I just came in from the back yard and I'm rather dirty. I hate digging. It's hot here, even at night, which doesn't make the digging easy. Sweat and dirt make mud, which means I'm a mess.
I had just gotten to right about the depth I wanted when I realized there was a little bit of the Jehovah's Witness I buried last week sticking out into my freshly dug hole. I really had to stop and ask myself if it was rude to bury two people that close together.
It was too hot though. Maybe if it had been a few degrees under 90 I might have taken the time. Hell, I figure the two of them can spend eternity as ghosts buried under the dirt, the Jehovah's Witness trying to convince the salesman he could someday rule the world if only he would have family game night, and convice his daughters to wear special underwear, and the salesman convincing the Jehovah's Witness that he too could be rich if he would only join Amway.
I'm not sure what I want to wash off of me more: the mud, the blood, or the damn stink of Amway products.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Oops
Tonight I did something I have wanted to do since I was 11 years old. I slapped the guy at the cash register at McDonalds. That's right. I reached my hand out, tightened it up, and prepared the best tennis forehand I could, and smacked that little punk so hard he slipped on the greasy floor, fell on his ass, and started making little baby tears starting before he made it all the way to the ground.
I didn't say a word after that. I just walked out with half the restaurant ready to call 911 and the other half secretly applauding me.
I suppose before you can judge which side you were on, you should hear the setup. I should start by saying that I am somewhat of a picky eater. I despise tomato products, like ketchup, more than a normal person probably should. Once, when I was quite bored I actually moved all of the ketchup in a local grocery store behind the pickles, where it would be safe. 176 bottles to be exact.
At any rate, on this particular evening, and as with many evenings before, I had ordered my sandwhich - a simple cheeseburger with no ketchup, and the delightfully attentive and caring staff at McDonalds had managed to get it wrong. Somehow they managed to translate that into "Please put as much ketchup as you can on this."
When I opened the sandwhich and found my gooey fruit paste surprise, I was immediately repelled. Like any normal person I gave that "ewwww" face, and tried not to look to dissappointed. It never works though. It seems like it always happens to me and I ultimately degrade to a childish level of dissappointment and face making. You'd think that after the number of times it has happened I would have come to expect it.
I approached the ordering area again, bag in hand, and I received what I have come to know as the "this jerk ordered wrong" look. That is the look where the underaged, overinflated manager believes every person that works her staff is perfect, and the customer is always wrong. An attitude she will most likely carry with her as she moves from this job to the job at the thrift store because she is so much older than her coworkers.
I approach the cashier, who carries the same look, obviously a learned behaviour from his superb manager. After finally reaching him, a blurted "What?!" falls out of his mouth as if to say "How dare you approach my podium like cash register!"
I, being the typically fearful customer, meekly say "Um, you guys put ketchup on this, and it is supposed to be without." I don't say fearful because I am shy or bashful, or afraid to ask for what I want, no it is the fear of what will happen to my freshly made burger? Will it have the "secret saliva sauce" added to it?
That's when I see it. He grabs my burger, roughly, as if to say "I'll fix it but I don't have to, because it's your mistake."
He looks toward the kitchen, lips something, and then makes lip pursing, kind of how you would if you were about to spit. Maybe it was the signal, maybe it wasn't, but after years of pent up rage of getting food at the drive thru only to find it is wrong 10 miles away, I snapped.
I looked at him and I said "What was that?"
"What was what dude?" he said in a casual voice, half stoned and half retarded from social standards.
"That look. That spitting motion."
"Whatever dude."
That was it. I'm the customer. Don't you dare "whatever dude" me. I'm pissed, and even though you don't particularly deserve it this time - I realize this is something of an Emperor's New Groove mid-story twist, but so what - I want to reach across the desk and ring your neck.
So as he sits there with his half cocked smile, not even bothering to help the next person in line, looking pleased that he has managed to tell me off in has space cadet teenager way...it happens.
I reach out, hand taught, and connect. I don't run, I don't even walk briskly. I stay a moment, to savor the feeling, taking in the gasps and random cacophony of "dude" and "oh my god."
I don't even mind adding a place to the slowly growing places I am no longer welcome. I suppose that will make him think next time he takes an order, or fixes one. Let it be known that sometimes the customer is right, and if you won't let them be, they will smack your ass down.
I didn't say a word after that. I just walked out with half the restaurant ready to call 911 and the other half secretly applauding me.
I suppose before you can judge which side you were on, you should hear the setup. I should start by saying that I am somewhat of a picky eater. I despise tomato products, like ketchup, more than a normal person probably should. Once, when I was quite bored I actually moved all of the ketchup in a local grocery store behind the pickles, where it would be safe. 176 bottles to be exact.
At any rate, on this particular evening, and as with many evenings before, I had ordered my sandwhich - a simple cheeseburger with no ketchup, and the delightfully attentive and caring staff at McDonalds had managed to get it wrong. Somehow they managed to translate that into "Please put as much ketchup as you can on this."
When I opened the sandwhich and found my gooey fruit paste surprise, I was immediately repelled. Like any normal person I gave that "ewwww" face, and tried not to look to dissappointed. It never works though. It seems like it always happens to me and I ultimately degrade to a childish level of dissappointment and face making. You'd think that after the number of times it has happened I would have come to expect it.
I approached the ordering area again, bag in hand, and I received what I have come to know as the "this jerk ordered wrong" look. That is the look where the underaged, overinflated manager believes every person that works her staff is perfect, and the customer is always wrong. An attitude she will most likely carry with her as she moves from this job to the job at the thrift store because she is so much older than her coworkers.
I approach the cashier, who carries the same look, obviously a learned behaviour from his superb manager. After finally reaching him, a blurted "What?!" falls out of his mouth as if to say "How dare you approach my podium like cash register!"
I, being the typically fearful customer, meekly say "Um, you guys put ketchup on this, and it is supposed to be without." I don't say fearful because I am shy or bashful, or afraid to ask for what I want, no it is the fear of what will happen to my freshly made burger? Will it have the "secret saliva sauce" added to it?
That's when I see it. He grabs my burger, roughly, as if to say "I'll fix it but I don't have to, because it's your mistake."
He looks toward the kitchen, lips something, and then makes lip pursing, kind of how you would if you were about to spit. Maybe it was the signal, maybe it wasn't, but after years of pent up rage of getting food at the drive thru only to find it is wrong 10 miles away, I snapped.
I looked at him and I said "What was that?"
"What was what dude?" he said in a casual voice, half stoned and half retarded from social standards.
"That look. That spitting motion."
"Whatever dude."
That was it. I'm the customer. Don't you dare "whatever dude" me. I'm pissed, and even though you don't particularly deserve it this time - I realize this is something of an Emperor's New Groove mid-story twist, but so what - I want to reach across the desk and ring your neck.
So as he sits there with his half cocked smile, not even bothering to help the next person in line, looking pleased that he has managed to tell me off in has space cadet teenager way...it happens.
I reach out, hand taught, and connect. I don't run, I don't even walk briskly. I stay a moment, to savor the feeling, taking in the gasps and random cacophony of "dude" and "oh my god."
I don't even mind adding a place to the slowly growing places I am no longer welcome. I suppose that will make him think next time he takes an order, or fixes one. Let it be known that sometimes the customer is right, and if you won't let them be, they will smack your ass down.
Monday, September 1, 2008
A Brief Introduction
I wanted to start this blog by saying what comes to follow is fiction. Every post in this blog is entirely fictional. I will only say this once, and I only say it because I don't want the FBI or Matt Lauer showing up at my door to discuss why I have teenagers locked in my garage or the plans to build a dirty bomb under my mattress.
I enjoy writing, so I thought this blog might be a good spot to do a few things.
1. Vent my frustrations through fictional accounts.
2. Create ridiculously impossible scenarios simply because they can be entertaining to read.
3. Practice my skills as a writer by exploring short stories and serial stories.
If you are uncomfortable with the medium I am using, just leave. Also, because I don't want to have may pants sued off, everything in this blog is for entertainment purposes only. It should not be copied or repeated. I will not be held responsible if someone comes along and thinks something I wrote would be a good idea to try in real life. Because I am aware of the presence of morons in this world, I say this, "DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME."
I enjoy writing, so I thought this blog might be a good spot to do a few things.
1. Vent my frustrations through fictional accounts.
2. Create ridiculously impossible scenarios simply because they can be entertaining to read.
3. Practice my skills as a writer by exploring short stories and serial stories.
If you are uncomfortable with the medium I am using, just leave. Also, because I don't want to have may pants sued off, everything in this blog is for entertainment purposes only. It should not be copied or repeated. I will not be held responsible if someone comes along and thinks something I wrote would be a good idea to try in real life. Because I am aware of the presence of morons in this world, I say this, "DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME."
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