A Good Stretch

I admit I do not work in the most desirable locale in the world. It’s not at bad as places Bob The Man has worked but it did cause a friend in federal law enforcement who Google Mapped my location say,

“Holy shit! What a fucking pit.”

Thanks for the official assessment, sir. Can hook me up with some federal funds to embezzle? I mean, no, I mean embezzle.

You’ve, no doubt, become quite accustomed to my tales and, frankly, may even be bored with them. I mean, how many times can you hear a story about, for instance, this woman:

I knew she was going to be a problem the moment I noticed one of her eyes twitched like a plastic player on an electronic vibrating football field.

Not the lid. The actual eye.

She began telling me what she wanted followed immediately by a question/statement that had nothing to do with what she wanted.

“I would like to purchase one of those.”
“What’s that smell?”
“I agree, that is a very reasonable price.”
“I bet it gets hot in here in the summer.”
“Yes, I think I would be interested in buying.”
“It’s so cold in here!”
“I think this would be a very good investment for me.”
“What is that smell? Do you smell that? Oh, you can’t smell that you live in it all the time. How come it’s so cold? I think the bats have escaped from my belfry. What IS that smell?????”

Turns out it was the charred remains of the last shred of my dignity.

Seriously, I work in a location deemed ‘Holy shit!’ worthy by a respected member of the United States government and spend hours of my adult life having nonsensical conversations with disconnected life forms.

Just when I’m about to sweep my ashes into the dustbin of shattered dreams I feel the strain to hold it dear until I hear,

“I can’t believe you can’t smell that. It’s horrible.”

Followed by this.

The woman lifts up her shirt exposing her tits. No, not bra. Tits. They looked like two blue veined jelly fish who’d recently gorged on marshmallow fluff. She lifts the twins to her face. Breathes in deeply of the aroma. Allows the jelly fish to drop and, while adjusting herself back to her previous decorum, states,

“It’s me.”

Anyone need memory? Used but in a working state with room for expansion. After what I just witnessed, I don’t want it anymore.

You know something, I can’t say I was surprised. I knew my day was going to surf shit sea before I place the key in the lock. It began while I was waiting for a break in traffic to cross the street to deal with that woman.

A 5′ 11″, white male with light brown hair, wild blue eyes, yellow windbreaker, charcoal gray slacks, and flip flops (I’ve been around here so long I’m an eyewitness savant) approaches.

“Got any money?”

“No.”

I turn from the gentleman having eye witnessed the traffic clearing.

“I know you have money.”

Damn! He’s a fucking genius!

“That’s right, shitwad. I lied to you. What a fucking shock.”

Usually, in situations like this, that’s the end. But there was this panhandler in downtown Boston with a hook for a hand who’d chase people if they didn’t give him money.

I’m about to step into the street when I feel a finger in the chest. I thought,

‘Why did I poke my chest? That’s a highly unusual action.”

I’m such a joker! I knew it was the guy.

“Do you want me to force feed you your flip flops?”

I’m pretty sure he knew that was an empty threat. Come on! Even I knew I wasn’t going to touch his feet.

But there must have been something about my tone that projected the fact I did not cotton to his physicality.

“What? It wasn’t hardly a touch.”

I guess, in the second it took to recite the sentence I’m sure his uncle said after their special afternoons together, he gathered a little bravado and attempted a new tactic.

“You want me to touch you, asshole?” He took a step forward. “I’ll fucking touch the shit out of you.”

I may not have been able to stomach the idea of touching his feet (or, truly, him touching the shit out of me) but I didn’t have the same queasiness with popping him, open palmed, in the chest.

The shock that registered was exactly what I was looking for. He looked at me wide-eyed as the hollow sound reverberated through his body.

“As a matter of fact, I prefer you don’t even talk to me because I never want to have to touch you again.”

The traffic has receded so, before I go, I lean in, smile, and say,

“Are we in agreement?”

He stumbles back a step or six, flip flops bending under his feet giving his step a spring.

“You’re fucking mental.”

I turn and finally start to actually begin my day.

“Nope, just doing a little pre-game stretching.”

And you thought jelly tits was going to mar my day.

Please! To me it’s just another day in parasite.

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15 responses to “A Good Stretch

  1. Holy bejeezus, dude! Whatta fuckin’ day.

    BTW, have you ever written for Chris Titus? I saw a bit of his on Comedy Central this weekend, and I told the wife “That was so bitter and angry and hilarious I’m tempted to email B&G and ask if he wrote it.”

  2. And that was before noon, TB.

    No, I can’t take credit nor blame for the greatness of Titus but thanks for the compliment.

  3. glad i could remind you what a “fucking pit” area you work in.

    and don’t you smell that? how could you not smell that? c’mon, you have to know what that smell is!

    it’s the stench of hell that permeates the air as you slowly get to work! and when you get to work, you’re breathing the great fumes of toxic hell all day long….!

  4. Sweet! All this and a paycheck too!

  5. just remember to scrape the shit right off your shoes before you leave work!

  6. Sorry, that’s not enough. I burn everything.

  7. good thing i was eating when i read this.

  8. “Pre-game stretching…” Priceless.

    Maybe you should change into some kind of Tyvek suit when you get to work to keep that stuff from getting all over you…

  9. DAMN! Tyvek! Why didn’t I think of that? Now that my wardrobe consists of purple Bermuda shorts and a grey Dead Elvi t-shirt that’s really a sound idea.

  10. I would’ve force fed him his flip-flops…

  11. I have grey Dead Elvi t-shirt, too! And I were it with my purple Bermuda shorts, too! Maybe you’re my long-lost twin!

  12. I am! Haven’t you noticed all of the family pictures until around the age of three are all cropped? I was cropped out! I was left on a scrapple farm where I worked until I knew everything about the making of scrapple (around 3 1/2). Then I waddled my way (scrapple three times a day puts some weight on a growing boy) to the border where life, well, where life for me started to get real tough.

    Nice to talk to you, Sis, but there’s a gunfight going on on the floor beneath so I’m going to have to hide in the bathtub until the shooting dies down.

  13. I hate scrapple! It is made from sawdust and lard.

    While you’re in that tub, don’t forget the Mr Bubble! He makes bath time fun!

  14. Now, I may have PTSD, but if someone put there finger on me, stepped in front of me as to stop my forward motion, I would just simply stab him in the neck with my keys and watch him BLEED to DEATH. Oh I am sorry, for him to BEG. But that is just me.

    Bob The Man

  15. Oh please! That was how you’d do it WAY before you started getting crazy checks. Who you trying to fool here?

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