Schmalentines

'Ello again.

As this year's Valentines Day draws to a close (considering it's 3am as I write this, i guess we are past the apex of its "Valentinea"), I would like to take this time to reflect upon the absolute crap-hole of a day this is if you work in a retail setting.

I work in the pharmacy of a rather slow Walgreens.  We have rushes, like anyone else, but we generally have a laid back work experience.  This was not the case today.

The first sign of the atrocity that was today manifested itself in the parking situation with which I was greeted upon arrival.  Or, I should say the lack of a parking situation.  I had to circle the bloody building three times, waiting for someone to leave so I could go to work.

When I was finally allowed to enter the soul-sucking vortex from which I will probably never escape, I found that the line at the front register resembled the one at the DMV, except that it was about 80% male, and most of these had flowers and/or candy (which is a pretty sad comment on the "I want it now!" last-minute mindset of our culture).  Ever single flower represented was a red rose.  I wasn't even aware that Walgreens had flowers, but I guess you can probably score a bouquet of roses at Denny's if you go on February 14th.

I tell you this to pose a question: why are red roses considered the "love" roses?  What's wrong with the yellow ones?  Or the white?  Heck, I've seen purple roses.  Why do we neglect all these other colors and go for the red ones?

I think that the color of the flower should say something.  Yeah, I know, there is an accepted "give this color if..." scale, but it's crap.  Yellow = friendship?  There are not words for the awkwardness that would arise from me giving any of my friends yellow roses.  Maybe the scale is just for girls.  Well, that's even more crap, because it's a sexist scale.  I'm a guy, and I want my own scale.  I decided to make up my own meaning for one of the least used colors:

Merry Valentines Day to all, and to all, time to go to freaking bed.

I'm on to you...

Dear Kimberly,

Over the years that I have known you, I have been able to observe your behavior in a myriad of situations.  Little did you know that I have been cataloging this information for later use, and have come to an alarming conclusion.  You are either a serial killer or insane.  Probably both.

I come to this conclusion because it is the most likely explanation for your actions, particularly those concerning me.  For instance, no matter how often I forget to accomplish the most simplistic task (wash the dishes, bathe the dogs, eat lunch) you always forgive me and help me complete said task.

            

            In addition, you often tell me, in many different ways, that I am attractive.  We all know this is a bald-faced lie, especially when you take into consideration the fact that I have spent a grand total of seven minutes in my entire life attempting to be attractive, and all of those took place before we were even married.  You told me I was handsome a few mornings ago, and I was not.  I know this, because it was 7:00 on a Monday morning, and I was up until 3 the night before.  My hair held a remarkable resemblance to that of Jim Varney, and my eyes were completely crusted over, to the point I had to open them with my fingers.

            

            Initially, I thought you were simply mocking me, but you always sound so earnest that I am forced to attribute said comments to an ulterior motive (such as a desire to see me stuffed and mounted on the wall) or a clear lapse in sanity.

                

            Another example of your nefarious plotting can be found in your love of special occasions, such as my birthday and our anniversary.  I am the worst special-day-rememberer in the world.   I forget my own birthday most of the time, and I have forgotten nearly every special occasion the entire time we have been together.  Most wives yell and scream if they don’t get a “Happy Ramadan” card, but you barely even mentioned it when I forgot your birthday.  You even put up with my pitiful “making up for it” ceremony, involving about a month of “Happy seventeen days after your birthday”, etc.

            

            Again, Occam and his teaching lead me to believe you have some devious plot to sell my internal organs on Ebay.  Why else would you react to my thoughtlessness in such a way?

        

            Finally, I cite the final reason I believe you may be a deranged psychopath: you cook and clean for me, even though I HAVE NEVER ASKED YOU TO DO SO!  What is wrong with you?!?  What type of sick individual takes time out of her already busy day to prepare meals for someone who would be content to eat ramen noodles every day?  Or do laundry for a person who is completely happy to wear the same thing four days in a row?  Granted, the laundry thing might be slightly motivated by self-preservation, because you would also have to live with my stench, but that can’t be the only reason.

    

            I am writing this to let you know that I’ve figured out your scheme.  To be honest, it wasn’t that hard.  You were too perfect!  You might have gotten away with it if you yelled once in a while, or nagged a little.  You should have been less witty and engaging!  It must be a farce, because no one is so utterly perfect all the time!

            I’m watching you.  This behavior had better stop, or I will be forced to alert the FBI.

(idea from Hyperbole and a Half)

The Hairlocost

So I went to get a haircut today.  I despise the necessity of having the keratin violently removed from my scalp.  I feel a vague sense of pity for hair, because it does its job very well for weeks and sometimes months, only to get shanked and thrown in a dumpster.

But today, I hated getting a haircut for an entirely different reason.

It hurt.  A lot.  Like, a WHOLE lot.  A subjective "buttload".

As soon as I walked into Fantastic Sam’s I knew it was a bad idea.  I was greeted by Debbie, one of the “stylists,” with the words, “Hey, sweetie.  I’ll be right back, I gotta’ put twenty down on the phone bill.”  I love Mississippi.

Had I been aware of the travesty that was to be committed upon her return, I would have run screaming into the hills.

When she finally got back and I had the giant bib on, she began to, for lack of a better phrase, ravaging my head with her clippers.  Apparently they have a new beauty accessory: adamantine clipper guards.  I know this, because I have some imbedded in my skull.

For the next 10 minutes I was cranium-raped by this apparatus of doom.  Not only was she excessively violent, the clippers seemed to be powered by a pair of titmice hopping on a pair of tiny pistons, because it got caught in my hair 3 times.  This was bad enough, but my “stylist” must have read the instruction manual wrong, because I doubt the recommended procedure to remove a jammed clipping apparatus from someone's mane is through a swift, hard yank.

Approximately seven years later, the cranial molestation ended.  While I was greatly relieved it was over, I quickly became apprehensive about the next step, in which this psychopath would be wielding a set of hinged blades in extremely close proximity to my face.  I’ll spare you the details and just mention that I was poked in the eye with a comb twice and it still took her four tries to make it look halfway decent.

To add insult to injury this particular "salon" had a tip added to every ticket if you used a debit card "because we can't edit the amount after it's sent."  However, because I was finally free of Herr Debbie and her house of horrors (and therefore free from reprisals), I could finally explain that, when I entered the establishment, I did not want to be shivved, have my hair ripped from my skull, or nearly blinded.

She never even apologized.  She simply said, "Well, I've already run it."

To which I replied, "Well, un-run it, Deb.  Or, if you prefer, I can send you the bills for my tetanus shot, opthalmological exam, and post-rape counselling."  Which I thought was pretty funny.  Apparently Deb does not share my sense of humor.

She called her manager to void the transaction and proceeded to tell her that I was "being rude".  Granted, I wasn't the nicest person in the world, but I had been recently traumatized, so I wasn't exactly chipper.

I told the manager that I would pay the bill (because my hair was indeed shorter than when I had entered the establishment, thus, in a technical sense, I had received a haircut), but I only handed her $13 instead of the requested $14.83 and explained that I wanted to give Debbie a negative tip of $1.83.  She said that I did not have to give her a tip, but I was required to pay the bill in full.  I dug out another bill and some change, threw it on the counter and left.

But the trick's on them.  I only left $1.70!  VICTORY IS MINE!!!1111!

Apparently, Stereotypes Are There For a Reason

                Some guy came into work today and stood talking to the pharmacist about hunting and fishing for about 7.3 years.  I was concentrating on filling prescriptions, but I overheard snippets of their conversation, and I was compelled to write them down so I could share them with you.

              

  I will preface these comments thusly:

I live in Mississippi.  Now, when I said that, what was the first thought that came to your mind?  Some backwoods town with a population of 200 people, 400 pickups, 79 meth labs, and 7 teeth?  Or maybe a tiny, run-down shack with a toilet-planter and 7 rusted vehicle chasses?

This is not the case (most of the time…).  Most Mississippians are just as intelligent as anyone else.  But there are many who give credence to these stereotypes, such as the interesting individual who uttered the following phrases:

1. (talking about deer hunting) “…done put a hole in him ‘bout yea big [holds up a Red Bull], could look down in ‘im ‘bout that fer, too.  Looked like ya’ put a three-n-a-quarter drill bit an’ yanked it out.”

2. “Ah reckon huntin’ is ‘bout 57% luck.  The rest is sweat ‘n’ spit.”  It's Bubba the freaking statistician...

3.  “We got’s us an ‘in-R-essin’ sit-che-a-shun’” (interesting situation, in case you aren’t fluent in hillbilly).

I was barely able to keep from laughing in his face.

On an unrelated note, my coworker shared a story today about an experience she had in her college drama class.  This is almost verbatim.

“I was taking a theater class and our teacher was one of those drama nuts.  You know what I mean?  Everything had a deep, deep significance.  Anyway, it was a night class so lots of the students were older.  As part of the class we had to pick a partner and act out some scenes.

“One of the students was a middle-aged black lady who was never far from a bottle.  She would always roll in with stories about how wasted she was the night before.  When I heard that we had to act with partners, I immediately picked her.  One of the scenes we were supposed to act out was one from The Women.  I was supposed to sneak around a house, trying to get information.  She was a cleaning lady who catches me.

“Because we were acting it out in the hallway, we decided to pretend that the doors in the hallway were the windows I was snooping through.  As I’m making my way down the hallway, staying low, because that’s what the lady in the movie did, I reach the door to the men’s restroom.  I am oblivious to this fact, because I’m so nervous about everyone watching me.  I lost my balance trying to stay low and fell to my knees.  Of course, the door bursts open and there stands another one of my other professors, and I’m suddenly all up in his junk.  He yelped and jumped back into the bathroom, and I fell over backwards.  The entire class is laughing so hard they are about to have seizures, and my partner is rolling on the floor holding her sides.”

I lol'd.

My Drug of Choice

Am I the only one who feels that Wikipedia is like a combination of Cadbury Creme Eggs, sex, and heroine?  I am obsessed with knowing things.  I'm not all that concerned with the subject...I just want to know more about...well...stuff.  When I get on Wikipedia, I can literally spend hours just reading about the most random junk in the universe, and if I inexplicably run out of ideas, they actually have a "Random Article" button!

After spending only a few minutes on the site, here's my Google Chrome (no, I didn't join the Firefox bandwagon, suckas!) history.

1. Edward James Olmos - How could someone who looks like a cross between a pizza and a crocodile's rectum be in show business?

2. Battlestar Galactica - I like this show.  Maybe one day I'll have more money so I can buy more than 1.5 (not 2, but 1.5, the cheap punks) seasons.

3. Latino Public Broadcasting

4. Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood - He still scares me a little.  No one should be that calm and emotionless.

5. Reading Rainbow - Yes, please.

6. LeVar Burton - I thought he was blind for years.  Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

7. Star Trek: The Next Generation - The only good one, imho.  Shatner was terribad, and after Picard it turned into a soap opera.

8. Patrick Stewart - Best.  Voice.  EVARRR!!!

9. X-Men - Used to be so cool, until they had to change everything for the idiotic children of today.  Of course, I'm sure the same was said about...

10. Howdy Doody - Did you know they made a knock off?  Me neither:

11. La Hora de Jaudi Dudi - Presumably "The Howdy Doody Hour"  or possibly "The Whore of Jaundice and Fecal Matter".   Probably the former.

It is now 2:30 in the morning, and my typing woke up my wife.  She asked me what I'm doing.  I said "blogging."  She responded, "Well, how about sleeping, so I don't have to make myself a widow?"

I'll post this quickly, because I am in danger of being garroted with a pony-tail holder.

The Great Shift (or The Bathroom, the Penis, and the Napalm)

Well, I am in my final semester of my undergrad, and I am going to try my darndest to update more often, even if I'm only talking to myself.  Because I need to be able to express my somewhat strange (read: insane) ramblings, or I will end up including them in my term papers, which has not ended well in the past.  In addition, I have read over some of my past posts and they bored me.  And I'm the one who wrote them.  And I Like Me.  And if I don't enjoy reading them, it poses the question, "Why on this earth would anyone else want to read them?"

Having said that, I am going to spend more time talking about more interesting subjects (such as my own personal neuroses, things that make me laugh, things that I want to hit with something hard and blunt, etc.)

Now, on to the first post in my new world in which I embrace the purple elephants of my undiagnosed ADD and mold them into a new form that entertains you.



Do you remember the first time you had to use a public restroom as a kid, and your parent had to explain the rules?  In my case, my dad had to explain to me that public restrooms were not as clean as ours at home, so I shouldn't touch anything.  Then I had to figure out the urinal.  Holy crap, was that an ordeal.  When I finally realized what I was supposed to do, I couldn't stop laughing, because, to my infantile mind, whoever set this up actually wanted me to pee on the wall.  After I overcame my laughing fit and finished, I was mildly disappointed, which was business as usual.

I was reminiscing about this experience, and I had a thought.  When we use a public restroom, we all make sure to wash our hands especially well, because they're nasty, and we don't want to end up with gono-herpa-syphil-AIDS.  But what I just realized is that the most disgusting part of the bathroom (outside of the actual "pee on this" surfaces) is the handle of the urinal.  Why?  Because, right after the third shake, we zip up our pants and flush the toilet, with only a mere second or two separating hand/wang from hand/flushing-rod-thingie.  What the heck?  If I designed a bathroom, I'd have a concentrated beam of UV rays and possibly some sort of napalm delivery system installed directly in front of the urinal handle.

OR, more realistically, maybe some sort of flushie-handle condoms to put on it, so I don't end up grabbing 400 penises every time I flush.  I don't care that I'm about to wash my hands, I have a strong aversion to phalli.

Never Forgotten

Crushing heat, the stench goes on for days

Food is scarce, but the oppressive solitude

Wears far worse.

Hundreds of marks on the wall

Count the clock’s tireless journey.

You are not forgotten.

A mother’s glance happens upon a gold ribbon.

Tears spring to her eyes, unbidden,

Yet not unwelcome.

The father refuses to work on the car;

Restoration is not a solo project.

Sisters long for their protector, their friend.

You are not forgotten.

The young beauty, pledged for eternity

Yet only just begun

Has matched four years of bliss

With four of despair.

A babe’s first words are not “Dada,”

Because Dada is not known.

You are not forgotten