Crazy (noun) 1 Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results 2 Internet dating

Crazy (noun) 1 Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results 2 Internet dating

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Interpret THIS Freud, You German Prick!

I had the weirdest mid afternoon lazy fat ass nap dream today.

It was a great nap, don't get me wrong, but the dream I had was weird and vivid. It was one of those naps where you fall asleep with the window open, a cool breeze blowing in against your exposed feet while you're snuggled under the covers. The kind where a ray of sunshine falls across your arm and you can feel the warmth of its radiation giving you forearm cancer. You stretch out as much as your body will let you and then put one foot high up in the air as you lean in and start licking your balls…oh sorry, that’s what cat’s do. Anyway, the TV was on the History Channel with the volume low and, as is always the case when you fall asleep with the TV on, my dream incorporated things FROM the TV into itself.

I dreamt that my friends had set me up on a blind date with a woman who, as it turned out knew who I was and was super excited to meet me (who wouldn't be?). I, not knowing this girl at all, was scurrilous at the prospect of meeting another potential failure in my quest to find love. Plus, even in my DREAM I knew what kind of assholes my friends could be and was 65 percent sure I was being set up with a monster.

Dream jump to me and this girl (whom I have no recollection of in real life, I only mention this because usually you dream of an acquaintance or person you know) walking at night, down a derelict but wide concrete path in a wooded area. The trees around us seem to be decaying as the concrete crumbles beneath our feet. (The show 'Life after People' was on as I slept by the way) The woman I was with was blonde and wore glasses. She was thin, yet very average looking in her features. I didn't mind at all. She wore glasses and her hair was in a pony tail. She wore a blue coat with a pink scarf that seemed to dance on the wind that swirled around us. I don't know what we talked about, but I know I felt very comfortable with her. She talked of reading my blogs and gushed over how much she enjoyed them. It was a little off putting, but I remember thinking that if I could get past that...this one might work out.

Dream jump to the two of us in a very small hotel room with 60's style decor. An orange Brady Bunch bedspread and wood panel walls. I know it was a hotel room because there was one of those silver steel suitcase stands at the end of the bed. Not only was this an entirely different setting from where I was at before, but my mood had done a complete 360 within the dream as well. Where at first I felt flattery and a calm reserve at what might come, now I felt a desperation that wasn't being returned in the slightest.

The Television was on in the hotel room playing a commercial for some sort of workout equipment that you could order. We were there to fuck and I asked this girl to turn the TV off, to which she replied 'sssssshhhhhh'. She was WAY into this commercial. There was an old black rotary phone on one of the bed stands, and she picked up the receiver to call and buy the item that was on TV. When she put the receiver to her ear the bottom of her shirt lifted slightly revealing the smooth white skin of her hip just above her jeans. I know that's a small detail for a dream, but my god did it turn me on. I don't think women realize it, but sometimes the slightest thing about them can be SUCH a turn on.

I put my hand under her shirt and started rubbing her back. Without looking at me, she placatingly started to kiss me. I FELT the lack of effort in her make out and as we did, her teeth scraped against mine. She didn't even notice it was happening.

I KNEW that I should tell this chick to fuck off, but at the same time I was JUST so elated to be having any type of human contact that I couldn't bring myself to stop this.

Teeth scraping like fingernails on a chalkboard, the TV volume entirely too high whilst playing an infomercial of some kind, and a cute woman who was ENTIRELY disinterested in me.

I woke up and apparently my dog had stepped on the remote for the TV, turning the volume up, which is why that commercial was so deafeningly loud in my dream.

The SADDEST part of this dream is that when I groggily woke up I ACTUALLY uttered 'goddammit' under my breath. Ain't THAT some shit? When I'd rather be trapped in a dream that MOST people would consider a nightmare JUST because I'm kissing a girl, than deal with the reality of loneliness. I'm even pathetic in my fucking dreams!

Then my brain started working overtime to interpret what I'd just been through. What would Freud say?

Freud would probably say that based on the first part of my dream, I have a lot of hope when it comes to meeting a woman and that I'm a hopeless narcissist when it comes to my writing. But based on the second part of my dream he'd probably say that I feel that women don't pay attention to me. I feel that I'm always background noise to something else. I’m also probably feeling my age, hence the 60’s style hotel room (not that I’m from the 60’s, but what do dreams know?) Then he'd say that I want to fuck my mother; I’d agree with him up until the last part, but I don't you German prick.

I don’t know about you, but when I go to bed at night I WANT to have dreams like this. I TRY to have dreams like this; the reason being that these VIVID ass dreams are great EVEN when they’re horrible. It’s almost like being INSIDE of a movie. Fuck bluray, fuck 3d, you’re ACTUALLY there. But for some reason that I’m sure someone who gets paid ENTIRELY too much money has figured out, I only have dreams like that when I take a nap.

So, since I try to live on the verge of reality, just occasionally poking my head in to pay bills and walk my dog, I’m going to make a concerted effort to take more naps so I can, in effect, meet more women. Fuck reality based women anyway.

How would YOU interrupt that dream?

Monday, December 26, 2011

'Corporate Buffoonery' OR 'I Can't Masturbate with Sunburnt Palms'

(I started writing this in July and just finished it now, hence the summer time theme)
As I was driving home from work today, I about lost my GOT-damned mind. Did you ever start imagining that you have telekinetic powers while you’re behind the wheel? You start flicking your fingers at the car in front of you, imagining that you’re throwing it off the road and crushing the chick driver who’s on her cell phone, putting lipstick on in the rearview mirror while driving so slow that she gets lapped by a fucking bee, under the weight of her own vehicle? Or that you could wrap the stop light you’re stuck at around the tank topped Mexican riding a bike with a banana seat across the street while carrying a lamp that’s longer than a fire engine ladder like some medieval Tijuana jouster? Or that you could simply make your car float up above all of the traffic and just drop derisive laughter and elephant shit out of your window on the mindless drones stuck in an endless Freudian loop of that Police song Synchronicity II? If there is a god, you can be sure that with the thoughts that come spewing out of MY noggin, he won’t be dishing out any super powers to me. You should hear what I’d do with invisibility or being able to tie my dick into a lasso.

As much fun as the downfall of civilized society through the use of my imaginary super powers may be, I know better than to start treating Harlem Avenue like my own personal demolition derby (mostly because I don’t have insurance…shhhh). I get angry in traffic, hell…everyone does, today however I was in rare form. I actually prayed to a god that I don’t believe in to make side mounted machine gun turrets and a silo of surface to Volvo missiles appear on my truck. So, why am I so fussy?

Therein lies my story.

As you all may well know, I work in the corporate retail equivalent of a cotton farm circa 1876. A few weeks ago, I was given praise by my plantation bosses for having a slightly better than mediocre month in sales for June. My reward for this fantastical feat of averageness? A fucking company picnic filled with other managers who have somewhat ok numbers to boast about. Having good sales in my company right now is like being the tallest midget.

I’ve been in the retail world for a long time, and I can tell you that the reward system at my current job is not only flawed…but biased. When I started, I was all gung ho because they would give out these great prizes to the winning managers. A new cell phone, an ACTUAL lunch, hell, sometimes they’d even give out vacations to Vegas or some place.

One of the first things I learned, however, is that the prizes weren’t based on merit…but location. If your store was in Cottage Grove? You were gonna make a shit load of money off the drug dealers buying ‘throw away’ phones for their crew. If your store was in Burbank? You were gonna make SHIT…because your only customers were either 131 year old men coming in to buy a 2 dollar fuse for their pace maker…or people from Cottage Grove coming in to steal phones. So, the same people would win month after month, and then they’d come up with some NEW idea to make it fair…but ‘fair’ wasn’t going to change your location…so the same people would still win.

Then my bosses would call me up with that jag off infomercial salesman pitch asking me if I was ‘onboard’ or ‘pulling for the team’ or some other douche bag corporate jargon. I’d say ‘you betcha!’, or ‘we’re all in’ because corporate dickhead is a second language for me at this point. What they were really doing was Pavlov’s dogging us.

I’ve always had this image in my head of a bunch of guys who peaked in high school sitting in high backed, leather Masterpiece Theatre chairs, in a smoky room filled with books they’ve never read, laughing at the stupidity of their management team before they went off to trip the dick fantastic with some waitress they were banging behind their wives back at Bennigans. Sometimes I really think that if we just rounded up every one in the corporate world two levels above me and threw them in an oven…I could sleep just a little better at night.

So, since the economy has been flushed down the toilet like last nights Whitey’s and the retail bubble has burst…they now have this moronic ‘point system’. The way this piece of upper management brilliance works is that you are awarded points when they pull their heads out of their asses far enough to see that you’ve accomplished some pre ordained goal. Then, you use those points to buy things from a website.

First of all, this is their ONLY means of reward. Second? I don’t think I’ve seen anyone get points for about 2 years now. My district manager doesn’t even KNOW about this program and HE’S the mother fucker that has to dole this shit out.

Not that it matters anyway because your odds of winning a billion dollars at Trump Casino on a slot machine while being blown by Lindsey Lohan are better than you ever earning enough points to buy any of the stupid shit that you’d have to be a nitwit to want any fucking way. I kid you not…I once won 5000 points and when I went on the website to ‘cash in’ as it were? A fucking spatula was 800,000 points, a case of Lou’s ‘Maybe Meat’ Tenderloin steaks? A million and a half points. And the best? A fucking pool table that was a giggidybazilliondy points.

The point is that you’d have to ‘Louis and Clark’ your way to the fountain of youth, OR become a fucking vampire (a cool ‘True Blood’ vampire, NOT one of those lame ass, sparkly, incestual, pedophile ‘Twilight’ vampires) in order to live a long enough lifespan  to earn the  points needed for that ‘Chumley’ from Tennessee Tuxedo shot glass. Which means that A.) These mother fuckers KNOW you can’t win, and B.) Once again, they regard us as the employee version of a medieval ‘town idiot’ who could never hope to outwit their dastardly plans. Fucking cartoon super villains…every one of them.

Well, I stopped pandering to their idea of a reward system a long time ago and I just do a good job for one simple reason…bonus. That’s all I want. I’ll hit all their numbers; I’ll jump through all their hoops, just to get that bonus. That is my one and only motivation and I bust my ass for that bonus every month.

So when my boss called me up and told me that I won an extra day off? Well, that’s a good incentive too. Then he told me that I had to take a SPECIFIC day off…to go to this company picnic. I told him that I wasn’t going to do that, to which he told me it was ‘mandatory’ (another great fucking corporate word…where outside of slavery and Nazi Germany has anyone used the word ‘mandatory’?).

I really did NOT want to go to this picnic. My reasons were many and obvious but let’s just state them anyway. First of all, I know I work in retail…but I fucking hate people. I ESPECIALLY hate other retail people. Not ALL of them to be sure, there are many of these people that I consider my friends, but believe me, THEY know who the fuck I’m talking about. They’re the ones that actually WANT to go to this fucking picnic. They’re always SO fucking happy to kiss whoever’s ass happens to pass by them wearing a lanyard that says ‘I’m your boss asshole’. Secondly? It’s fucking JULY…and they want me to be out of doors. Look, I don’t like it outside…It’s hot and it frightens me. If I could just hop in a pneumatic tube to get to and from work without leaving my apartment, I would. (Oh…AND if I could blow myself…I occasionally have to go outside to get pussy). THIRDLY, when I go, I’m told I HAVE to participate in sports. Corporate ‘team building’ bullshit. Think of a forced labor camp in Nazi Germany, only this is ‘forced exercise’. I figure there will be about 200 people at this thing. Granted, the odds of me hooking up with any kind of ass are 2% at best. But you put a fucking baseball mit in my hand? Or make me play volleyball? My chances skid down to a negative 12%. If they had a contest that involves me sitting on a couch eating hot dogs and watching porno? I’d fucking DOMINATE that sport. I’d have a fucking Olympic gold medal at that shit. But making me play sports so that my corporate bosses can feel they’ve done some ‘team building’ exercises, isn’t going to fly. I didn’t feel the need to impress the thick necked jocks in high school and I DON’T feel the need to do it now. And lastly, and the biggest reason I didn’t want to go…because it’s a fucking hour and a half away in Indiana.

I’m not racist…but I hold a special place of hatred in my heart for Hoosiers (my friends are excluded of course, plus the ones that live there now weren’t BORN there so they get a pass). I’ve actually petitioned the Ku Klux Klan to STOP hating black people, Jewish people, and Catholics and direct that hatred towards a state that we can ALL get behind hating. Indiana is a toothless Wal-Mart subculture that’s so dumb they can’t even come to a general consensus on the fucking ‘time zone’ issue that the rest of America figured out while people still wore powdered wigs. No shit, Indiana has like 17 different time zones in it. My friends that live there said that the reason they moved there is because housing is cheaper…yeah I’ll sell you a piece of dogshit between two pieces of bread and tell you it’s cheaper than a big Mac too, you gonna buy that? This place is a state sized trailer park. These people are so racist, homophobic, and such religious zealots that they make Alabama in the 1950’s look like Woodstock. Indiana is the hidden south, and it’s hiding in plain sight.

I got kicked out of the state of Indiana once for ‘Don Rickling’ the crowd in a camp ground at an Elvis Impersonator concert. I called them a bunch of human double wides and said that the people in Indiana are so fat that anything under 300 pounds doesn’t even trip the automatic door at Wal-Mart’s there. Then I asked the crowd when they thought the police in Indiana would catch the ‘sleeve thief’ that stole the arms off all of their ‘Fog hat’ concert shirts, or the ‘good taste bandit’ that broke into all their homes and put blankets with pictures of wolves on their walls or statues of eagles in every room. Next thing I know, I’m being rushed by a wall of flannel screaming ‘faggot’ and ‘nigger lover’, for some reason, and the cops are rushing me off stage like Jim Morrison after whipping his dick out in Detroit. My I.Q. is a bowling score…their collective I.Q. is a fucking shoe size.   

So going to this picnic is NOT so much an invitation…as it is an imposition.

About a week before the big day, I invite my fellow manager Ruthy to do a ride-a-long with me out to Indiana so I have a witness if the cops try to ‘disappear’ me. She agrees and frankly I’m not that surprised. After all…I’m kind of a big deal. We’ve been rapping for a few weeks now, and to be honest with you, I’ve KNOWN Ruthy for about 5 years and I’ve always said that she is the ONLY attractive manager in my company. So it was only a matter of time before I made an awkward pass at her like a teenager fumbling for his first bit of tit in the backseat of his dad’s Ford Focus (since I'm trying to get a book deal, I have to show I can whore myself out to product placement, right?)

I am such a moron too, you’d think at this point in my life I’d be aware of the ‘consequences’ of sleeping with NOT ONLY a younger woman…but one who has the same boss as me AND has the ability to tell my co-workers the various shapes and colors of my pennis. I haven’t had a GOOD relationship with a woman since fucking Clinton was in office and  I KNOW that if things don’t work out she’s going to tattle on me because I haven’t shown up for work on time in 4 years and that I take longer lunches than Paul Prudholmme during Mardi gras. I also know that if it doesn’t work out, at my next manager meeting people will be putting their pinkies up in the air and laughing with each other RIGHT in front of me, like I don’t know they’re talking about my dick. Fucking high school all over again. But no, I’m such an idiot all I can think is: ‘heh-heh, uhhhh…hehehehehh…I’m gonna get some pussy’.

 So the big day comes, and I’m dreading it the same way an 18 year old chick dreads her first trip to the abortion clinic. I get up at 5am because I have to GET to my store super early. I have to do all the paperwork still, I have to council my employees because frankly when I’m not there? They are as productive as the fuckers who’ve been trying to find an MS cure for Jerry's Kids since 1910. We have to leave by 830 AM in order to get there by 10 AM.

For some reason that I cannot fathom because some deep recess of my mind made this decision FOR me…I wore ALL red. I mean ALL red. Red t-shirt, red shorts, red tennies. I looked like the fucking Kool-Aid guy had sent in all his Marlboro points. After the sunburn had brightened my skin to a healthy ‘hot coal’ glow…I looked more like a giant hemorrhoid. It was either THAT or go all blue. See, I don’t go outside a lot so I have limited ‘summer wear’. If I went with the BLUE t-shirt, the BLUE shorts, and the BLUE tennis? I would have looked like a big ass blueberry. At the end of the day? A fucking bruise.

So, Ruthy shows up, I grab my map quest printout and off we go. We talk the whole way there. There are no uncomfortable silences. There are no awkward pauses. The whole time we just have this awesome conversation. We’re making fun of people, we’re sharing our sexual secrets, and we’re getting along really well, so MUCH so…that we miss the fucking exit I needed to get to our destination. And because I’m SO engrossed in listening to this interesting woman, I don’t even realize it for 30 miles. When we finally DO break out a GPS, it tells us that we’ve driven 50 miles out of our way and that it will take us an hour and fifteen minutes to get there. So now I have to call my boss and tell him we’re going to be very late because it’s ALREADY 9:55. He bitches me out for a good ten minutes until I can’t take it anymore and I tell him my reception isn’t very good ‘click’.

Finally we arrive at this wooded wonderland called the ‘Deeply Imbedded Tick Forest Preserve’ and we have to sign in at a ‘gate’. The woman who comes out of the gate house is so ugly that I actually made an ‘ew’ face when she approached my car. I haven’t made an ‘ew’ face since I was in 4th grade when one of the kids in my class shit himself so much that it ran out of the bottom of his pants and the teacher tripped while chasing after him landing in the dookey trail he was leaving in his wake.  I WAS, however, glad to see that we’ve become so politically correct and tolerant in this country that we’ll even hire Orcs from Mordor now that the one ring is gone.

Her face was COVERED in welts like she dove, head first, into a bee hive. Her hair was in some kind of a ridiculous swirl on top of her head like she just stood underneath a cotton candy machine, and the left side of her body was covered in a birth mark so big that at first I thought she was being attacked by a giant leech. I’m pretty sure that she was her own aunt. WELCOME TO INDIANA!

 We drive on past this cave troll and approach the parking area. I’m already dreading this day because from where we park I can see miles in every direction and I STILL can’t see 200 of my fellow employee’s. We head off in the direction that they are supposed to be with two Sherpa’s and a fucking pack mule. 45 minutes later I can make them out like a wavy mirage in a fucking desert. It’s 108 degrees outside and I’m schlepping across the surface of the sun as a REWARD for doing a good job.

Look man, I’m fucking fat ok? There’s ONE truth in life that I know…fat people and heat don’t mix. This is how strange smells and rashes appear on a human body. I’m fucking MISERABLE in that kind of heat. I’ve already developed a line of ass sweat that can be seen on my shorts, and my head is pounding from the 4 gallons of moisture my body has poured out of itself on this fucking trek through the open plains of Douchiana. We finally arrive at 4 baseball diamonds where my fellow managers are engaged in playing softball. My boss approaches me with a puss on his face like he just smelled a wet fart and engages me in a bitch out session for being late.

He tells me to get in the outfield to which I reply ‘I don’t play softball because I’m not a Lesbian’. He tells me that I have to participate or there will be ‘consequences’ and I tell him that I hope he doesn’t accidentally stab himself in the eye with his pen as he’s writing me up, and I go sit under the tent they’ve erected for the boobs from corporate so they can feel like Roman emperors even though, from everything I’ve read in the business papers, the empire is about to crumble.

As I’m watching this game unfold, someone from the Tennessee Water Valley Authority comes up to me and hooks my body to an irrigation system because sweat is pouring off of me like I’m a human waterfall. Someone hits a pop fly ball in the game and because the sun is only 40 feet away from the baseball field it burns away in mid air. While I’m sitting there, I can see through the sweat on my eyeballs that my Regional manager is on the field telling everyone they suck and that only the winners get to eat lunch. His team was losing their game and I swear to god he made the game go 17 innings until they won.

I fucking HATE guys like that. He was like that asshole in high school that made people like me NOT want to play sports. You know the one, the captain that would pick YOU last. Not even pick you, but just make that ‘harrumph’ sound when it was his turn and you were the only one left. Oh my god, I swear that if I’m ever doing a book signing and this dickhead shows up with his ‘I know that guy’ and ‘I used to be his boss’ line like we didn’t have a domination/fear work relationship, I’m gonna pay 4 of the granola eating hippy kids from Barnes and Knoble to take him out back and beat the shit out of him with their Birkenstock sandals and acoustic guitars.

After we’re done waiting for his team to win like a bunch of cookies on a baking sheet waiting for the oven timer to go off, we schlep back to the foodery which is next to where I parked my car. During the hike 4 people melted like Nazis staring at the fucking Ark of the Covenant. When we arrive he graciously let HIS team get in line first and because they won? They got steaks.

I was pissed at first…until I got my hamburger. This thing was barely edible. It was like a charcoal briquette between two pieces of bread. Not to mention that because of the heat there were more fly’s swarming us than an Ethiopian village in one of those Sally Struthers commercials. At one point I was so exhausted I just sat there with a sad look on my face and my hands on my distended belly while flies crawled on my eyeballs.

After fifteen minutes of watching people shove food in their faces like Sloth from the Goonies eating Rocky Road Ice Cream, the Regional manager pops up and starts spewing corporate rhetoric like Hitler addressing the troops. He was so excited that at one point he actually DID break into German and was pounding his fist on his open hand. If he had a balcony I think he would have started a 4th Reich. The kiss ass throng of empty headed sales lemmings cheered and clapped with that plastic ‘Bob’s Big Boy’ smile plastered on their faces like they’d been injected with Thorazine during lunch. It was like watching Nicolson get all the nuts to chant ‘Baseball’ in Cookoo’s Nest.  Then it was one of our wireless sponsors turn to speak. We sat there listening to this moron prattle on about how great his company is and as much as companies don’t like for their employee’s to read? I was unimpressed because I had just read about how his wireless company was tanking and would probably be bought out by one of the GOOD ones during this fiscal year.

After THAT boob was done being impressed with the sound of his own voice we were told that despite the heat, we would retire to the volleyball field, and although the sand in said field had been converted to a bee hive by Mother Nature, we would endure because we have team spirit and company pride. Fuck you.

I get out to this volleyball field which is basically 2 nets in a giant sand trap and I notice that the sand is black and yellow from a distance. As I get closer, I realize that my boss wasn’t kidding. There is LITERALLY about 4 inches of bee’s covering the entire playing field. He says ‘Don’t worry, once you get in the sand they’ll fly away’. Yeah…chasing us to our deaths. Fuck that. I stand a good hundred feet away from the field because I'm allergic to bees. Not only was I a fat loser when I was growing up, but I had to carry around one of those anaphylactic shock kits in case I was stung. This thing was the reason that I would usually get my ass kicked by TWO bullies…one to stomp my face, and the other to grab my kit and run away with it screaming ‘you can have it back if you can catch me’.

I watched in amazement as these people dove head first into the Stinger Dunes. It was like I was in fucking Jonestown, this guy could have told them to dive into a volcano because our company is HOT, and they would have been taking off their shoes, and cannonballing to their dooms. You could see a black cloud of bee’s lift into the air and then form an arrow like in a cartoon pointed right at me. And it wasn’t ONLY bee’s, there were bugs so big that James Cameron was a few hundred feet away with a net from a fucking whaling barge catching them for Avatar 2: Electric Boogaloo. I saw two of these bugs fucking and they were so big I could actually see the guy bugs hairy bug balls slapping into the thorax of the lady bug. One flew up to me and ‘asked’ threateningly if he could ‘borrow’ a cigarette and I gave him the pack. Over at the playground I could see that a swarm had broken off from the main group, formed itself into a human body and was on the swing set. There was a manager standing behind them pushing and crying at the same time with bloody stinger filled palms. People were running around like they were in some horrible Benny Hill sketch. Not only that but because of the heat some of these bugs caught on fire and were dive bombing us like Kamikaze pilots during the battle of Midway. It felt like I was in one of the concentric circles of Dante’s Inferno.

That’s not even the fucked up part! These dumb asses were so intent on kissing ass they actually played volleyball in a swarm of bees. People were dropping from heat exhaustion and bee stings like someone had just cut their Achilles tendon. I FINALLY understood why the chick who greeted us at the gate looked the way she did. She wasn’t ugly from genetics…years of fear and panic from being chased by these super bugs had done that to her.

When my bosses got tired of having to send people to the hospital, they just rented out a portable M.A.S.H. unit and started jeeping people over to Trapper John.

You would think that Human Recourses would step in at some point and put a stop to this. After all, aren’t THEY supposed to be the voice of reason? People were miserable, tired, and panting with their tongues hanging out like a dog; because that was the only way they had left to sweat. Some even asked the human recourse director to put an end to this nightmare and tell the higher ups to let us go home as they were being carried around in golden chairs under tents by the losers of the volleyball games like Pharaohs watching Jews build pyramids. Our human resourse directors course of action?

She had fun corporate GAMES for us to play next! We had to get in lines and run 200 feet with a beach ball between our legs, throw the beach ball back to the next person, get in a hula hoop and hula, then run another 50 feet across hot coals, and chew the bark off of a fucking tree. The team who got the most bark off the tree won! SO FUCKING STUPID!

This chick is one of those broads with the crazy church eyes, who every fucking time you see her she’s pregnant because she HAS to have a kid every time she fucks. She has that glazed over ‘It’s a Small World’ theme attraction animatronics doll look on her fucking face and you just KNOW that she got the idea’s for these games from watching ‘The Office’ because she didn’t get that the writers were being sarcastic about how fucking stupid corporate games are.

It wasn’t until it was all over though, that I realized I had been in the corporate Thunder dome all day. 200 men enter…one man leaves. The winner of the company picnic was simply the guy who hadn’t died at the end of the day. And THAT pre-determined winner was my Regional manager…that’s right, the rest of us are dead. I’m writing this on Micro Hell Word. At least it’s cooler down here.

The drive home was thankfully easier than the drive there. Ruthy and I didn’t talk much, but I think I asked her on a date. Truthfully I THINK she said no, but I don’t remember. To be honest, I’m not good at picking up ‘hints’ anyway. She made fun of guys at work who hit on her, asked questions about ‘guys and girls’ being friends, and told me she doesn’t like meat, but prefers poultry. I don’t know what the fuck any of that means but I usually don’t know if a girl likes me until they have my dork in their hand.

I do remember us bitching about customers together. This is one thing in my life that I rarely do other than here. I try to leave work AT work, but I have to say that having someone in my field to bitch WITH instead of TO or AT gave me a supreme Woodrow Wilson. Unfortunately, I couldn’t masturbate when I got home because the palms of my hands were sunburned.

So, the day after the picnic, I woke up sore, sunburned, and crabby. Every moron with a technical problem more complicated than installing a new telescope lens on the Hubble while it’s in space came in to my store to unburden themselves of their intelligence at me, and to top it all off? My boss called me up to inform me of a great new contest to get into the AUGUST picnic. I wrote every word he said down, because in my mind he was telling me what to do NOT to get that pass. I wanted to ask him were you AT that fucking picnic? Do you think ANYONE wants to go to one in the HOTTEST fucking month of the year? What is WRONG with you people? Why don’t you have a picnic in a dimly lit, air conditioned bar somewhere?’

We had to sell 3 phones and 30 dollars in batteries. I looked down at our progress sheet for the day and we had 40 dollars in batteries, and 2 phones out. I looked over at one of my employees and she was talking to a customer about cell phones. This is how badly I DON’T want to go to this fucking picnic. I walked over and interrupted my employee, saying to the customer ‘I’m sorry ma’am, but it seems that our computer systems will be down for the rest of the day, so if you’d like to come back tomorrow, we’ll be happy to help you with your cellular needs’. That's right, I threw away a fucking 800 dollar sale because the way I see it? I’m now being PUNISHED for doing a good fucking job. FUCK YOU!

And THAT is why I was so fucking crabasstic on my drive home. Believe me, I know that I SOUND like a whiney bitch, but if I entertained you with that little bit of my daily nightmare? I can feel that much better about my job in the morning. I know that there is a finite amount of ‘work’ shit we ALL have to put up with and I’m thankful everyday that I’m not a coal miner in fucking China. But, one thing I got out of this was that you need to find someone with whom you have a common ground to bitch about your job too. You can’t keep that shit bottled up inside you like a shaken 2 liter of Dr. Pepper waiting to explode on the next fat asshole looking to guzzle it down as if it were only the size of a Nyquil cup. Let it out from time to time, customers piss everyone off. If you work in some kind of customer service industry and DON’T occasionally get frustrated by customers? YOU are about to go Dahmer on someone and need to seek psychiatric help my friend. 

And to the corporate buffoonery that permeates our service industry I say pay attention to your fucking staff from time to time. Quit being more self involved than Mariah Carrey at a Mirror Warehouse. Open your sphere of influence to the possibility of giving your employee’s an incentive that will actually motivate them. It’s 2010 for fuck’s sake and there are no 16 year old manager’s out there. Take your people to a titty bar, the fucking Japanese do it all the time and they seem to have a pretty good strangle hold on things. Get your heads out of your asses and start treating your employee’s like adults with ideas and individual thoughts. If you give us just THAT much respect and stop gallivanting around like we‘re having an audience with the pope instead of just some jag off with a tie, we’d be motivated enough to give this great country the service industry it fucking deserves. YOU aren’t the only person ON this corporate boat Magellan, you may be steering the ship, but last time I checked, you can’t navigate a squall AND hoist the main sail by yourself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go peel the dead skin off of my palms so I can masturbate furiously and release some of this pent up frustration I have left over from the punishment you inflicted on me for simply doing the job you asked of me. Fuck you.

Monday, December 12, 2011

'Area Fifty Fucking One' OR 'Dwight and the Space Gays'

I was watching the History Channel today at work…as I am wont to do, rather than deal with customers. They were airing a special on U.F.O’s and Area 51. I’ve seen a lot of History Channel shows that try to disguise a message of bullshit and cheap paranormal theories behind sloppy science, lazy methodology, and hammy fucking acting over the years. I’ve seen the movies, I’ve read the books on Roswell, and I even got my hatred of cats from watching ‘Alf’. Thousands of people have made suppositions, accusations, and come up with theories more convoluted than a stripper’s story of how she came up with her ‘stage’ name. These speculations are based on everything from UFO’s, government cover up’s, and that Bat kid from the cover The National Enquirer. I’ve never seen a U.F.O. myself, but like many of you out there, I’ve always been fascinated by the idea that we’re not alone.

That being said, I’m going to take a Switzerland-esque look at the folk lore, the supposed evidence, my OWN hypothesis, and the fucking facts as I see them. (Rod Sterling Voice) Please…allow me to piss all over your mind in another paranormal episode of: ‘Area Fifty Fucking One’.

When I think about it…I don’t really want to be around PEOPLE most of the fucking time because a majority of earthlings make about as much sense to me as an ape in a gorilla suit. So why would I want to hang out with some lanky grey alien who tries to make me understand how his spaceship bends time by talking to me through my mind? I can barely deal with the douche at the bar who tries to tell me about the time that the bass player from 'Nelson' spackled the dry wall in his den. I mean, WE’RE assholes, what makes these dip shits who try to convince you that aliens exist while living in the aluminum trailer on their Aunt Spidertit’s farm, surrounded by police scanners, ho-ho wrappers, Star Wars light saber replicas, and X-Files posters, think that aliens won’t be?

Most of these guys couldn’t draw you a picture of a vagina, but they seem to think that THEY are the human Rosetta stone when it comes to deciphering the intent of other worldly beings. I guarantee you that if you give them a personal trainer, a new wardrobe and an apartment that’s bigger than my dog’s asshole, when they start docking the skin boat in tuna-ville, they’ll shut the fuck up about aliens.

THAT’S why women have all the fucking power on this rock…because pussy makes us think clear. The crazier a guy seems, the farther away his last skinny dip in Vagina Lake was. They’ve made up imaginary friends to take the place of those who don’t want to be around them because they have the personality of a fucking roof shingle and they smell of bacon, sweat, and car trunk. These guys are fat slobs with boring lonely lives who have nothing better to do than sit around typing about made up shit that’s happened to them…holy shit…they’re ME!
And is it just me? Or does every fucking story you hear of aliens involve an anus at some point? What kind of unseen knowledge of the human condition do you think otherworldly beings can learn by shoving stuff in your ass? I don’t know much about sheep, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go spread open one’s rectum with a pair of salad tongs and shove a TiVo up its butt. Plus, if there IS something in the human body that’s SO fascinating…don’t you that aliens would have fucking found it by around the 50th person’s rectal exam? These little jag offs just keep doing it though. At SOME point you gotta figure that aliens are the universe’s high school football team, and they are now picking on us just because they fucking can. And more importantly, who wants aliens coming here any fucking way? Look what WE did to the American Indians, and that was just a nation, imagine the same thing but on a global scale. Some shitty green beast giving us all blankets with space small pox on them.

  As ‘neat’ as the idea of aliens sounds, and I DO ponder their existence when I’m taking a particularly long shit, I find the notion of them skipping through the galaxy for millennia and making a pit stop in Macon, Georgia, yanking ‘Dwight’ up in a pillar of light, and gleaning ANY information from him regarding human beings, somewhat retarded. DWIGHT is that guy that when you ask him how to get someplace because you’re lost, he tells you that he doesn’t live around that area. Even though when you ASK him, he’s sitting on his rickety porch wearing a straw hat and coveralls with one side unbuttoned, sucking on a fucking straw and strumming his banjo while his sister who’s hair style can only be described as ‘tufts’ creepily strokes his leg. Dwight is his own fucking uncle AND the county asshole.

But somehow, this is the guy that always seems to represent humanity. Bullshit. Let me tell you something…I’ve SPENT some fucking time in the south…It’s more boring than a deaf/mute roast master. When I was a kid, my mother would take me down to my Aunt’s house in southern Illinois. The first night I was there, I sat on the porch with my cousin Tom who looks exactly as I just described Dwight, the only difference being that he had lost a leg in a combine. EVERY family in the south has a relative who has lost a limb in a piece of fucking farm equipment; can’t we get some safety regulations on that shit? We watched the sun go down, and listened to the crickets chirp. I can remember thinking, that night, how it was a nice change from city lights, and the sound of cars and trains blaring at all hours.

The next night I had to be restrained because I was SO fucking bored that I had convinced myself that the crickets were telling me to ‘GO HOME’, my one legged uncle was going to make me his personal crutch, and that my Aunt had sucked the light out of the night sky to keep her oven going 24/7 so she could bake more cookies than a fucking Nabisco factory. I was clawing at the 19th century colonial wallpaper in my ‘guest bedroom’ to get the fuck out. When I finally got enough wits about me to light the oil lamp beside my huge puffy bed filled with more throw pillows than a porn set, I let out a scream because I could see the fingernails of PAST guests stuck in the wall like Katherine in ‘Silence of the Lambs’. 

To appease me, the next day my Aunt said she had something special to show me. We walked for an hour down to the barn on her property where she introduced me to a little calf. I pet it for five minutes, and then passed out from boredom like someone spiked my fucking sun tea. I awoke in the back seat of my mother’s car and yawned ‘where are we’. She looked at me angrily in the rearview and snarled ‘We’re going home because of YOU’ and then she swatted at me from the front seat as I ducked and dodged like Neo in the Matrix.

What I’m saying is that the Southern part of this country is SO fucking backwards and boring, those people HAVE to be making shit up just to appease their own sense of loneliness. Other than booze, spinning yarns of ‘alien homo’s playing with their sphincters, is the only way to pass the time. If you think about it, there is NOTHING more frightening to rednecks than gay guys fucking them. ‘Alien abduction’ is the southern version of ‘the hook handed guy’ story the rest of us have heard around the campfire.

If you look at it from the opposing view point, when you put yourself in the shoes of visitors from another planet, the south would actually be the smartest place to start. Think about it, you’re hovering above this big mud ball and what can you see from space? Lights…lots and lots of lights. If you weren’t sure how you would be received by the indigenous people, wouldn’t you try to AVOID those lights and come down to see what you’re in for? Then during the day what can you see from above? Roads. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that roadways are the infrastructure of our species. When you watch those animal planet shows about fish and birds, what is the FIRST thing these scientists talk about? Migration patterns. It makes sense to me that these beings would hover above our roadways at night when they can’t be seen, which is USUALLY when and where they ARE seen.

As I got older and began taking a forced pounding from religion, I learned that the church’s official stance on aliens is that they don’t exist. If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle bullshit. Do you think if there ARE aliens out there who have been studying our culture, they have an ‘official stance’ on Jesus? If you look at it and I’m NOT saying they’re true, but there are more believable stories to corroborate the existence of extra terrestrials than there are to convince me there was a man born of a virgin. Roswell is a pretty convincing story with witnesses, but I STILL can’t wrap my head around why Christians worship a Jew, but BLAME Jews for killing him even though it was a Roman that sentenced him to death. Shouldn’t they hate Italians then? It’s a religious catch 22 that does nothing to help me in my quest for the truth.
When I was young, I was fascinated by the film genre created by men like Spielberg. NOT the Star Wars shit, that was just entertainment, but the stuff that made you think, like ‘Close Encounters’ and ‘E.T.’. Sure E.T. was some sappy shit, but that was the first time I was introduced to the idea of governmental cover up’s and conspiracy. ‘Close Encounters’ may have been above my attention span at that age, but after I saw it? I was CONVINCED that there were other beings out there. Those movies inspired a generation to look up at the night sky for hours trying not to blink lest they miss something otherworldly.

When I got older I saw ‘Fire in the Sky’. Other than the decent acting of this supposedly true story come to the cinema, I was intrigued by the bigger than life dramatizations of what happened on the alien ship, and the ‘proof’ that the movie went on to tell me of. As I was working in a bookstore at the time, I swooped up the novel that the film was based on. It truly stole my imagination, but even then in the back of my mind I couldn’t help but think these guys were full of shit. So I started reading more. I got every book I could on ‘Roswell’, gleaned what little I could on the internet about ‘Area 51’, started having friends over for viewings of ‘The X-Files’, and bought ‘Star Trek’ action figures. I became one of ‘them’.

Luckily, it was at about this time that I met my ex girlfriend Jackie. She waved the smelling salt of pussy under my nose and snapped me out of my delusional trip to No-Ass-Francisco. However, I didn’t stop reading. But instead of just reading the books that were full of shit on the side of the alien argument, I started reading books that were full of shit against the alien argument. One view in particular stuck with me. Albert Einstein.

Einstein said (and I’m paraphrasing because I’m WAY too lazy to look up the actual quote) that it would be impossible for aliens to travel to our solar system. There is no technological means, nor will there be to span that great a distance. Makes sense. And if Al said it? Well that’s good enough for me.

But NOW there are these theories of ‘folding space’ and creating ‘wormholes’ with which to travel great distances in a short amount of time. Theory now, reality later. Shit, that’s how we got the hamburger right? Some numb nuts in a hovel on the English country side said to himself “if I could JUST come up with something to put this putrid dead cow ON…I’d make a fortune”. He probably tried putting the WHOLE cow between two marshmallows first, and then tried a SMALL piece of the cow between two clumps of hair, and then tried to climb INSIDE the cow and eat if from the inside out making himself a part of some human black hole experiment, and THEN someone invented bread! And he would sit in the field throwing it at the cows saying ‘WHY WON’T YOU EAT THAT?’…when BOOM, it hit him…what if the BREAD ate the COW? And then HE ATE THE BREAD?! GENIOUS!

But that’s how invention happens folks…it all goes back to the burger. I’m sure after a few scientific missteps, we’ll eventually get the hang of it but our space travels will produce some kind of side effect that will give us all warts on our balls or something. With great invention, comes great testicular pain.

Another theory that I’ve heard rumblings of in the pot head community, is “what if aliens are NOT aliens, but US from the future coming back to study the past”. O.K. genius, let’s ASSUME that evolution will one day make us look like a stretch Armstrong doll fucked a beef jerky stick, AND let’s assume that technology will GIVE us the ability to time travel in some distant future…don’t you think that by the time that shit rolls around, we’ll have a fucking microchip with EVERY piece of knowledge on it ever? Why the fuck would we need or WANT to study THIS point in history? PLUS the way oil is drying up on this planet, we’ll be lucky if this rock doesn’t end up looking like a close up photo of my asshole in 20 years: Pock marked, dry, wrinkly, and incapable of sustaining life other than that hemorrhoid that looks like Mick Jagger over on the western hemisphere. I think we reached the bell curve of our evolutionary road trip right around the mid eighteenth century when bald guys with big mustaches curled at the tips rode around on those bikes with the oversized front wheel, advertising 'box socials'. We don't have enough Darwin left in us to reach the point where we look like Kip from 'Futurama'.

In my opinion, and maybe it’s a pessimistic one, we’ll all be dust blowing around the upper atmosphere of a planet that’s been sucked dryer than a whiskey bottle at a Kennedy family Christmas party. Sure the earth will bounce back from us fucking with it like a little kid with a magnifying glass fucks with an ant hill, but IF life evolves AGAIN, and the odds on it happening ONCE were worse than the odds of the pope willingly butt fucking a cartoon rabbit, do you really think whatever species evolves from the muck will give two shits about US…in THIS particular time? Why? Because WE ruined the planet and killed ourselves? They won’t know that.  For all WE know we’re like the 300th turn of the dice on this crater.

'The History Channel has another show called ‘Ancient Aliens’, where they theorize that aliens landed on this planet thousands of years ago and helped build the pyramids, Stonehenge, The Lost City of Atlantis, and generally nursed our society like Ashton Kutcher on Demi Moore’s tit . Ain’t that some shit? Give our species some fucking credit guys, will ya? I mean we FINALLY start pulling our heads out of our asses, and we come up with cool architectural designs, a written language, and Hot Pockets and just because YOU guys are jealous that the ONLY thing you’ve contributed to society is to NOT have spread any sexually transmitted diseases, you want to shit all over the achievements of our species.

They’re all gone now, the ancient Egyptians, and the Mesopotamians, and the Inca’s so I’ll act as arbitrator in their stead and say: FUCK YOU. Who the fuck do you think YOU are, we were GOD’S in the eyes of our subjects. We didn’t NEED aliens to help us feel special, we had minions who worshipped at our feet and did our bidding because WE knew how to bullshit through fear, intimidation, and fucking whips. Unlike YOU with your douchebag alien mumbo jumbo which gains you NOTHING but fat lonely spinsters who ONLY watch you because there aren’t any soap operas on at 9P.M.

Then there’s my favorite theory…the coup de grace of the alien conspiracy: Area 51. I saw a special on Fort Knox a few weeks ago, and someone that was interviewed for the show theorized that Fort Knox was empty and the gold was actually stored someplace else. This, in fact, is a tactic that goes back to ‘The Art of War’ by Sun Tzu. You make an enemy BELIEVE that all your gold is in one place. You basically make that place a target. BUT you KEEP your gold someplace else completely unguarded and inconspicuous. Pretty ingenious right? Hide in plain sight.

How fucking stupid are you people? I mean really? There has NEVER been, nor will there EVER be alien spacecraft or reverse engineering of an alien spacecraft at Area fifty fucking one. The government makes this chess move SO fucking obvious for a reason, to KEEP your attention away from the REAL ‘Area 51’: Fort Knox. That’s right, I put it to you that FORT KNOX houses alien spacecraft and Area 51 houses all the gold like Scrooge McDuck’s money vault.

Speaking of reverse engineering; I’ve TALKED to a few scientists about this theory that cell phones and cars and dildos are ALL reverse engineered from the captured alien spacecraft at Roswell. AGAIN, give your forefathers a little fucking credit. The micro chip did NOT come from an alien spaceship. That shit came from the hard work and sweat of some penny less loser who spent HOURS not getting laid so that YOU could one day whack off to ‘midget’s with horsecocks’ porn on your computer. It’s America’s greatest story, rags to riches. We used to LOVE tales of inspiration like that, NOW we try to take away the genius of a landmark in technological wonder by giving the credit away to the fictional delusions of an uninspired dope.

Look, I’m willing to bet that a weather balloon has NEVER been mistaken for a U.F.O….I’ll give you that, there DOES seem to be something fishy going on. When the Roswell thing FIRST happened, it was the GOVERNMENT that said it was a flying disc that crashed and then they changed their mind like a prom date sobering up after getting her hair accidentally caught in the car door. There are a ton of ‘incidents’ that have all caught the public’s imagination: The Battle of L.A., Ghost rockets over Scandinavia, The Mantell Incident, Project Sign (later called ‘Project Blue Book’, and even later called ‘Dancing With the Stars’). All great stories but NONE with a bit of proof or evidence which in MY mind makes them half truths at best.

If you think about it...H.G. Wells might have started ALL the government 'alien cover up' bullshit. When he put on his little radio show called 'War of the Worlds', which was a fictional tale of an alien invasion, people started running around and panicking like the Japanese in a Godzilla movie. Is it ANY wonder that if aliens DID come here, the government would keep that from us?

The origin of these phenomenon have their roots in the 1940’s, so we have to take a look at what the fuck it was that started this shit. First of all, the world had just gotten out of a war where the stakes were as high as global domination. THAT’S some heavy shit. I mean Hitler was trying to wipe an entire race off the planet and frankly we’re lucky that it hasn’t happened again. Vietnam? That was a war over idealism. Even now, we don’t fight a man, we fight a word: terrorism. I’m sure that after WWII the world was more skittish than Rush Limbaugh during a random pee test. We NEEDED something to collectively point that anger and fear at. You know how you see a spider in your house? One of those mother fuckers that’s SO big that you thought it was a grapefruit hanging from your ceiling at first? So you kill it by slamming it between two shoes, and then ALL night long, every time a hair on your body moves, you jump up, scream, and pat yourself down like you’re putting out a fire. Hitler was that spider and U.F.O.s are the imaginary one that makes you more skittish than a cat on an ice rink.

Also, the 40’s brought about some interesting innovations in technology: The Colossus Computer, Radar, Ballistic missiles, Jet aircraft, the jeep, microwave ovens, Velcro, Tupperware, Frisbee’s, and the fucking slinky. Is it any wonder that we started letting our imaginations get the better of us with so much space age shit coming into our lives? Let’s not forget the BIGGEST invention of that time period? Television.

Television gave us the VISUALS to go along with the words we’d heard so often on the radio. NOW we didn’t even need to use our imagination, we could let someone else do it for us. Captain Video, Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon, Space patrol, and Rod Brown of the Rocket Rangers, were all shows that took their ideas from magazines and science fiction writers. If H.G. Wells could scare the shit out of an entire nation in ‘38 with just a radio and a script, these guys must have figured EVERYONE would be fucking glued to that T.V. set like Carol Anne in ‘Poltergeist’. And they were absolutely right.

What happened next? The UFO boom hit. People started seeing flying saucers (Frisbee’s?), Cigar shaped objects in the sky, and strange rocket ships. Why do NONE of the history channel shows make THAT correlation between our visual stories of fictional space adventure and the fact that EVERY UFO supposedly sighted afterwards looked like something from one of those shows? And then the snowball effect came and we went from ‘King of Space’ in the 40’s to the X-Files in the 90’s.

Look, if you WANT to see something bad enough you’ll eventually see it. But much like religions, I ask the SAME thing over and over…show me proof in your hands. Not ONE T.V. show, not ONE newspaper article, and not ONE fake alien autopsy video gives me a shred of evidence. They give me a bunch of REFERENCES, and redacted military files, but nothing I can touch. I’D like to believe it as much as you, but you have to think of the beast whose yolk we live under.

As the U.F.O. craze boomed, and America began the cold war with the Russians, don’t you think that maybe instead of living through a nuclear fucking winter, SOMEONE in the military may have said “Hey, let’s perpetuate these bullshit alien technology stories and let those Ruskies think we have access to advanced weaponry” Then, as the years went by and the nut bags snowballed the bullshit, the government found that it had dug a hole too deep, and couldn’t back out of the story.

Like Oprah said: If you THINK your man is cheating on you…your man is cheating on you and if you THINK your government is full of shit…it’s more full of shit than a diaper at a new born baby taco bell eating contest.

I GET that people WANT to believe we’re not alone, hell: we’d have to be INCREDIBLE narcissists to think that WE are the beginning and the end of intelligence in the universe. There probably IS life, and maybe even INTELLIGENT life on other planets…but they just ain’t getting here. No way, no how.

 Today, some gigantic woman waddled into my store, she must have weighed at least 800 pounds. After my associate rubbed sticks of butter around the door way so she could squeeze through it easier making that ‘POP’ sound like when you put your finger in your cheek and snap it out of your mouth, she angrily approached my counter dragging her gunt in front of her like she was pushing a stroller filled with human fat. I asked her how I could help her, and she heavily breathed ‘I NEED A BATTERY FOR MY CD PLAYER’ at me while bits of Twinkie, hamburger, and that pink shit from those Sno-balls treats came spilling out of her head onto my counter like a broken gumball machine.

She was mad at ME because SHE had to be airlifted off of her trailer bed and go out in public to shop. Then, as I turned to get the batteries, she fell forward on my counter like a sea lion jumping out of the water. When she did so, a wind came wafting out of her like Katrina and the smell could bring a dead cat back to life. She then exclaimed as my counter top began to buckle and strain from her weight “I NEED TO LEAN BECAUSE I CAN’T STAND SO GOOD’. Yeah, you don’t can’t not talk so good neither. Fuck you.

She even said THAT angrily to me like I FUCKING MADE her eat with a feed bag 8 times a day. As I was going to the section to get her batteries, I could hear her behind me muttering to herself, and as I came back I could make out what she was saying. She was muttering to a CAT that wasn’t there! She was SO lonely that NOT only did she JUST talk to cats all fucking day, but she EVEN talked to them when they weren’t around.

Well, put you’re nooses away, it was at about his time that I actually started to feel bad for her. Even though she had a bad attitude and she was a miserable human being who had brought her current situation upon herself, I’m not COMPLETELY heartless… I could SEE that the reason she muttered to an imaginary cat was because she was uncomfortable in public, so like when we were kids, she made an imaginary friend to ‘have her back’ as it were. Her anger was a deflection to hide her inner pain and turmoil. She shouted because she thought that was the only way people would look past her bigness and listen to her as a person, NOT as a weight.

The point of this rambling tale is to illustrate to you that we CAN’T be the only things in this universe with a fucking pulse. As a human being, I HAVE to take the side of my fat ass customer in the galactic fight club and think that SOME species out there…somewhere…has to have something worse in the low end of its evolution. Kind of like when you were a kid and your friend would come over and you’d argue over who had the ugliest ‘Garbage Pail Kid’ card.

Although it’s not necessarily a theory, I’d like to think that a logical assumption of alien interaction in our history may have gone something like this, and I’ve actually written a television screenplay that illustrates this theory, so suck my copyright bitches!

At some point in our recent history, aliens approached our government, in peace, and told them that they would like to extend an olive branch to our species in an effort to save us from ourselves. They would take a majority of us to their home planet where we could live our days in peace, and wonder at their technology which they would be only too happy to share with us once there. I would have to assume that they would NOT share it with us down here, as it would cause a shift of power to those who used it.

Also it would be fair to assume that lengthy talks have taken place to determine the new power structure on the alien world. Would our governments have a say? Would they still be able to rule over us with an iron fist? Would they still be in power? Well, since there would be no need for money, there would really BE no power structure. Everyone would be equal in their own right, and live their days working at whatever labors they chose.

No money? No power? Communist Society? Our leaders would have told these beings to fuck off quicker than my last date told ME when I asked her if she wanted to play ‘hide the sausage’ back at my place. Being intelligent beings and understanding that based on the greed of a very few, MANY would die…the aliens tell our governments that they will go to the people directly and let them decide.

At around this time, the government enlists Hollywood to run a fear campaign and anti alien propaganda film fest. ‘Aliens’, ‘ID4’, ‘Predator’, ‘Species’, and ‘Stargate’ along with hundreds of other movies are made to make SURE that if a little green man ever does step off of a fucking flying saucer, YOU’LL begin to throw rocks at it, try to run it down with your car, and call it a ‘space nigger’.

My guess is that this EITHER took place sometime in the late 80’s because you’d have to think that Spielberg would be in on the conspiracy but he made E.T. more lovable than a tubby cat licking his balls with that one leg pointed STRAIGHT up in the air.

The bottom line? Some of us have hypothesis about aliens, and some of us could give a shit. But it’s time we ALL put more energy into what we’re up to down here, and stop concentrating on what’s going on in the fucking sky…I’m talking to you religious zealots out there too. So what if Dwight gets abducted? Maybe getting a few football field goal posts shoved up his ass will teach him some fucking humility so when you DO ask him for directions he’ll at least point with his thimble covered banjo strumming finger in the direction you need to head. And on the likely side Dwight was full of shit about his abduction? Well, ignoring him will just shut him the fuck up faster. There’s a LOT going on down here and we could use some of that NASA, SETI, and Star Trek franchise money to finally find a fucking cure for something. And just in case aliens are reading this right now, I’d like to say to them: Stay the fuck away from my asshole you space pervert, unless you can make yourself look like Sasha Grey. Then you can stick a pinky up my ass while you’re licking my sack. (How diplomatic am I?)

Like most of you out there, I don’t HAVE a viable answer. I’m still on the fence with this one. I’d LIKE to think we’re not alone, but I’d ALSO like to think that if that were so, we’d have something to prove it other than doctored photos and staged video events. To tell you the truth, I’m not entirely convinced that we walked on the moon. As great a story as the moon landing is, I love the idea of our world being duped by a bunch of out of work commercial actors fucking around on a sound stage and pretending to be astronauts even more. We may never know the truth to any questions regarding aliens in our lifetime, but maybe a future generation will have the strength and fortitude to open themselves up to the possibilities, and also have the foresight to prepare for a little anal payback when aliens DO finally come out of the space closet.

Come to think of it...maybe WE'LL be the aliens abducting OTHER beings on THEIR if you'll excuse me, I have to change the filter on my water bong and score some Doritos.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

The One About a Shit I Took

The other day started out like most others…I woke up and took a shit. I have a very regular cycle when it comes to making a doody, and although the consistency and volume of my dumps may vary, you can pretty much set your watch to their occurrence. This particular morning, however, started a day that would go down in the annals of shit history. After I was done with my relatively moist, but mostly normal morning movement, I reached over for some TP…fuck.

I manage a retail store, and in my position I’m in charge of ordering supplies for my establishment. On a normal basis, I order two 12 packs of toilet paper every week and take ONE home. Why do I go through so much at work AND at home? Well, at work, that much toilet paper gets used because I went and hired 2 fat chicks who shit more than a Taco Bell sponsored football team. I use that much at home because I like to be thorough down there AND because my dog thinks that TP is a toy. She’s even figured out how to open the cabinet under my bathroom sink by smacking it with her paw until the door bounces back open, and then rifling through my ass towels like she’s searching for something in a Watergate hotel room.
Because I’m such a fucking scatterbrain, I forgot to order my latest batch of butt napkins. So there I sat, with no TP. In my head, I ran through the list of OTHER things people will use when they find themselves in this situation, but I STILL came up empty. I didn’t have any paper towels, there were no napkins from last night’s takeout order, I don’t use tissues, I had no notebook paper, and I didn’t even have a fucking bottle of aspirin with cotton at the top I could use. Thank god I have a removable shower head. Usually I ONLY use this devise to gently massage my balls with warm water while I masturbate in the shower, but this time I hobbled into the bathtub, squatted down, and shot a warm burst of cleanliness right up my pooper. AND, since I was down there anyway, I tossed one off for good measure before I went out to start my day.
I drove to my job in shitty stop and go traffic, I did the morning paperwork, I listened in on a mind numbing conference call for 40 minutes, and then I sat in the back room and played ‘Bloons on the computer for most of the day to avoid customers. The only time I would go out onto the sales floor was when my employee had to take a 40 minute shit.
This particular employee is just about one of the most customer friendly individuals a manager could ask to have working for him. She’s patient and kind with everyone who comes into my store, and since she’s worked for me for nearly 3 years now, I almost consider her a sister. My ONLY problem with her is that she takes 40 minute shits at least 3 times in a 6 hour shift. Most women like to make you believe that they NEVER shit. Not this one. She’s SO big, that her dumps are immediately proportionate to whatever she just shoved into her festering gob. If she eats a tic tac? 30 seconds later she makes a shit the size of a tick tack.
To me it’s all very scientific. It reminds me of the Principle of Mass/Matter Conservation, which states:  mass cannot be created or destroyed, although it may be rearranged in space, and changed into different types of particles. This implies that for any chemical process in a closed system, in this case my employee’s colon, the mass of the reactants must equal the mass of the products. It’s almost as if her body takes NO nutrients from the food she shovels into her mouth, which comes as no surprise to me because I’ve seen her snack on fucking crayons. As much as I may love her as a person, she realizes that the price she has to pay for being that big is that I’m going to point it out from time to time.
Anyway, this story isn’t about HER shit, it’s about mine, so let’s get back to it.
Before I left work that day, I made sure to grab a few rolls of Cottonelle for the next morning’s sabbatical. As I drove home in the shitty traffic of a Monday on Harlem Avenue, I did something impulsive and incredibly stupid. Because I was hitting the brake, and then the gas intermittently for about an hour, my fucking leg started to hurt. Plus I had to piss the length of the golden gate bridge. Up in the distance, I could see a sign that was not only inviting, but captivated my growing hunger as well. A sanctuary that would let me rest my tired leg, let me shoot out a relieving stream of hot urine, and while I was there? Hell, I may as well grab some dinner: White Castle.
I haven’t had a white castle hamburger in many years, mostly because I know the price one has to pay for eating that crap. You see, I found out that all fast food places have a certain amount of laxative in their recipes. The corporation’s thinking behind this is that you will shit sooner, which will empty your stomach and make you hungry again, and then you’ll buy more of their food. It’s the same reason that they have so much salt in their food; because you’ll get thirsty and buy more pop from them. AND why the straws are so wide you could drive a fucking monster truck through them; you’ll suck that shit down before you know it, and be ready for another one.
I don’t like corporations patronizing me with their conspiracy riddled menus, so I rarely eat that crap. Don’t get me wrong, I eat SHIT, I just don’t eat THEIR shit. This particular day however, I ignored my usual fast food boycott, and got a sack of ten cheeseburgers.
When I got home, I took my dog out for a nice grass poop, cleaned my kitchen, and then sat down to watch the previous evening’s television offerings with dinner. I usually don’t watch shows as they air, but I download them while I’m at work the day after, and then watch them when I get home. This saves me from having to pay for stations like HBO and Showtime. I prepared my evening meal by arranging the White Castle hamburgers in a neat circle on a plate, and then I put hot sauce on each one. I sat down in the living room, turned on True Blood, and began to shovel food in my mouth while hoping that I would see Anna Paquin’s titties in this episode.
I got THREE hamburgers in, when I felt a massive discomfort in my belly. I sat back on the couch with a concerned look on my face as sounds of churning question marks filled the air around me.
UUUUUUUURRR? EEEEEEEERW? OHHHOOOOOOOWR? My dog, lying on the couch next to me, snapped her head up and tilted it to one side. Her right ear sprang to attention and she stared at my belly, half offended, and half shocked. There was a rumbly in my tumbly, and much like Pooh Bear after eating too much honey…I had to GO!
I felt a sudden sense of pressure building up on my sphincter, and while sitting on the couch still, I immediately clenched my cheeks together and squeezed my asshole shut. Going to the bathroom during this kind of ass urgency has to be timed JUST right. The initial build up has to be held in until it subsides a tiny bit, allowing you to get up and do that march to the bathroom where you don’t bend your knees, but you move as fast as you can.
As I waited for the first round of pressure to relax, I had just enough time to ponder ‘what the fuck is going on here?’ I wasn’t sick, I hadn’t eaten anything all day, and I NEVER shit after noon. Finally the buildup subsided just enough to allow me to stand, but as I made my first steps toward the bathroom, the urgency came back and I shuffled along the carpet as quickly as I could while holding my ass cheeks together with enough force to pulverize a diamond.
This was no ordinary wave of a needed release, so understanding the stakes of what was about to happen, I pulled down my pants and underwear as I marched. I knew that time was short. My stomach was making that sound still, and I could feel pain right behind my pubic bone. I cornered the entrance to the bathroom, and slammed my ass down on the toilet seat JUST as the lit fuse hit the dynamite.
I was expecting an explosion; however, what happened felt more like the slow release of a baby through a birth canal. I could feel something cresting my chocolate starfish. It was big, and it wanted out, so I pushed with all my might. The cords in my neck popped out, I noshed my teeth together, and strained like a bodybuilder lifting a car over his head. My face looked like David Banner as he turns into the Hulk.
As this planet came out of the universe of my colon, I could hear the sounds of trapped air being released from pockets imbedded deep inside of its mass. PFFFFFFFFT! PFFFFFFT! PFFFFFFT! It sounded like hundreds of silenced pistols being shot off at once.
 It felt as though I were passing a watermelon, and as it reached the bell curve of its circumference, I could only sit there and be relieved that my asshole didn’t tear.  As the bottom half of this massive load came out, and I tried to relax my holiest of wholies, my annular muscle went against me and decided to clench up instead. It guillotined the beast at the head, and the ensuing splash sounded like Ted Kennedy’s car dropping into the water. Why doesn’t the poo wreath act in accordance with our wishes?
I knew that I would have to wipe the remnants of this cannonball, out of my chaplet for the next hour or so. But now that the damage was done, I leaned back against the cold porcelain of my toilet, wiped the sweat from my brow, and tried to catch my breath. It was over, or so I thought.
As I sat there breathing deeply, my body limp and relaxed, the dog came prancing into the bathroom without a care in the world. She walked up to me, sniffed around, and then lay on the tile floor and put her paws over her face. Just as I started to laugh and reach for the toilet paper…Round two hit me.
The sound, once again, came first. Followed by the discomfort. I grabbed my stomach in pain, and leaned forward. I could FEEL things moving DOWN inside of me, and the pressure against my winking corona was building. I pushed with all of my might to get this satanic mass out of my body, and the eruption that followed was biblical in its proportions.
My asshole had cut off the first chunk, and left part of it lodged in the back door of my poopenshaft. The volatile nature of the churning ass lava behind it turned it into the cork on a violently shaken champagne bottle. As I pushed with all my might, the cork POPPED and a frothy carbonated liquid mess came shooting out of me like an upside down ‘old faithful’. It was like when you were a kid, and you’d drop an entire pack of ‘Mentos’ into a 2 liter of Coke.
I could hear the spray hitting the back of the porcelain inside of the toilet bowl, and it sounded like someone had pointed a garden hose at a brick wall, put their thumb over the opening, and turned the nozzle to full blast. My dog shot out of the bathroom with her tail between her legs, and I could hear her whimpering from under my bed in the next room.
My back was almost completely horizontal now, as I leaned forward, putting most of my weight on my toes and hovered a quarter of an inch above the seat. The stream continued, and I began to fear that I would shit myself inside out.
Finally the wave subsided and I sat back down on the toilet seat. Directly in front of my toilet is a metal towel rack with 4 shelves made of wire grids. Without knowing I had done it, I had put my fingers through those grids, and squeezed so tight, that they were now broken and mangled.
The smell that came wafting up from underneath me as I sat up can only be described as horrific. It was as if a filthy goat had eaten old leather, pickle juice, and rotted fish, then threw it up, ate it again, and then shit it out a week later.
I took the roll of TP off of the dispenser because I knew that I would need ready access to it. The backsplash from the spray of shit hitting the inside of the bowl meant that I had a shit ring in the shape of the toilet seat opening, completely covering my under carriage. I wiped furiously and quickly until all that was left was my asshole itself. I wrapped paper around my finger, and began cleaning as deep inside as I dared to go without being gay. Then round 3 came.
This one was completely different. There was no pressure build up, there was no warning. Seemingly from out of nowhere, a thick paste of poo came pouring out of my ass like a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine. It had the consistency of hot caramel being poured from a can, and as I looked between my legs, I could see it folding into neat, one inch long squares as it hit the previous shits. It just kept pouring out of me in a continuous, unbroken flow.
This one didn’t hurt, so much as it burned. It was like lava flowing down the side of a mountain. What the fuck could I have eaten to have induced this kind of combustible ass juice? It felt as though I was shitting Tobasco sauce. The burning pain lingered as the flow began to ebb, and I seriously considered going into my freezer, grabbing a Popsicle, and shoving it up my ass to relieve this sensation.
The smell of violence and hatred permeated the air. Like the gun oil from the rifle that assassinated Martin Luther King mixed with angry mosh pit body odor, smoke from the ovens of Dachau, hospital dumpsters, and gassy bloated dead bodies washed up on a beach.
Above the towel rack in my bathroom, a picture of Elvis hangs on the wall in remembrance of a man who rose to the heights of adoration, only to die on the toilet. I put it there to remind me to stay humble, and to never get too narcissistic. Seeing that picture now made me think that maybe THIS is what Elvis experienced as he sat on that bowl in a hotel room, minutes before his colon finally exploded from the buildup caused by 12 pounds of undigested meat, killing him painfully. Is this what Elvis’ bathroom smelled like at the end? Were these pains in my stomach the same pains that The King experienced? I don’t eat fried peanut butter and ‘nana sammiches, NOR do I take Phenobarbital, but is my diet any better?
I had to get out of that bathroom or I would drive myself crazy. I didn’t even bother to wipe, I squatted down in the shower as I had done earlier in the day, and sprayed my ass clean with the removable shower head.
As I went to leave the bathroom, I looked down at the mess inside of my toilet bowl. I forgot to flush. What I saw filled me with horror and wonder. It looked like the Trash Heap from ‘Fraggle Rock’. There was no water. It seemed as though my shit had absorbed all the moisture in the bowl. What was in there looked like the kind of river mud you get your boot stuck in when you’re dumping a body in the rain. And right in the middle of this turbulent mess, sat my initial turd. It looked like a bowling ball covered in chocolate cake icing.  Moss had started to grow over it, and vines were slowly creeping their way up to the rim. What came out of my body was forming a new eco system. My ass was like the Genesis Device from ‘Star Trek 2’, it was creating life, from lifelessness. Does that make my ass a god?
I grabbed the plunger because I knew that I would have to fight this one, and pushed down the handle. Water began to cover the top of my mess as it came pouring down from the inside of the bowl. I took the plunger in both hands, and leaned in for some labor. I was afraid that a plunger wouldn’t be enough. I might need a back hoe or a diamond tipped drill bit for this. But before I could even stick the plunger in, an ominous moan came from the depths of my toilet. It sounded as if Satan were making that moan through the very pipes of my building. The moan drew nearer, and a large bubble began to form over the top of my disgusting ass goo. It grew bigger, and bigger, and bigger, as the sound of the moan rose: ‘MMMMMMMWWWWAAAAAAAAAA’. Finally and suddenly the bubble burst, like a deep breathy exhale. Tiny droplets of shit went flying from my toilet and landed on me, the walls, the floor, even reaching the bathroom mirror over my sink. The shit slowly slid down the sides of the bowl, and gurgled into the hole at the bottom, leaving streaks of butt mud half way up to where the water level rose. Beyond that point, above the water, where my second round had splattered on the porcelain, were stalactites of shit dangling precariously like a cave ceiling where gravity has no meaning.
I took another shower, and then cleaned my bathroom from top to bottom like a murderer cleaning the scene of the crime. As I went to the door to leave, I took one final look behind me and hung my head. The last two hours may have been the most harrowing experience I’d ever spent in a John, and leaving it was like leaving an old friend. I had to forget about what just happened and go on with my life as though everything were normal. But it wasn’t…it never would be again. I had experienced something bigger than myself, something that was disgusting and yet profound in its beauty.
I threw out the other seven White Castle hamburgers and made a vow to never eat there again. I still can’t fathom the physics behind the fact that I only ate 3 burgers, yet shit out 37 burgers worth of poop. I never understood those guys who take 40 minutes in the bathroom. They bring a magazine or a book in there with them like they’re going to go lay out on a beach. Normally, I feel the tug, I shit, I wipe, and I’m gone. But NOW I understand it a little better, but if they’re wrestling a shit EVERY time, like I did just that once…I think we might have a serious problem in this country.
Life has pretty much gone back to normal for me since that afternoon. My dog stays away from the bathroom now, but other than that things have drifted back into place. I try not to dwell on that day, but sometimes when the dog makes a steaming pile of carpet cigars, or I see the pile of Triceratops poop in ‘Jurassic Park’, or when I go bowling with my friends…I’ll have ‘Nam-style flashbacks of that event.
I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be able to forget that day, and my eating habits haven’t changed a bit. But one thing I know for certain is this: I haven’t learned a god-damned thing from this experience.
Elvis' Death Certificate; Cause of Death: Impacted Colon