Monthly Archives: January 2011

Ommm

I’m in line at the drug store near work. I’m not paying attention to what’s being said because it’s so rote. The facade of customer care becomes more Stepford by the day.

“Did you find everything you were looking for today?” The cheery customer service representative automates while I’m placing my item on the counter. I find it a truly stupid question. For me, the fact is, if I didn’t find everything I’d still be shopping. But, we live in a world that puts ‘Caution: HOT’ on coffee cups.

For whatever reason, I found myself saying no. The customer service representative jumps from answer a. to answer b. in his code,

“What didn’t you find?”

“Enlightenment.”

Program abort. Reboot.

It was funny to actually see the slight light of human poke through there for a moment. We finished our transaction with a normal civility.

Then later in the day (truly proving I still hadn’t found enlightenment) I was talking about someone very annoying and my friend said,

“Why don’t you tell her to suck a bag of dicks.” Borrowing a line from Louie C.K.

“Because I have too much respect for bags of dicks.”

For every yin there’s a little yang.

Fountain Lady Song

This Just In!

Space aliens are perverts!

He’s very ill

I’m talking to a guy who, if he is to be believed, has every ailment known to man and three or four that can only be contracted by kinkajous. I was rather impressed that, for as ill as he is, he could maintain a rather robust persona.

It was like an extended diagnostic version of head, shoulders, knees and toes. I think the only section of his body not covered in his ailment inventory was his uvula. But that may have been covered in his horrendous case of pharyngitis.

Although I am not a medical professional (although I have played a doctor on TV) I couldn’t help but question some of these sicknesses. I mean, hasn’t the rinderpest virus been eradicated? And, although he was well tanned from a recent vacation on a Caribbean isle, he professed to having a staggering case of porphyria cutanea tarda.

After he wore himself out from all the strain, I stood in front of him shaking my head before offering my diagnosis.

“You may have Sensitive Immune System SYndrome?”

“Really?” He says excitedly. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that.”

“You may have. It’s better known as SISSY.”

Hi! My Name Is. . .

A friend of mine stopped by during a break from his job as a customer service drone at some big box store. He’s bitching about this customer, that mid-level dork, the other waste of eyelash. It’s the same old song and dance but it’s one that must be sung.

I’m listening and being as helpful as I can but drift off and start thinking about his vest. It’s a mandatory piece of servitude like a perma-smile and up-selling. The up-selling is so ingrained in him I’m sure it’s why his girlfriend broke up with him. Turns out she really did want to super size it.

Then, while still maintaining a civil level of attention, I glance at his name badge. It’s one of those innocuous pieces of current Americana like people not voting for their own benefit and edited Roadrunner and Coyote cartoons.

It’s actually paper in an acetate holder. That’s cold. I mean, sure, give those to people who’ve worked there less than a year but, after that, how can that not reinforce the idea you are nothing more than replaceable chattle?

The tag has a shimmering corporate logo gracing the left hand corner with the words:

Hello! My name is

occupying the right. Under that is his laser printed name:

Dane

(his name has been changed to protect his meager employment and whatever shred of dignity he may still be, idiotically, clinging to)

It wasn’t until I read the next sentence I began to wonder, no, that’s not true. It wasn’t until I read the next sentence that I decided to fuck with him.

It read:

And I’ve been satisfying customers since

then offered his original date of employment.

Boy, I bet it calms the frazzled nerves of his customers to know he’s been secretly loathing them for just over two years.

My problem, at this juncture, is, without his unknowing cooperation, I couldn’t fuck with him. I’m hoping he follows the procedure of each time he’s visited me.

“I’m gonna use your bathroom before I go.” YES! “Ours is disgusting.”

And with that he goes to ready himself to face the onslaught for whatever remains of his shift.

And with that, I fuck with him.

The problem with things I do like this is there is a huge possibility my full pay off may never come. It doesn’t dissuade me but I tuck that potential outcome into the mix.

Two hours later.

He he.

Payoff!

“What the FUCK were you thinking?

“What are you talking about?”

“You FUCK! You could have got me fired! This job may suck but it’s all I got right now!”

“I’m going to need a little help here? Why may you have lost your job and whatever could I have to do with it?”

You know, it’s tough being my friend. It has to be. I’m a royal fucking asshole.

He goes on to explain, in very, how should we say? Shimmering and glistening language what transpired. If bile and revile could indeed shine, that, because of my ‘fucking stupid fucking joke’, if someone other than a friend had noticed he could have got canned for defacing store property.

“He comes up and a few seconds later starts laughing.” He sort of says. I’m leaving out the bad language. He doesn’t have my flair for it. “He points out my badge and I almost ripped my vest getting it off!”

“Okay, I admit to editing your badge, but, in my defense, it isn’t a lie, is it?”

My obvious truth did nothing to temper his anger. And all I did was, with the help of a little whiteout, put two little, truthful, words in so that it read:

Hello! My name is

Dane

And I’ve been satisfying customers since

maybe tomorrow.

Unhappy Birthday

A friend was having trouble dealing with her impending birthday.

So I thought I’d cheer her up.

Ha! You didn’t believe that either, did you?

“Don’t worry about getting older,” began my assistance. “You’re not going to lose your looks. After all, you can’t lose what you never had.”

Open Mic

A friend of mine runs an open mic. It’s mainly solo guitarists and acts of that ilk but there’s usually a few young stand-ups thrown in. For all those reasons I don’t go often.

But I went one night and, while I’m chatting with him, an act comes in to sign up. I don’t look at the guy until my friend catches my eye. I turn and look at the guy. It’s a mime.

“Hey!” I say. “We work clean in this room. Take that shit off your face.”