopian could be granted reprieve, for just a moment from the pain and hunger and futility of his life, he would agree. The first thing he would do is look around at all the suffering he has done and ask, why. And he would quickly come to the conclusion that the study Heidegger did for us.
There is no reason. There is no choice. We are no more defined by our choices, than we are the products of our birth. (contingency.) Do not worry about living the authentic life. There are no authentic lives to live. There is no leap of faith to make. There is only confrontation with the abyss. And when you look into the pit, to paraphrase, the pit looks back. And all we find in the pit is anguish. And in anguish we recognize the absurdity of it all.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
i miss sleep, then sleep too much, but the sleep is just the sleep of tossing and turning, of staring at the alarm, wishing deep sleep was real, reading science stories that say no sleep makes me fat, and boy am i fat...
In life and at work I'm constantly being out performed by underachieving teenagers. I've never had a job that a high school dropout couldn't get, so you wouldn't think being outperformed by a talented teen would bug me, but I'm a petty man.
At work my back hurts again. I gobble down pain pills and my manager glares at me. "I shouldn't drink while I work" my manager reminds me and "I'm not smiling at customers," but that's because I can't fake cheer. A cripple comes through my line in a wheel chair. A strong black man who asks me how I am doing. And something makes me want to tell him. Maybe it was his eyes. But I tell him ok. But he sees right through me. I tell him my back hurts. He says he could tell. He has back pain too. And he tells me he understands. I tell him I am sure my back can't hurt as bad as his. He says cut the shit. When your back hurts it hurts.
I wish I was half as brave as this black man seated in the chair 3 feet below me. I wished I was half as kind as he is. To be able to reach out and comfort strangers. Where do you go to get a soul?
I overhear a poor mother talking to her child. She comes through my line with food stamps and her kid coughs and hacks away at me while I ring up her Ramen soups. Mom tells me that you can die from Ramen poisoning. Something about how Ramen doesn't have the necessary nutrients and vitamins, that poor people and college students need to be careful not to rely on Ramen as a staple.
I guess Dimetapp and cough drops aren't covered by WIC or Food Stamps because I 'm asked to void them off. She doesn't have enough money. I look over at the kid. Now the kid is begging for just the cough drops in a husky broken voice, "but Momma I really need the cough drops." But momma needed her wine and momma needed cookies, and momma needs you to keep quiet "cuz your embarrassing me."
Momma pleads with me through her eyes to get this transaction over with quickly. I'd like to buy the kid some cough syrup a little voice in me says, but instead I just tear out the receipt and hand it over to momma and mumble something about her savings from her value card. And I take mommas advice seriously. I add it to the list of things to avoid eating if stranded in the wild. Rabbits and Ramen soup will get you killed if that's all you eat. I join this bit of wisdom to life experience; sometimes little girls get to cough and sometimes little girls get to eat.