Tag Archives: funny

The Journey – Part 1

The plan is for me to get out of work on time, hit a bus, a train, a train and a bus to start my weekend at the beach. Now that doesn’t sound all too taxing. Pretty much a lot of sitting. It’s not until you add a few factors into the mix when things can turn hairy.

Things such as I have to catch the first bus ten minutes from the time I close for the day. The stop is only two minutes away so the only thing that can go wrong is customers. If one of those bastards lingers after hours, even after my not so gentle exhortations, it’ll make me miss the bus. So that’s the first obstacle. There are others until I get to the final bus. Late trains, getting caught in heavy but slow foot traffic that you just can’t find a spot to blow past, your own failure to keep up a hefty walking pace, and please don’t have me run into anyone I know while I’m foot bound. It happened once and the person was so pissed (or so they said in an email I looked at days later) after I said,

“Hi. Don’t have time. Say it to me in an email.” While blowing past them.

From the time the first bus leaves I have one hour and five minutes to accomplish this task. And it all begins back at work.

It’s thirty minutes before closing. I see that people are getting closer to wrapping up their day in plenty of time. I begin shutting down my day counting off the minutes. Now I know anything can go wrong in this time period (and by wrong I mean some idiot comes in) but, at this moment, all cues are in place.

Sixteen minutes to closing the front door opens. I say bad words in my head. I say more bad words in my head when I see who it is. Please, let me explain my heady outburst. Yesterday this same person came in asking to buy boxes. Simple, cardboard boxes. I point him to the display that he just walked past. He wandered over, stared at the five choices then went about inspecting said boxes as if they were the Hope diamond. Checking all angles, thumping it for some unknown to humans reason, shaking it (huh? As my Zen master Wong says, “Empty boxes contain no sound. Why the hell are you shaking it, jackass?” Wong’s a good Zen master but he has a pretty short fuse).

He then puts the box he wants on the counter. An unnecessary step. Do you know why? The name of the box is plastered across the front of the box. Say the name and the box whore will go gather it. I don’t need to see the physical manifestation of  the box. I am aware of what the damn box looks like, jackass. Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

After he places the box on the counter he says, “I’d like. . .”

And then he spends the next twenty seconds (and I am not exaggerating) staring at the box. Twenty seconds. Do you know how long that is when a person is staring at a box? It’s twenty fucking seconds too long, let me tell you. Don’t believe me? Stop reading now and stare ahead for twenty seconds. You started to lose it after ten, didn’t you? No? It wasn’t that long? Okay, send me your address. I’ll visit you and punch you in the head for twenty seconds. Do you think it’ll fell long then? Glad you got my point.

So this is the obstacle I have between me and bus #1. He comes in and I see what transaction is going to take place. I estimate a time and feel his completion of it will fall within a comfortable spot. Which proves what a fucking idiot I am.

My first inkling that something was about to go awry was when someone grabbed the doorknob to my office. In my experience when that happens someone is panicked. First because they’ve never touched that door before and second because the door they have always opened to discuss issues with me is right next to it. After a beat he opens the correct door, sticks his head inside and says,

“I forgot my keys. I have to go back to my house.”

I don’t panic. I’m no rookie. I look at that guy and say,

“You really are a fucking moron, aren’t you?”

No, I didn’t say that! That would be rude! Correct, but rude.

Instead I looked at the clock, twelve of , twenty-two minutes to bus #1, and say,

“You have ten minutes.” He swiftly exits and I continue moving my work day closer to completion.

Three minutes to closing and the group here completes their task and waves me a grand goodbye. Two minutes to closing the front door opens and the key forgetting box inspector enters. Wordlessly (Zen master Wong taught me that. “If you can’t say anything pleasant to another remain quiet and seethe.” He really is full of wisdom) I guide his entrance to the building. I lock the door as he goes about his task and I end my day.

And wait.

I’m watching him on the camera and he’s moving. In a sloth like manner. But it’s still movement. Two past the hour. Eight minutes to bus #1. Four past the hour. It looks as if he’s nearing completion. But he stops. Why are you stopping? Please don’t think about why you’re stopping. I sure as shit don’t have time for that level of contemplation. Six past the hour. He reaches the front
of the building. I begin to tidy up after him and quickly get to the absolute end of my work day. Eight past the hour I am out the door. Two minutes to go two minutes. Piece of cake.

Unless the bus driver, as often happens, decides to leave a touch early. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve turned the corner just in time to watch the bus pull away. But I don’t think that will happen today. I have faith that I can make it.

If this damn customer would stop talking to me! I’m trying to get past but he wants a little chat time. What he doesn’t know is, as mentioned earlier, I’m an on the fly chat off expert. My feet don’t stop as I wittily respond to his statements but, possibly before he knows I’m gone, I’m in the street heading for the first of many finish lines.

I turn the corner and the bus is there. The traffic is in my favor so I dash across the street and get to the bus just as the driver was reaching for the lever to shut the door. I calmly slap my card on the reader, the ching of money being spent is heard and as he pulls away I glide to my seat.

I now have sixty-five minutes to make it to my final bus.

The ride to the first train station is rapid and uneventful. We’re making good time. I’m counting down and we’re on schedule. We pull into the first train station and I rush in, turn the corner and notice that all the turnstiles are blocked off by temporary fences. This stops me in my tracks, obviously. I look around trying to see what the issue is when I see it. The sign that is the bane of the harried commuters existence.

“Station closed. Shuttle bus this way.”

Not a shuttle bus?!??!?!?!

End of part one.

Beach Balls

It’s a beautiful day and we’re spending it on the beach. That’s nice but it’s not awesome if you’re me. Don’t get me wrong, I like being on the beach but I get sunburned shoveling snow in January. My shaved head is lathered and has a baseball cap on it. I have a Julia Child basting a chicken amount of SPF 4000 on my entire body. I have an entourage of three each carrying an over-sized umbrella to cast a shadow twenty feet around me. And I have a cabana boy fanning the sand in front of me to cool it down before my arrival.

So, yeah, I love the beach.

My girlfriend likes to toss around the Frisbee. She also has this habit of tossing it seven kilometers away from me so she can watch my gazelle like countenance dart across the sand. Of course, that was then. Now that I’m old, it’s more like a Zell like unformed shape a cracking and a popping and a huffing and a puffing across a tiny swath of sand hoping not to sweat off one dollop of sunscreen.

We’re just hanging out, breaking a law or two, having a fun beach day. One of the things we like to do is, of course, people watch. You see all sorts on the beach. Some you wish you hadn’t but that’s part of the fun. I was once on a tropical island when this Buddy Hackett looking guy came up to me and asked me a question. My eyes were closed as he approached so I hope you can imagine my surprise to first see his dick. Now I didn’t expect that on a clear Monday morning. Later that same day I walked into a beach bar and saw two women sitting on the same normal sized chair and they weren’t touching. They were so thin they had to be tethered to the bar so they didn’t blow away in the gentle breeze.

My girl and I are walking down the beach talking about current events.

“Did you see the bathing suit on that woman?” My girlfriend asked about a woman inappropriately wearing a Junior Miss one piece.

“Yeah.” I said.

You can’t get more current than that.

During our walk we happened upon a guy sleeping on a beach chair. He looked rather comfortable except for one minor detail.

“Are that guy’s balls hanging out?” I inquire.

At this my girlfriend stopped. Being a medical professional she had to assess the situation. Once she did her intake she responded with a rousing,

“Yes.” Then we went on our merry way.

What else could we do? Sure I could have approached the dude but how do I broach this subject?

“Excuse me, fine sir, but while strolling down the beach just now I couldn’t help but notice at least one of your testicles has become, how does one say? Unmoored.”

I’ve done a lot of things but this one was a little outside my area of expertise. I’ve told friends things have been untoward with their personal vessel but walking up to a stranger and saying,

“Dude, your balls are going to look like fried meatballs if you don’t jam ’em back in your shorts.”

Has many potential outcomes but not one I could imagine coming out fine for me.

So we walked on figuring a friend would come back from the water and toss a towel over him or, after taking a few pictures, wake him to let him know. Or maybe someone around him would make sounds to wake him so he can gently take care of business.

I also gave thought to some of the sunburns I’ve had and did shiver thinking what would have happened if any of them contained my balls. I don’t think the medical profession advises one to tear a layer of skin off ones scrotum. Would be an interesting story though.

About twenty minutes later we’re heading back. Now I know you may find this hard to believe but I almost forgot to check on ball boy. I know, if it was you you’d be able to think of nothing else for the next week. But weird shit happens around me all the time and this was just another one.

But, at the last minute, I did remember so shot him a quick glance.

He is going to be one unhappy camper tonight.

Dueling Grandfathers

A guy is chatting about his grandfather. He tells me his grandfather’s glass eye used to freak him out.
 
Without thinking I said, “That’s nothing, my grandfather had a glass leg and wooden eye.”

A Day At The Beach

We were at one of those beach side bars enjoying the day as we often do on our days off. The sun was rippling off the water causing diamond like glitters throughout. A smooth and cool breeze caused the high shimmering sun to brush gently off my face. We were far enough away from the water so the splashing waves seemed like comforting murmuring conversation. A couple of kids ran down the street excited that they’re sure they saw a shark.

I know if you close your eyes you can transport there and enjoy the moment. Nice, isn’t it?

But if you do, I’ll have to add one more piece to the summertime puzzle.

And their names were Bethany and Madison who were also enjoying this pleasant summer day by ruining it for everyone within a fifty yard radius.

Sadly for me I was at ground zero for the onslaught. At first, because they were sitting next to us, people turning around to give them the stink eye thought there was a possibility we were with this backing up dump truck of a duo. They were ‘ON VACATION!’ and they sure as hell going to let everyone know. Every member of the wait staff who walked past tried to make a subtle, laid back attempt to take the bewailing to a level more befitting this serene scene.

But even the manager walking over and, still gently, chiding them to chill they let him know this was their well-earned vacation and they were going to express themselves freely. They were young, dumb and, potentially later that evening, full of strangers cum and they wanted everyone to know it. They were here to strut their stuff and Rupaul would have nothing on them. I was keeping an eye on them because of the level of activity going on.

They were going through their bags pulling everything out slamming it on the bar. One of them (sorry, they looked so much alike I couldn’t tell which one was Bethany and which one was Madison) made sure to slap down a platinum credit card so the staff could see her father was someone who wanted her out so much he’d give her a ‘go anywhere’ card. And I know it was from him because I could read her name and the company was named Michael The Same Last Name As Bethany, Inc. Paying attention (or as some people would call it snooping) is a vital skill in my world.

Finally the manager knew he had to do something. How did he finally know? A four-top and two other couples pretty much got up at the same time to leave. Even he knows four middle aged customers are going to spend more than a pair of Bethany’s and Madison’s. He walks up to them, puts his hands on the bar, leans in gently and says nothing because Bethany jumped right in with a full blown,

“What the fuck do you want?” The manager just stands there. I guess that’s a reaction new to him. But she’s not done. “If we’re bothering you so much we’ll just fucking leave this piece of shit and never come back.” The manager is still standing there probably thrilled that they themselves were actually going to bounce themselves out of his establishment. Bethany picks up her 75% full  frozen beverage and starts pounding it.

And it was as frightening as you’d expect.

Fluid was dribbling down both sides of her cheeks. Gobs from each side caught up and puddled in her deep suprasternal notch. It was like watching a dog trying to drink water that’s sprayed from a hose. Without taking a breath she polished off the icy contents. I figured she wouldn’t get a frozen headache because that malady erupts in brains and she’s showed no evidence of having formed one of those.

“Good enough for you?” She sneers as ice particles melt off her face and drip to the floor. While this was going on the fast thinking bartender grabbed daddy’s credit card and swiped it to hasten this journey.

She stands up as the bartender comes back with a few napkins and the credit card bill. Bethany sneers at the bill as if their mishandling of this situation is the cause of her self-inflicted consternation. She quickly doodled on the check ignoring the napkins as a dollop of beverage fell where the ‘t’ should have been in her name.

She looks at her face in the mirror and sees that it’s not only wet it’s streaked the color of her drink. She looks at the bartender, still holding napkins, then the manager before turning her head and wiping her cheeks and mouth on the sleeve of my t-shirt.

Yes, homicide was the first thought that passed my mind. I searched the bar for a nearby weapon. It must have been pretty obvious to anyone looking at me, excluding the clueless Bethany, of course, because the manager grabbed my elbow and started wiping my shoulder fairly vigorously. While holding down my arm with some force. I looked at him and nodded. He knew I wasn’t going to disembowel her with a lobster cracker. But I could have easily placed my hand on one. The bartender continued to move all objects off the bar as Bethany and Madison exited the bar complaining about how THEIR VACATION was now ruined.

With my target off my radar I calmed down quickly. The manager is still wiping my shoulder but I waved him off. Worse things have been wiped on me, believe me. After a few seconds of sitting there silently the entire place started laughing. Which allowed everyone a chance to ease the tension and slowly go back to enjoying this beautiful day.

Buy And Sell You

That’s an interesting concept. Let’s forget about the whole ‘ain’t that slavery?’ part of the equation because that would just make this exercise ugly. Let’s concentrate on the what brought us to someone saying to someone else,

“I could buy and sell you.”

It’s never a good situation. It’s never a situation when you’ve run out into the street to save their tottering grandchild who escaped during a moment of distraction from their mother. You never hear,

“I will buy you out of your current work-a-day life and sell you to the highest bidder so as you will live in a heretofore unimagned life of luxury. And, if I find not a suitable purchaser, I will retain you for my own even if I have to sell my own children and rent out my grandchildren to a lesser god to make sure your all dreams and wishes are fulfilled.”

It’s always some pumped up braggart who isn’t getting the attention he (and come to think of it, I’ve never heard a woman say it) feels he deserves. It happened to me recently. I was out with some people and it was a night of warm conversation and other boring platitudes. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice. But who wants to hear people talk about their jobs? And that’s what they’re going to talk about. Most people hate their jobs so what kind of story is going to come out of that?

“And then Brenda said, ‘Capital idea, Mr. Smythengen. Only a great, wise and noble gentleman, such as yourself, could have conceived of such a brilliant plan.’ What an ass kisser she is. And she’s not in the department that now has double the workload. I hate my job. And Brenda.”

After sixty or seventy seconds of that I’m ready to kill the messenger.

I never get into work discussions (unless the story is hilarious). I always say, “Good. Nothing new.” I even said that on the day I had to physically restrain a drug-induced psychotic woman so she’d stop bothering another customer. And I said customer not patient because I don’t work in a ‘go restrain this person’ field. Generally.

After everyone has barfed up their hating work stories someone asked me to tell a specific story. It was a story I’ve told many times including here. It’s a funny story and I don’t mind telling it but I hate to be called upon to unexpectedly perform. It’s not part of the flow of the conversation. Add to that the ‘tell us a story, Chris’ part of it is off-putting. I mean, yeah, I know I can tell this story in a funny manner but, it’s not a story for everyone.

Necrophilia and coming out of a men’s room with a strange woman isn’t a story for everyone.

But, I tell it. Mainly because I didn’t want to hear one more Brenda story. I get laughs where I should and dismay in the correct places. After I finish people are reacting then one person said,

“Ah, you think you’re all that.” I just told a necrophiliac/men’s room with a strange woman story. I obviously don’t think I’m above much. “I could buy and sell you.”

“How much?”

“What?” I can already feel his buyers remorse.

“How much? What’s the going price? I mean, I could give up my current life if someone was willing to put up some cake. What’s the going price for a stud like myself?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You just said you could buy and sell me. To do that, first, you’d have to buy me. So I’m just wondering what that price would be?”

“Are you nuts? It’s just an expression.”

“No,” I redirect him. “It’s not. It’s a statement that monetizes my worth in regards to your perceived worth. Which, as stated, you are worth so much more than I you are willing to pay to make me your property. So, what am I worth to you? I know my girlfriend would like to walk out of here with cash sans me. So what’s the opening bid?”

“You’re insane.”

“Me? You’re the one willing to illegally, in a public place, purchase another human being.”

By now the guy is flustered so I know I have mere seconds to get this to a close.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll set the price.” I stop and think for a second. I can see his flee instinct pushing him. “Seven hundred eighty-six thousand four hundred twenty-seven dollars and thirty-nine cents.”

Everyone is quiet. I smile and look around. “Okay, anyone want to top that bid?” No one says a word. I know some of them want to say something but they’re going to stall their eagerness to jump in to see how this ends.

“Huh.” I say to my new owner as I slide closer to him. “The buying part is easy. But the selling, well, the selling is a bitch for such a rare commodity as I.”

I look him in the face. He pissed. I’m happy. Funny how often those two things intersect in my life. “Guess I’m yours now.” I lean closer. “And you’re fucked because I drink a shitload of Heineken.”

I heard Bill. . .

. . .Cosby is doing town halls on how not to get accused of sexual harassment. I was fortunate to get a peek at his script for these shows, ah, meetings.

“Hey, hey, hey! It’s your acquitted old friend Bill Cosby. Over the decades I’ve given people the wisdom of my knowledge. Unselfishly, I might add. Things like, pull your damn pants up and always have Fat Albert on your Buck Buck team.

But today I’m going to talk to you about how to avoid being accused of sexual harassment.

Number one, don’t roofie anyone.

Number two, well, there is no number two.

Hey, hey, hey!”

A woman was. . .

. . .telling me she couldn’t pay me because she was just, “Fired from my job at the sperm bank.”

And my first response was, “How do you get fired from a sperm bank? Where you out back sampling the product?”