Monthly Archives: January 2012

A guy. . .

. . .was posturing until he got to the old ‘my dick is so big’ category. After his hack comment I said,

“Oh yeah? My dick is so big and hard Oprah uses it as a chin up bar.”

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People

As is evident by my demeanor, I have a love/hate relationship with people. I love when they’re filling me with hate. I must or why else would I allow then into places where I control all the locks?

It’s been one of those days when the best thing that happens to you is someone holds out their hand to let you watch the blood drain from their finger. If it was just dripping into one increasing puddle of toxicity I wouldn’t have minded.

Much.

But this guy had to tell me the elaborate (and still unfathomable to me) story of how he cut his finger gesturing wildly the entire time. Honestly, I’ve done the exact task as he, many times more than he, and not once have I scrapped anything.

So, while wiping blood off the counter, door, wall, window, and anywhere else this gesticulating gentleman splattered (and who says TV is bad for you? Because of Dexter I knew exactly were to search for more cast off) I notice that he left a blood crumb trail for me to follow.

It wasn’t much, a blotch every six inches or so, but it lead to the spot of the ‘incident’ (as he kept referring to the ground zero of the evidence of his stupidity). I examined the location and, still, for the life of me, can’t figure out how he cut himself. No sharp edges, not protruding elements, nothing. I started running my hand over every surface and, no matter how hard I rubbed, did nothing more violent than annoy myself.

Just one more failure in my life.

While I’m packing up the hazard I hear a scuffling behind me. I’m tossing the bag enclosed bag into another bag while looking over my shoulder. I see a man and woman tussling. The guy was grabbing, the woman was pulling away, like a tempestuous tango.

“Hey.” I call out in no mood for tomfoolery. “Knock it off.”

“Who the fuck are you?” The man calls out knowing full well who the fuck I am. He actually said, “Hi Chris.” when he entered. Maybe there’s a gas leak in the building so when people enter they lose their fucking minds. Which may explain many things about me.

“I’m the guy who’s telling you,” I snap off the rubber gloves. “To knock that shit off.”

“Oh, you gonna tell me how to handle my woman?” As a matter of fact, I’m not. I don’t know if you can tell this about me, I’m not much of a banner waver. I don’t give a fuck what you do to cute and fuzzy bunnies. I could care less if you wear fur line fur underwear while eating the last edough ribbed newt on a a cracker. I don’t care if you try to yank the arms of your spouse off like a rag doll.

Just not in my building.

“No,” I say approaching the pair. “I don’t care if you batter the fuck out of each other and aim it for the wet spot. But I do care when you do it in my building.”

The guy begins to twitch as if he’s a third base coach sending a signal. Many of you do not, for good reason, live among the creatures that I do so, please, indulge me as I explain what’s happening here.

His manifestation of ticks and blinks is the way the indignant species, known as the assides localis moronocus, signals that he’s one bad ass mother. . .

Shut your mouth!

I’m talking about shit, I can smell it!

The musical part of our evening concluded, let me continue.

“You think you’re a tough guy?” He cliches.

“Not at all.”

“Then what is it? You a  smart guy?”

“Not really but, as long as you look stupid, I look smart.”

“What the. . .what the. . .what the fuck you mean by that?”

I ignore his stammering because I want to.

“Listen to me as carefully as you can. I may not be a tough guy but, considering the competition, I’m a fucking genius. And do you know how I can prove it?”

“How?”

“I know, for a fact, that I’m not going to be able to keep you from doing the spousal abuse two-step for long. But I know for a fact I can stop you from doing it here.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“By calling the cops. Which is exactly what I did before approaching you. You see, as long as an incident happens in my building, it’s my job to report it.”

“You fucking called the cops on me?”

“What do you think?”

We wait this out for a second. This is probably the toughest question he’s had to ponder since seventh grade.

“Fuck you both.” He says releasing her arm. He goes about the process of completing his task which, truthfully, would have been over awhile ago if he didn’t get a jerky with his lady.

I stand there as they get in the car. I see him turn to her and start yelling. It’s going to be a long, albeit probably average, evening for the pair.

I watch them pull away and grin. The fact of the matter is, there is no way I could have called the police. He even saw me cleaning up in the slop room, as you are aware having read thus far. If he’d thought back the two minutes to when this transpired, that would have been abundantly evident.

But, you know what I say, I don’t have to be the smartest person in the room, I just have to be smarter than the person I’m conning.

Can you. . .

. . .believe this shit?

Bob Marley would never endorse wine!

Stupidest request for resume of the day.

I received an email from a company asking if I have the skills they’re looking for to be a: Reality TV Writing instructor.

Are we trying to spawn a new generation of these twatwads?

Paddy Chayefsky is crying.