I started eating meat a couple of months ago. Before that, I ate meat sometimes. But it was fish. And fish isn't meat cos fish are too stupid to know that they don't wanna die. Like bugs, they're pretty much just organic robots that are programmed to cruise around and fuck and eat. And not get killed. Just like dogs and cats and pigs and rhinoceri and cockatiels and turtles and mosquitoes and guppies and people. O.K. I guess I just lost the argument. Fish are meat, too. Nobody has a bumper sticker that says "Fish Are Meat, Too!" cos they'd just get flipped off all the time, but it's true. Fish are programmed to not wanna die and they are mobile, therefore they are meat. And if you happen to wanna die, I don't fuckin blame you. I would too if I had been reduced to reading this fuckin garbage.
So anyway, I ate fish. But I didn't eat pigs or birds or bovines. And I didn't eat bugs unless one happened to get into my mouth and I swallowed it before I could do anything else. That didn't happen very often, though I almost got pulverized by a city bus once cos a fuckin bumble bee or some goddam thing flew into my mouth right as the bus was passing me. I was haulin ass on my bicycle. I watched whatever-kind-of-giant-ass-bug-it-was spiral towards me as if it were in slow motion, the advice of every baseball coach I had ever had echoing through my mind: "Keep your eye on the ball!" I freaked out and spit it out like an olive pit and kept on truckin, glad that I hadn't lost my life over something so ridiculous as that. However if I had, I guess the bugs would've had cause to celebrate. Their buddy dies so that a human can be splattered on the windshield of a bus. One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter....
As soon as I decided to eat meat other than fish meat, it was on: I'm gobbling down bacon cheeseburgers and barbequed chicken and steaks and fuckin ham and pepperoni pizza and chili cheese dogs and everything else I could get my greedy little fingers on. I never didn't like the taste of flesh, I just had other reasons for not eating it. Reasons which I won't bore and annoy you with right now. Reasons such as Satan telling me I'd better not or that I'd grow hair on my tonsils. Or that global food crises might be more easily avoided if humans feed themselves the corn and grain that they feed the innocent animals that they have slaughtered for them by the poor suckers who are lucky enough to have jobs murdering animals for a living. Amongst other reasons. Oh yeah, I'm not talkin about anything like that right now. Oops!
Whatever. Anyway, now I eat all kinds of stupid bullshit at fast food joints all the time. Cos it's easy to do! Hell, you're working, you're hungry, you were too lazy and/or forgetful to bring a lunch, so go eat a stupid-ass bacon double cheeseburger! Eat 2 of em! Fuck it! They're 2 for 3 bucks! How could you not? Man, they got this fuckin horror at Hardee's called the Monster Buscuit. I always look at it on the menu and think to myself "Get the fuck outta here" and then wince when some miserable-looking Jabba the Hut in front of me orders one. At least I'm a skinny little bastard. Don't worry, though. I got other problems to compensate for the fact that I can drink bacon milkshakes and still maintain my boyish figure.
Alright. I'm way off the subject here, cos I was gonna talk about the nasty-ass frat house where I've been sanding their floors and Hardee's happens to be the only luncheon available and next thing I know I'm yakking at any of you poor suckers who's been so unfortunate as to have bothered to read all this nonsense. I actually wrote a whole blog about the frat house that was too disturbing to post so I deleted it. Anyway, you get what you pay for. Sometimes you don't even get that.
-Sayonara.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
No, really! CRANK IT UP, MOTHERFUCKER!!
If you honestly expected me to narrate the rest of this stupid story in the language of a D&D nerd, then you are as stupid as I was when I declared my intention to do so. It's not that I don't have the ability. I mean, I have a 16 Intelligence and a 14 Wisdom. And that's not even taking into account my Helm of Knowledge and my +3 Ring of Absolute Fuckin Genius. But I made my Saving Throw vs. Totally Bad Ideas, and decided to continue this stupid little tale in normalish English. All my experience points have added up, however, to me realizing that I oughtta just finish this goddam story. So, without any further ado. And without any adon't, here we go...
So, my sister is wishing she's an only child. We're in the bank together. I spy a Muzak volume knob on the wall. It goes up to 6. Doesn't go up to 10. Who the fuck would ever want it to go that high. Still.... 6? Why 6? But it was on 2. Evidently, 2 was the correct volume for a branch bank on a Tuesday at ten in the morning. My big sister saw me drooling over that volume knob and she gave me the same look that she had given me right before she had clobbered me with that barstool back when I was 7 years old.
Having a big sister is bullshit. They can totally kick your ass until you settle into puberty, then all of a sudden you get bigger than they are and you're a psychopath if you exact your revenge upon them. This is assuming that you like your big sister, that you never ratted her out when her boyfriend was hiding in the bathtub whilst your mother went on a white glove rampage at 7 in the morning. Me and my sister were buddies throughout our lives, but I never got to go toe-to-toe with her when I actually stood a chance. I've heard similar complaints from other guys who have big sisters.
Anyhoo, we're in the bank and I'm just about ready to piss my pants with the desire to turn up the fuckin Muzak, but my big sister's gonna kill me if I do. So I don't.
Flash 9 months forward. Me and my buddy Nathan are walkin around, having easily established ourselves as the two filthy, drunk, obnoxious, nihilistic schmucks in the Austin, Texas scene. We happened to be walking by the bank, and I recognized it as being the one with the Muzak volume knob on the wall. So we entered.
Picture a small branch bank, with 3 middle-classed, working citizens standing in line to do business with the perky, almost-always-attractive tellers. An elderly man discussing his modest profile on the other side of the desk of one of the bank's senior members. The Muzak's on volum 2, barely detectable unless one's bored enough to notice.
Enter me and Nathan. Neither of us have showered in weeks. Our shirts, once white, are now grey with filth. Our pants are shiny from having not seen a washing machine in months. Our stench of armpits, balls, ass, and rotten beer precedes us. We crash through the big glass doors of the bank. It was a good idea before, but now it's getting a bit freaky. We're laughing before the mission's accomplished, probably cos we've been smoking weed all morning. All eyes are upon us.
I turn the Muzak volume knob up to 6. That sentence doesn't look that cool It'd sound way more intense if I had cranked it up to 10. But Muzak doesn't do that. Thank god. 6, however, is as loud as a fuckin Walmart on December 23rd, and that'll just about make you shit your pants if you're in some relaxed little bank on a Tuesday morning in April.
Everybody (including the bank employees) flinched and looked towards the ceiling as if the End of the World were upon us. But nobody DID anything. They just continued on with business as if they weren't getting their eardrums shattered by a french horn version of "Come On Eileen". Me and Nathan were laughing so fuckin hard we could barely exit the building. For all I know, that place is still the loudest bank in Austin.
So, my sister is wishing she's an only child. We're in the bank together. I spy a Muzak volume knob on the wall. It goes up to 6. Doesn't go up to 10. Who the fuck would ever want it to go that high. Still.... 6? Why 6? But it was on 2. Evidently, 2 was the correct volume for a branch bank on a Tuesday at ten in the morning. My big sister saw me drooling over that volume knob and she gave me the same look that she had given me right before she had clobbered me with that barstool back when I was 7 years old.
Having a big sister is bullshit. They can totally kick your ass until you settle into puberty, then all of a sudden you get bigger than they are and you're a psychopath if you exact your revenge upon them. This is assuming that you like your big sister, that you never ratted her out when her boyfriend was hiding in the bathtub whilst your mother went on a white glove rampage at 7 in the morning. Me and my sister were buddies throughout our lives, but I never got to go toe-to-toe with her when I actually stood a chance. I've heard similar complaints from other guys who have big sisters.
Anyhoo, we're in the bank and I'm just about ready to piss my pants with the desire to turn up the fuckin Muzak, but my big sister's gonna kill me if I do. So I don't.
Flash 9 months forward. Me and my buddy Nathan are walkin around, having easily established ourselves as the two filthy, drunk, obnoxious, nihilistic schmucks in the Austin, Texas scene. We happened to be walking by the bank, and I recognized it as being the one with the Muzak volume knob on the wall. So we entered.
Picture a small branch bank, with 3 middle-classed, working citizens standing in line to do business with the perky, almost-always-attractive tellers. An elderly man discussing his modest profile on the other side of the desk of one of the bank's senior members. The Muzak's on volum 2, barely detectable unless one's bored enough to notice.
Enter me and Nathan. Neither of us have showered in weeks. Our shirts, once white, are now grey with filth. Our pants are shiny from having not seen a washing machine in months. Our stench of armpits, balls, ass, and rotten beer precedes us. We crash through the big glass doors of the bank. It was a good idea before, but now it's getting a bit freaky. We're laughing before the mission's accomplished, probably cos we've been smoking weed all morning. All eyes are upon us.
I turn the Muzak volume knob up to 6. That sentence doesn't look that cool It'd sound way more intense if I had cranked it up to 10. But Muzak doesn't do that. Thank god. 6, however, is as loud as a fuckin Walmart on December 23rd, and that'll just about make you shit your pants if you're in some relaxed little bank on a Tuesday morning in April.
Everybody (including the bank employees) flinched and looked towards the ceiling as if the End of the World were upon us. But nobody DID anything. They just continued on with business as if they weren't getting their eardrums shattered by a french horn version of "Come On Eileen". Me and Nathan were laughing so fuckin hard we could barely exit the building. For all I know, that place is still the loudest bank in Austin.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
CRANK IT UP, MOTHERFUCKER!!!
After an entire summer of my drunken antics, I believe that my sister had had enough. And they weren't just your standard drunken antics. They were the antics of an 18 year old bum who wasn't planning on getting any less bummier. I'd go into some of those antics right now, but they're either stories for another day or they're too fuckin boring. Take your pick. Except you can't, cos you're not hearing those tales of misadventure at this time. You're stuck with this goddam story. Fuckers....
Just kidding! You're not fuckers! Except for that you are....
I remember when I was around the age that this stupid little tale takes place and I'd wonder who that was walking down the street was a porn star. I asked somebody whom I admired and respected and that person told me that everybody was a porn star, when hardly anybody else is looking. But that's beside the point.
The point is that I went into a bank with my fuckin sister. And she was about as annoyed with me as a big sister could be, which is one aggravation point higher than how annoyed you probably are with me right now. I guess I might as well mention that I was a D&D nerd when my big sister was my big sister. So, back when this story takes place, I might not have admitted it, but I was a 6th Level Dumbass.
So I may as well describe the situation from the vantage point of a 6th Level Dumbass:
to be continued....
Just kidding! You're not fuckers! Except for that you are....
I remember when I was around the age that this stupid little tale takes place and I'd wonder who that was walking down the street was a porn star. I asked somebody whom I admired and respected and that person told me that everybody was a porn star, when hardly anybody else is looking. But that's beside the point.
The point is that I went into a bank with my fuckin sister. And she was about as annoyed with me as a big sister could be, which is one aggravation point higher than how annoyed you probably are with me right now. I guess I might as well mention that I was a D&D nerd when my big sister was my big sister. So, back when this story takes place, I might not have admitted it, but I was a 6th Level Dumbass.
So I may as well describe the situation from the vantage point of a 6th Level Dumbass:
to be continued....
Saturday, December 12, 2009
You Better Give Satan A Square
Well, I can't think of anything to write about except the fuckin Trix rabbit. I don't know why, but I just got Trix rabbit on the mind. And the Plasmatics. Of course. But I wonder why nobody would ever give the fuckin rabbit any Trix. If I was eating cereal with my sister and a cartoon rabbit showed up and wanted some, I'd give him some. Actually, that reminds me of one time when me and my friend, Little Bob, were all fucked up on Robitussin. It was on sale at the dollar store and we were drinking it every day in record quantities. I think that that was the first time I ever saw Bob go on some fucked up Christian trip, though it became one of his gimmicks after awhile. You see, Little Bob was usually an obnoxious little goblin that would put your favorite tape in the tape player that eats tapes after you distinctly told him not to. He was the best scapegoat on the block. He was a good guy, though, even if he WAS a a pain in the ass. I could say that about anybody I like, now that I think about it. I hope somebody has that printed on my headstone when I die. I recently found out that Bob died, but I'm in no position to be etching wisdoms onto gravestones. I guess I could eventually go write it on his with a black marker. He'd like that. If there's a God in Heaven, like Bob would invariably freak out and think every so often, who knows what God's saying to Bob right now. Probably something like,"Medammit, Bob, would you knock it the fuck off?!!!"
But anyway, we drank way too much cough syrup and hung out at some chick's apartment while she wasn't at home (with her unspoken permission), listening to music and being glued to the floor with our eyes popping out, not being able to verbally communicate with anyone but one another. A bunch of folks came in and changed the music on us, shaking their drunken heads in condescension. "Man, you guys are fuckin stupid." Touche'. We sure were. So I sat around on the floor, confused, observing all the dull activity around me with the same interest a toddler probably has. Why did she just do that? Why did he just say that? Why? Whenever I finally learned how to speak English, I'd be sure to ask them. Some kind Drunk Person would roll me a cigarette once in a while and I'd be all grateful. "Thanks," I'd manage to blurble.
The chick whose place it was suddenly burst into the room, freakin the fuck out that Bob's cryin-he's-gonna-die out in the hallway and what're we gonna do and all this. So I go out in the hall and Bob's curled up in a ball, crying, with some big ol black gangster dude standing over him with a Bible in his hand, reading some passage aloud. And I mean ALOUD. He's shouting like Jesse Jackson about how Satan's got us clenched in his fiery fist or some kinda bullshit... So the Drunk People elbowed past me and apologized to the gangster guy and picked Bob up and carried him back to the apartment. It all seemed pretty damn dramatic and I was actually a little worried, in spite of myself. Was he really gonna die? Probably not, but he sure was terrified. So I shrugged, shuffled back into the apartment, and sat back down on the floor.
Okay. The living room was illuminated by a green lightbulb that me and Bob had screwed in before we were too incapacitated to do so. There was a white sheet hung up in the doorway between the bedroom and the living room. There was a standard-issue lightbulb on in the bedroom, and the effect it had (in my fucked up mind, anyway) was that the other room was golden. A softly lit paradise that I wasn't spiritually worthy of entering: The God Room. I was in the sickly green room with the Drunk People, listening to Slayer or Bolt Thrower or something: The Satan Room. The Satan Room was actually pretty cool except for all the weird bullshit that was goin on. One of the Drunk People was somehow religiously qualified to enter the God Room and Save Bob. Which he did. All the other Drunk People were laughing their asses off. I didn't know wheteher to laugh or cry or to be worried or what the hell was goin on. I just heard voices coming out of the God Room. Bob crying and pleading, I mean fuckin SCREAMING, "READ PROVERBS 38:12! NOW! PLEASE OH, GOD!!!" And some wasted idiot slurring a bunch of Biblical jibberish. "Jesus was the son of Mary, who had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow...."
So then the big black dude came walking in to get his bible back, and I think the Drunk People must've gotten a little scared, cos they all kinda shut the fuck up and left. That left me, the guy who was Roboing too hard to go anywhere. Thanks, pricks... The gangster guy sat down on the couch and waited for Bob to get Saved or baptized or whatever and gave me a pious look of distaste. "Yeah," he said, looking down at me and shaking his head. "Yall muthafuckas think yo real funny. Callin up demons with Robitussin. Shit. But when Satan pops up through your floor, you better offer him a square, cos He gonna be ANGRY! Yeah. You keep it up. You'll see. See, I'm into some REAL voodoo shit." Again, I didn't know whether to start laughing or to freak out. So I did both.
So, as one can see, that anecdote directly correlates to sharing one's breakfast with cartoon animals.
Rainie The Amazing!
There was some jerkoff ventriloquist on on the Comedy Channel not too long ago whom I had the misfortune to have caught a glimpse of. The guy was about as funny as a blob of gum that's stuck underneath a picnic table. And you could easily see his lips moving while his dummy lived up to its title. Before I came to my senses and changed the channel, he affected me by making me wonder whether you can always see ventriloquists' lips moving or if he just sucked at it. I really just haven't seen that many ventriloquists. And when I think about it, who the fuck has?
I did finally see another one the other day, though. His name was Rainie. Rainie is 55 going on 80. I had been working at his house off and on over the past month and a half, remodeling his bathrooms. While Rainie's wife goes to work all day to sell perfume at a department store, Rainie farts around on his computer, eats BBQ Pringles, and complains about the weather that he never seems to actually have to go outside to experience. He asks me frequently throughout the day whether it's warming up any out there. I can't help but explain to him that of course it's not warming up out there. It's fuckin December. I do manage, however, to bite my tongue and not point out that it really doesn't matter whether it's 70 below or 70 above if all you're gonna do is sit on your ass in the house and die for the rest of your life. I don't tell him this because I'm a nice guy. I'm also a fuckin professional.
Rainie decided that he wasn't happy with the work that me and the boss were doing on his master bath. It took much explaining on the boss's part to get him to calm down enough to let us finish the job, at which point he stood in the doorway of the bedroom with his finger pointing threateningly at the two of us and told us that we had one more week or that there'd be Hell to pay. He didn't say "Hell to pay", but he sure wanted to. He looked like he was about ready to go fist to cuffs with the boss. The boss looked like he was simply ready to go. I was standing there the whole time wishing that somebody would leave. Either us or Rainie. It didn't matter to me. I just don't like awkward situations like that. It's like hanging out with a couple who are screaming at one another, on the brink of divorce. Get me the fuck outta here.
After the dispute had been precariously smoothed over, me and the boss were gonna bail out for awhile in order to haul a bunch of rubble to the dump. I walked outside to get all the trash ready to throw on the trailer and to smoke a cigarette while the boss tried to charm Rainie into not hating us so much. When I walked back in the house, Rainie was waiting for me in front of the stairs, holding a big-ass puppet in the crook of his arm that looked similar to Big Bird. Behind him was a big, black trunk that bore the words "Rainie the Ventriloquist" or "Rainie the Amazing" or some goddam thing in white stenciled letters. "Hi, Kevin!" the retarded stuffed animal didn't actually look like it was asking me. "Are you going to the dump soon?" Rainie stood behind the puppet, his hand jammed up its ass, his eyes gleaming at me with cheerful condescencion. I was too caught off guard to even smile. I just looked at him like he was a fuckin idiot. Which he was. What am I, six years old or something? Jesus. I thought about telling him not to quit his day job, but he doesn't have one.
Now,I realize that all this might not sound all that fuckin interesting, but let me assure you that it was about the most surreal experience I've had in a long time. How an old fart goes from wanting to kick your ass to playing Bert & Ernie on the stairs ten minutes later is something that I'm not gonna waste my time wondering.
I did finally see another one the other day, though. His name was Rainie. Rainie is 55 going on 80. I had been working at his house off and on over the past month and a half, remodeling his bathrooms. While Rainie's wife goes to work all day to sell perfume at a department store, Rainie farts around on his computer, eats BBQ Pringles, and complains about the weather that he never seems to actually have to go outside to experience. He asks me frequently throughout the day whether it's warming up any out there. I can't help but explain to him that of course it's not warming up out there. It's fuckin December. I do manage, however, to bite my tongue and not point out that it really doesn't matter whether it's 70 below or 70 above if all you're gonna do is sit on your ass in the house and die for the rest of your life. I don't tell him this because I'm a nice guy. I'm also a fuckin professional.
Rainie decided that he wasn't happy with the work that me and the boss were doing on his master bath. It took much explaining on the boss's part to get him to calm down enough to let us finish the job, at which point he stood in the doorway of the bedroom with his finger pointing threateningly at the two of us and told us that we had one more week or that there'd be Hell to pay. He didn't say "Hell to pay", but he sure wanted to. He looked like he was about ready to go fist to cuffs with the boss. The boss looked like he was simply ready to go. I was standing there the whole time wishing that somebody would leave. Either us or Rainie. It didn't matter to me. I just don't like awkward situations like that. It's like hanging out with a couple who are screaming at one another, on the brink of divorce. Get me the fuck outta here.
After the dispute had been precariously smoothed over, me and the boss were gonna bail out for awhile in order to haul a bunch of rubble to the dump. I walked outside to get all the trash ready to throw on the trailer and to smoke a cigarette while the boss tried to charm Rainie into not hating us so much. When I walked back in the house, Rainie was waiting for me in front of the stairs, holding a big-ass puppet in the crook of his arm that looked similar to Big Bird. Behind him was a big, black trunk that bore the words "Rainie the Ventriloquist" or "Rainie the Amazing" or some goddam thing in white stenciled letters. "Hi, Kevin!" the retarded stuffed animal didn't actually look like it was asking me. "Are you going to the dump soon?" Rainie stood behind the puppet, his hand jammed up its ass, his eyes gleaming at me with cheerful condescencion. I was too caught off guard to even smile. I just looked at him like he was a fuckin idiot. Which he was. What am I, six years old or something? Jesus. I thought about telling him not to quit his day job, but he doesn't have one.
Now,I realize that all this might not sound all that fuckin interesting, but let me assure you that it was about the most surreal experience I've had in a long time. How an old fart goes from wanting to kick your ass to playing Bert & Ernie on the stairs ten minutes later is something that I'm not gonna waste my time wondering.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Monster Truck
I do whatever comes my way in order to pay the rent. I mean, I don't sexually service white-haired widows, rob convenience stores, artificially inseminate turkeys or anything like that. Those are liesure activities. I usually install or resurface hardwood floors. But I'll mow your stupid lawn or rearrange your goddam furniture if that's what your trip is. Just give me some money and I'll quit complaining. Or at least you won't have to hear me. Somebody else might, but that's just cos they haven't paid me. Maybe I should just bug the snot outta people and charge them a daily rate to make me shut up and go away? Hmm.... That's the entrepeneurial spirit!
Well, until I get my new "I'll shut the fuck up and go away if you pay me to do it" business off the ground, I'll probably continue sanding and installing floors. And for the near foreseeable future, I'll mostly be doing that for a company called AAA Hardwood Flooring. "Company" is actually a flattering word for AAA Hardwood Flooring. The only time one should think of AAA as a legitimate flooring company is when one reads the ad in the yellow pages. At that point, one is making the innocent assumption that, if it's listed in the Yellow Pages, then it must be true. Don't believe everything you read.
Once I pull up in the work van, you have to be naive, delusional, or totally fuckin stupid to continue with your once-lofty, imagined impression of the company that AAA is. The van is a white, 1992 Ford Econoline, though "white" is probably the wrong adjective to describe the color of the AAA van. That poor old truck probably hasn't been washed since it came off the assembly line. Recently, the van developed an ungodly exhaust leak that made smoke billow out through the floor boards while I was driving. The guy I work with and I don't exactly fit the visual profile of model citizens in the first place, and all of a sudden we look like Cheech & Chong, cruisin around in an Up In Smoke van. I considered wearing a respirator, but I'm not wearing a fuckin respirator until I get to the job site. The boss finally sprung to get the exhaust leak fixed. It didn't work. We sealed up the floorboards so that the exhaust has no choice but to spill out through the hood. We no longer have to breathe it (for the most part), but now I'm driving around in the fog half the time.
The van runs badly enough that we often leave it at the job site until we're done, driving another vehicle back in forth in the meantime. Upon my arrival, I've gotten into the habit of rummaging through the van to find a disposable slab of cardboard to place under the crankcase so that I don't leave a giant oil stain on somebody's immaculate driveway. Last Sunday, I parked the rusted-out beast in front of a customer's house so that it'd be there in the morning when I was ready to get started. The house was nice, located in an upper-middle classed neighborhood. I felt like a vandal as I stepped out of the van to leave it on the street for the next 5 days. I looked around guiltily as I got into my friend's car who had followed me there. "Let's get the fuck outta here before anybody says anything," I told her.
We took off, hoping that nobody had gotten her license plate number.
Well, until I get my new "I'll shut the fuck up and go away if you pay me to do it" business off the ground, I'll probably continue sanding and installing floors. And for the near foreseeable future, I'll mostly be doing that for a company called AAA Hardwood Flooring. "Company" is actually a flattering word for AAA Hardwood Flooring. The only time one should think of AAA as a legitimate flooring company is when one reads the ad in the yellow pages. At that point, one is making the innocent assumption that, if it's listed in the Yellow Pages, then it must be true. Don't believe everything you read.
Once I pull up in the work van, you have to be naive, delusional, or totally fuckin stupid to continue with your once-lofty, imagined impression of the company that AAA is. The van is a white, 1992 Ford Econoline, though "white" is probably the wrong adjective to describe the color of the AAA van. That poor old truck probably hasn't been washed since it came off the assembly line. Recently, the van developed an ungodly exhaust leak that made smoke billow out through the floor boards while I was driving. The guy I work with and I don't exactly fit the visual profile of model citizens in the first place, and all of a sudden we look like Cheech & Chong, cruisin around in an Up In Smoke van. I considered wearing a respirator, but I'm not wearing a fuckin respirator until I get to the job site. The boss finally sprung to get the exhaust leak fixed. It didn't work. We sealed up the floorboards so that the exhaust has no choice but to spill out through the hood. We no longer have to breathe it (for the most part), but now I'm driving around in the fog half the time.
The van runs badly enough that we often leave it at the job site until we're done, driving another vehicle back in forth in the meantime. Upon my arrival, I've gotten into the habit of rummaging through the van to find a disposable slab of cardboard to place under the crankcase so that I don't leave a giant oil stain on somebody's immaculate driveway. Last Sunday, I parked the rusted-out beast in front of a customer's house so that it'd be there in the morning when I was ready to get started. The house was nice, located in an upper-middle classed neighborhood. I felt like a vandal as I stepped out of the van to leave it on the street for the next 5 days. I looked around guiltily as I got into my friend's car who had followed me there. "Let's get the fuck outta here before anybody says anything," I told her.
We took off, hoping that nobody had gotten her license plate number.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Opossimititism
I had subjected myself to being arrested and/or towed in order to loiter around a trash can at a local coffee shop with some other fools who were equally as indecisive as I as to where we were headed.
The coffee shop chick wandered up with a trash bag and some napkins or a spray bottle or somethin and, figuring it would be too much of a pain in the butt to navigate through our little social club, casually asked my buddy if the garbage can needed to be emptied.
My friend took a gander into the blackness of the trash can and told her that it'd probably be okay if she left it alone.
"It's half empty," he told her.
Tsk, tsk, she seemed to say with her eyes. "I like to think of them as half full," she nearly scolded him.
"Yeah, but it's a fuckin trashcan," I pointed out. "Trashcans are better off being half empty. So are diapers. The half empty/half full rule works with glasses, but not with everything. And what if it's a glass of piss or something?"
She frowned, agreed, and wandered away. So did I and my friends, all of us forgetting about this new development on what had up until then been concrete bumpersticker philospohy.
But I remembered, and soon I shall force the world to understand.
Or at least the part of the world who's stuck behind me at a red light.
If I ever make the fuckin bumper sticker.
The coffee shop chick wandered up with a trash bag and some napkins or a spray bottle or somethin and, figuring it would be too much of a pain in the butt to navigate through our little social club, casually asked my buddy if the garbage can needed to be emptied.
My friend took a gander into the blackness of the trash can and told her that it'd probably be okay if she left it alone.
"It's half empty," he told her.
Tsk, tsk, she seemed to say with her eyes. "I like to think of them as half full," she nearly scolded him.
"Yeah, but it's a fuckin trashcan," I pointed out. "Trashcans are better off being half empty. So are diapers. The half empty/half full rule works with glasses, but not with everything. And what if it's a glass of piss or something?"
She frowned, agreed, and wandered away. So did I and my friends, all of us forgetting about this new development on what had up until then been concrete bumpersticker philospohy.
But I remembered, and soon I shall force the world to understand.
Or at least the part of the world who's stuck behind me at a red light.
If I ever make the fuckin bumper sticker.
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