Evening, Guvna'

Above what you're reading now, you will no doubt have seen a British flag. It's a bit odd. None of my previous entries have had pictures. I just want to drive a point home with this one.

I'm British. I didn't choose to be British, but according to the British Embassy in Washington, DC, I was registered as a British citizen on October 3rd, 1991. There's nothing I can do about that, but we'll work through it. Together.

I bring this up because in the past year I've faced resistance to this notion. I've had people tell me that I'm as British as a Bolivian Botfly. That might have been from when I had a really bad trip and met Dr. Seuss, actually.

In any case, people have told me that I'm not British because I was born in Fairfax. I can kind of see some sort of diluted argument in there somewhere, but to defend myself, I'll call the aide of a fellow hockey player.



The large human being above is Robyn Regehr, a defenseman for the Calgary Flames. He was born in the Brazilian city of Recife. That's right. Brazil. Robyn has been a steady defensive defenseman for years on the Calgary blueline. So much so that he got the call for his national team at the 2006 Olympics in Torino.

He got an assist during his 6-game stint with Team Canada.

Wait what? Canada? This guy's Brazilian, right?

No. No he's not. He's Canadian. So is his brother Richie (who was born across the globe in Bundung, Indonesia). Both were born far outside of Canada's borders, but somehow they're still true blood Canadians. Could it be because of their two Canadian parents? What a novel fucking idea.

But for some people, this logic doesn't seem to translate over to my own experience. Both of my parents are British, but the fact that I was born in Fairfax suddenly nullifies any tea-drinking, cricket-playing, crumpet-eating Britishness. Is there a sub-rule to this rule? Do my parents need to be missionaries in countries less-developed than their own in order for me to inherit their nationalities?

I think not.

You might be asking yourself why I care so much. It seems like I'm just clinging to some random personal fact to give me something to brag about to a lot of you, I expect. It's not, though. It's pride; patriotism.

I'm proud that I'm British, just as other people in this country are proud of being American. I'm proud that I was raised to appreciate a brand of humor that is seen as hard to understand and high brow. I'm proud that my country has such a rich history filled with all of the romance and intrigue of a cheap erotic novel. I'm proud that, given enough time to decypher it, I can understand Cockney rhyming slang. And yes, I'm proud that, when called upon, I can speak in and sustain accents from all of the different corners of Britannia.

I haven't really gotten around to it, but I've often meant to ask the people who put my heritage into question why they're so insistent on putting me down. Is it really that annoying to hear me go on about it?

I'll remind you of that next time you mention you're half mexican.

Interpretations

There's one aisle in every supermarket that is rife with assumption, allure, and another word starting with "a" that repeats a consonant as its second and third letter. It's the one that has toothbrushes, toothpaste, other dental hygiene supplies, carryover hair supplies from the aisles next to it, and of course: condoms.

I'm not exactly sure why the condoms are anywhere near the toothpaste. That's just like putting a sign above the aisle saying "quickest way to get expelled", or as teenagers might see it "BEST DAY EVER SUPPLIES". No matter what you actually go into that aisle for, you know you're going to glance at the condoms. It's inevitable. The trick is to look as if it was nothing more than a glance. Sometimes it's hard to imagine the purpose of those Magnum XXLs that have the flashiest gold packaging and manage not to recoil at the thought of what goes into them.

I've decided they're used to keep large pieces of firewood in one place. I'm told to believe that every part of that last bit after "fire" is the actual reason for them, but long ago I came to the realization that mythical beasts just do not exist.

I really think supermarkets put them next to the toothpaste for constant amusement. Everytime they see someone come down that aisle, they immediately assume that they're buying condoms. They walk by, giving them a knowing wink and nod. They could be reaching for a new tube of Aquafresh, but they've seen the condoms. They're going for them.

This can backfire though. As soon as they see an old lady in one of those (FUCKING ANNOYING) scooter carts rolling down the toothpaste and condom aisle, their minds go to places they didn't want to be taken. Images of their grandmothers pop into their head, followed by severe, involuntary scratching of their retinas by their own fingers in a subconscious effort to remove said images.

I tend to pass through this aisle every day I work, en route to the dairy wall I have to face. Everytime I see someone in there looking through the toothpaste, I try catching their eye as I pass, hoping they'll see the "Yeah, you buy that toothpaste you dirty, dirty person you" in my smile.

But really it's all given me a bit of an idea.

One day, I'm going to go into the Toothpaste and Condom aisle at a supermarket, take all of the Magnum XXLs from off the rack and buy them all. I'll go to a bar or some other fancy establishment, and stuff them all in my jacket pocket. When I go to sit down in front or next to a group of people, I'll "unintentionally" knock the condoms out of the pocket, aiming to drop them in front of a hot chick. When she looks up at me after looking at the 50-odd condoms on the table in front of her, I'll smile and raise my right eyebrow.

"I went in there for toothpaste and came out with those. Not quite sure how that one happened."



Bring da Noise

All in the Name

I'd like to think that I do everything for a reason.

That is, of course, what I'd LIKE to think. If you can think of a single reason why I named my car "Dick Turpin", you'd have one more than I do. I do actively make certain decisions for a reason though, but most of them are to counteract other decisions I made without a reason (Lost you yet?).

Once such example: my facial hair. No, I did not wake up one day and say "I've already grown my head-hair out, might as well", but it did kind of have something to do with "the mane".

But this all started before I had hair. Imagine yourself in a hospital room in Fairfax, Virginia. If you need help with that, just imagine a Hawaiian beach at low tide. That's not what a hospital room in Fairfax looks like, but as the scene doesn't entirely matter, it'll do.

There are two British people in the room (or beach, as you may have chosen to imagine). They had just beheld the birth of their only son. They wanted to give him a British-y name and had decided that "Winston Churchill Smith" and "Queen Elizabeth II Smith" were off the table, as they wanted to spare their son from the fists and other blunt objects of his future high school peers.

The woman was from Wales, and decided that she wanted a Welsh name for her son. She didn't want to give him "Owen", because some woman she knew that she didn't particularly like had already given her son that name. She didn't want to show up in a public place with a baby with the same name as someone else's baby. One of them would have to go home and change babies, and that just wasn't convenient.

So they decided on Morgan. Before I go on, let me just say that I love my name. It's not an overdone, biblical name (which is very fortunate considering what I turned out thinking about the Bible) and I can go into a room and have a different name than anyone else standing (or sitting, I don't judge) in it.

Now, the name Morgan is fine and dandy for a guy in Wales, but in America, it hits some hitches. A.) I'm not black, 2.) I'm not an actor, III.) My voice cannot sound comforting and reassuring no matter what it's saying, and Quatre.) All of the Above (a.k.a. Morgan Freeman).

Because my name is what would be considered a girl's name, and I decided to grow my hair out because "why the fuck not?", I've had to find some way to compensate for the fact that from behind or clean shaven, I look like a girl. A pregnant girl. So I grew out the scruff. That's the story behind that.

Because of the feminine persuasion of my name, I've started to wonder if I should start going by my middle name. My middle name is one that I could take to great new heights. I'm fairly certain that the name hasn't been used in the world since The Princess Bride, but if I were to go by Inigo Smith, I'm fairly certain the raw sexuality of it in addition to some sort of reference to a six fingered man and paternal revenge would make me win at life.

I'd have to beat the girls off with sticks. Not because of my greatly increased sex appeal, though. The introduction of a person named Inigo in 21st century society would upset the forces of life and death, turning everyone in the world into carnivorous zombies hungry for flesh. I would literally have to beat Femme-Zombies off with sticks and various other blunt instruments.

Just something to ponder.

It's all for you, Damien


BONUS ENTRY! LUCKY YOU!

Have you ever had a dream that you wake up from, quickly realize that everything in that dream never happened, and then just sit up in your bed and say "Fuck"?

I did this very thing on Saturday morning.

So my dream starts off with me talking to my mom and my hockey coach, who have never met in real life. Not even sure they've seen each other, or know the other exists for that matter, but whatever. They were talking to me about prom, like you do.

Then my mom mentions, in a kind of "oh by the way" kind of way, that she knows Scarlett Johansson and thinks we should go to prom together. I don't remember what she said after that, most likely because I don't tend to hear much when my jaw is cemented to the floor, but lo and behold, I went to prom with Scarlett Johansson.

I somehow got from what looked like the kitchen in my old house where Plano prom was being held to a deformed ice rink, where I was playing hockey.

But that's not the point. I had a dream that I went to prom with Scarlett Johansson.

I then woke up.

Fuck.

A Jumbled Mess

When I tell people that I'm insane, they tend not to believe me.

Granted, I am not legally insane in the slightest. The definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. Now I think that definition is a bit crap, but when you think about serial killers, it starts to make a bit of sense.

Imagine it. The serial killer is convinced, FUCKING CONVINCED I tell you, that multiple stab wounds to the upper back won't do much to a person outside of a tickling sensation in both pinky toes, and he's out to prove it to the world. He convinces himself he's just doing it wrong, and continues.

I look at this definition and don't see anything about it that fits with me. The only thing I repeat thinking this time it'll be different is maybe "the day I go around a department store with no pants" Day(or Friday, as most people like call it). No one seems to laugh at that one. I'm convinced, though, that one day some really hot girl will be in that store on that day and will approach me, telling me how fantastic my sense of humor and choice of clothing are. In my well-thought-out story that I wrote for this situation, we went back to a dirty motel, seductively looking at each other as we checked in. The person behind the counter knew what we were up to when he saw us. He gave us a handful of condoms, clearly seeing we were going to use them. I chased her into the motel room and the fun began.

We used the condoms to make balloon animals and played poker for a few minutes before realizing that we had nothing in common. I bet you thought I was going to say that we engaged in a sexual romp that would make the great Roman orgymaster Biggus Dickus blush, but I don't roll that way. Balloon animals are MUCH more fun and a THOUSAND times less awkward to remember when you walk by the person you did it with in a hallway.

But yes. People don't believe that I'm insane, or at least my definition of it.

I don't go out looking to change that either. That part just kind of happens. What I do actively go out looking to do is making people like me enough before they find out so that when they do know, they'll look at me as the loveable, nonsense-spewing, always good for a laugh kind of insane person, not the "kill you with sticks" insane person.

That being said, it is always fun to give people who think I'm in the latter group a knowing stare. The "knowing" part of it means that they "know" that I'm going to "kill them with sticks". Though even if I was a mentally deranged psychopath, I doubt I'd want to use sticks. Too much effort.

You're probably wondering what I mean when I say "insane". No, it's not "I want to kill things" insane. It's not "let's run for vice president without any experience" insane either.

It's thinking of things that no one wants to think about because they're afraid where their mind will take them. I have no such fear. I am unkillable when I enter the reaches of my own mind.

Some people call it imagination. I call it a mental issue.

The Perfect Girl

Let's get the moping out of the way right now. Sunday was Valentine's Day. I decided to spend this post-three day hiatus entry talking about the aptly named Singles Awareness Day.

Apart from spending it working for five hours, I also spent Valentines alone. For the 18th straight year. It got me thinking when, and certainly if, I'll ever have someone to give chocolates, flowers, and stuffed animals to somewhere down the line when the calendar dictates I do so.

Then I got into thinking who she'd be, what she'd be like, where she'd come from, etc. In between sticking my hands in three or four different kinds of meat, I started to carve out what my perfect girl would be like.

Now, ask any guy to describe the perfect girl and they'll tell you one of three things.

The first thing would be a slew of romance novel adjectives. The guy will list off all of the things you'd expect them too: she's smart, funny, and fun to be around. They might throw in "beautiful" or some form of "fantastic", and all of this may well be true, but it seems to me that people that only list these things off in their descriptions are really just sugarcoating what they truly mean.

"I don't really find her that interesting, but oh my god she's got big boobs."

Crude, I know, but we're talking about guys here. Though some pompous pricks will say that this is just some beaten-to-death cliche girls chatter on about when they hand around in groups of three or more, the male is just not a very complex being. It is true that we think with two completely seperate parts of our bodies, moreso in the area that doesn't actually have any cognitive ability. That much I admit. I can't exactly apologize for it though. It's just kind of how we are. The differentiation lies in how open we are about it.

The second thing is a less veiled form of the "baby got back and front" description. This is the misogenistic douchebag who says that a woman's place is in the kitchen, not speaking unless spoken to, and being generally submissive. There's nothing interesting in that. There's just no personality in submission. Saying that all you want out of a woman is sandwiches and quiet approval is like wearing a giant sign around your neck (or wearing a novelty t-shirt) that says "I fuck on the first date" written across it. For one, it doubles as a crown labeled "The Douchebag", italics and all. For another, the kind of girls you attract with such statements tend to be terrified of being anything more than one-dimensional.

The third thing is flat out admitting that physical features are the most and least, and by extension only, positive things about her. I mean, technically that's what nature diversified them for. Sort of like the petals on flowers, the size of certain physical features act like one of those mosquito lamps that put the annoying little bastards in a trance before zapping the horny out of them. If you can tell me any other advantage to having such natural endowments, other than "instant seat cushions" or "instant back problems" (if you're into constant, unrelenting pain), then you'd probably be the first.

Regardless, they're not exactly a platform for perfection.

I've heard a few other definitions of a perfect girl from several people, a few alcoholics telling me that they're the ones that you can just have a beer with like they were just another one of the guys and one less-than-mature fellow telling me they're the ones that "you know are going to put out on Prom night".

I have a lot of time to think in silence in my job, or at least I do now that I've learned to drown out the same fucking 80s and 90s pop music playlist that plays every single day without fail. I also have quite the imagination, as I'm sure a few of you have discovered. It took me a little bit, but I think I pinned down the truth about the perfect girl.

They just don't exist.

Of course, the same goes for the perfect guy. I mean, there are more than a few guys that I've seen that are smart, witty, and have the bodies of Olympians; Girls drool over them, and then find out that he plays a game called "Fudge Popsicles" with his gardener Esteban on the weekends.

There's something wrong with everyone in the world and it's in how we learn to overcome those imperfections that we learn to love them.


It's bursting out laughing when they start talking with a weird accent or impediment, and having them look straight back at you and laugh just as hard.

It's saying something completely, mind-bogglingly random or downright stupid, quieting the room in the process, and seeing them try to contain laughter as everyone stares.

It's being able tell them anything and everything, and remain in good spirits when they start making fun of you for it.

It's coming home after a frustrating day and lighting up as soon as you see they texted you.


It's the intangibles. You can't define it at all, but there is some element of perfection to be had in everyone.

I've often said that my desire for a girl that is as smart if not smarter than me is going to be the death of me, but I'm positive that in the end it'll all be worth it because at the end of the day I'll still love her for it.

Fiction Fridays: Shady Business

This is a short story I wrote this week that I may expand if there's positive feedback.



High Street was damp near midnight, the dim lights on its side did nothing to change that ambience. The air was thin, the temperature frigid, and on a small park bench, staying completely still despite the bone shivering cold, sat a man named the Cobbler. There was a patch of ice on the spot that he'd decide to sit down on. He would have moved, but there were other people on High Street at the time, and he didn't want to ruin the illusion that he did everything for a reason. He wasn't even quite sure why he'd chosen this particular bench. There was another bench just twenty paces away, one that had cushions and a cupholder.

The bench the Cobbler had chosen did not have cushions and a cupholder. He'd regretted his choice as soon as he'd sat down on the small wooden planks. They didn't give much. Combined with the patch of ice that had seemed to have fused to his left ass cheek, it was a pretty piss poor bench.

Just as well, he thought to himself, that cushion's probably soaking wet. Better a sore bum than a wet one. Had Specter been there to hear him thinking, he would've made a comment on his unfortunate double entendre.

He was frustrated that his contact hadn't arrived yet. Yes, that's what it was. No sense in trying not to be a poof when he was waiting for a contact.

As if, he heard in his head. It was Specter.

"Fuckin' 'ell Spec!" the Cobbler said out loud, "Can't you leave me alone for a few hours?"

First of all, stop shouting out loud. No one else can hear me. You should know that by now. Second of all, no. Absolutely not. Whenever I get inside your head, well... there's just so much empty space. I could start a small market in here. Could probably get it to be a Tescos within a year. Plus, we could grow fresh produce in all that ear wax of yours. I would ask if you've ever heard of Q-tips, but wit the amount that's in there, I doubt you can hear anything.

The Cobbler grumbled something, scaring a random passerby even more than his normal grotesque appearance ever could.

So why are you sitting on this bench? That one has cushions. And a cupholder!

The Cobbler was going to reply aloud, but stopped himself when he realized that there was a gang of kids to his left. He reached for his pistol to clear them off.

When the Collector told you that you needed to be more subtle, I'm fairly certain "shooting a gang of sixteen-year olds" wasn't what he had in mind. C'mon now Cobb.

"I was only gonna' fire a few warning shots!" the Cobbler protested aloud. The gang of kids turned to look at him. They started laughing mockingly.

"Oi! We got a pervert nutter in the park!" the leader of the gang said. The rest of the boys laughed, pointing fingers at the Cobbler.

Alright, shoot the fuckers, Specter said. The Cobbler pulled out his pistol. The boys caught a glimpse of it and immediately darted the other way. The Cobbler kept it trained on them until they'd gone out of view. He holstered it after the chubby ginger of the group had stumbled behind a wall.

"So much for what the Collector says, eye?" the Cobbler said.

Yes, well, you know him. He makes exceptions. Besides, you can still be subtle while pulling a gun on a bunch of kids.

"Like hell," the Cobbler said.

What would you know you old Cockney Rhino?

The Cobbler grumbled again. As he did, a boy of no older than nineteen came around the corner that the group of children had just ducked behind. The Cobbler looked down at his watch. Exactly midnight. This was clearly the boy's first rodeo. The boy looked around the street, seeing the Cobbler was the only occupant. He walked towards him.

For a green horn, he's rather confident isn't he?

The boy stopped next to the bench and looked down at a card in his hand. He was wearing an objectionally light blue scarf with the images of small dogs, ranging from Chihuahuas to Yorkshire Terriers, sewn into it.

Now there's a boy who takes it up the bum.

The Cobbler fought laughter, failing to stop the right corner of his mouth from elevating slightly.

"Are you the High Street Corporate Cleaners representative?" he asked.

"No, I'm the Cobbler," the Cobbler replied.

"Oh," the boy looked up and down the street, which was completely paved. "Not doin' much business 'round here are you?"

"Sit down, you stupid billock," the Cobbler said. The boy looked around confused.

"Why are you on this bench? That bench has-"

"Pillows and a cupholder. Yes, I know. Now sit down before you fall down." The boy sat down. "Right. Now what's the job?"

"Well about twenty rooms, a dining hall, the main lobby, and the administrative office," the boy replied. The Cobbler looked at him, a confused look on his face.

Oh god. The boy thinks we're a maid service. Get the Clipboard out.

"But-"

The Clipboard, Cobb. Collector wants us to do it everytime this happens now.

The Cobbler sighed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a neon green, see-through clipboard.

"Dear Customer," the Cobbler said, reading off of the clipboard, "It appears you have made a mistake. High Street Corporate Cleaners is not a maid service. In fact, we are a corporate assassination firm. We are sorry for the mistake, It is not the first time, as you might have discovered by our agent... Agent's name here...'s scripted response. To prevent further confusion, we ask that you take this brief survey. Your feedback will ensure that future customers do not make the same mistake. May I have your name please?"

The boy stared at the Cobbler in disbelief. It looked as though he was scanning the area for hidden cameras as if he was on television.

"Your name's 'The Cobbler'?"

"Yes. May I have your name please?"

"What kind of name is that?"

"A different one than what I was given. May I have your name please?"

"Well what was your given name?"

"Bob. May I have your name please?"

"Why don't you just go by Bob?"

"Because Bob is short for Robert. Robert is a poof's name. May I have your bloody name please?"

"So you went for Cobb instead of Bob?"

"Aobb doesn't have the same ring to it. Give me your fucking name, please."

"Why not Rob? The Robber? That's a profession as well!" The Cobbler was becoming increasingly annoyed.

"'The Robber is not a name you should go around having when you work for a corporate assassination firm, now is it?"

"I suppsoe not."

"Besides. Rob is also short for Robert. As is Robby. And Bobby. What have we established about the name Robert?"

"It's a poof's name."

"It's a poof's name. Exactly. Now. Give me your fucking name or I'll kick your fucking teeth in."

Please, Specter added.

"Please." The boy stared at the Cobbler for a few seconds, his mouth slightly open.

"Robert Attinborough Gaines," he answered. The Cobbler wrote the name in the blank provided, then looked at the name he'd just written down.

Now that is unfortunate.

"Ah...well.. sory about that."

"It's okay, you're frustrated."

"No, I mean that your name's Robert," the Cobbler said. "Fucking tragedy. Anyways. How did you hear about the High Street Corporate Cleaners?"

"My boss told me to be 'round here at midnight and gave me this card." The boy held up an HSCC business card-sized advertisement.

"Right. The guns on either side of the logo didn't tip him off?"

"No. He just assumed it meant you were bad motherfuckers."

"The word 'cleaners' next to two Desert Eagles and he assumes that we're a bad motherfucking maid service?"

"Well, my friends Merriam and Webster define a 'cleaner' as 'someone who cleans' or 'a washing agent'. If you've got a problem with that, or want to add your own definition, then take it up with the old buggers."

The Cobbler grumbled again. He looked down at the clipboard. He filled in the "Reason for Confusion" line with "becoz hez a sily buggurr".

That's not very nice.

"It's true though, 'innit?" The boy's left eyebrow shot up.

"Those are all the questions we'd like to ask you today. If you are ever in actual need of our Corporate Assassination services, feel free to mention this experience for a 15% discount on your job. Thank you for your time." The Cobbler stood up immediately after finishing, completely forgetting that he was still attached to the bench at the ass. It felt as if someone had ripped a bandaid coated in superglue from his posterior. He cringed and stood perfectly still for a few seconds before moving off down the street.

Still prefer sore bums?

"Piss off."

All Men Were Born Equal

If this were in any different media outside of this blog, I would tell those of my readers who are easily offended to stay away. Since this is my blog, however, and the subject of the following entry becomes redundant when I tell certain people not to read it, I will advise everyone to follow through.


I am an Atheist, and a very proud one at that (I'm betting that that opening statement alone lost at least four or five people, which would prove my point perfectly). It sounds fairly condescending of me, certainly, but I'm proud in that I have looked at my death and said not "I hope I go somewhere nice when I'm dead and buried", but "I have one life to live and I'll be damned (figuratively, of course) if I waste it". I don't look at death with fear, I see it as a challenge.

I have grown up with the knowledge that someday I won't be able to write one of these entries; I won't be able to skate around an ice rink, the frigid air sweeping through my mane of hair; I won't be able to look into someone's eyes and tell them with all of my heart that I love them. With that knowledge, I have taken to thinking that hoping for anything better than that will absolutely not lead to disappointment. It sounds kind of odd, but I believe that if I'm right about everything, I'll never know it.

Now I bet you're wondering where this came from. I've tried to talk about a small little event and blow it out into a big picture for a comedic effect, but this one required a little bit of a preface.

I picked one helluva State to choose being an Atheist in. Texas seems to believe in the 3 Gs, which aren't the Gold, Glory, and God we were taught in History class. Instead it's Guns, God, and Guns again. I've never felt very comfortable talking about religion, because it kind of depresses me that some of my friends would spend their time worshipping something they've never seen before. It also kind of makes me uncomfortable when other people talk about religion in front of me, It mostly happens when people start talking about their church retreats and whatnot.

But despite this, I don't say a word. I should know better than most that people are entitled to their opinions. A lot of people would stop me there and say that I in fact don't know anything about that, and that I press my beliefs on people quite a bit, but I'd like to think that more than anything I play Devil's Advocate. If people are really that strong in their beliefs, then pressing them about just how strong they are about them can't really hurt. I may even change their minds and make life a little bit better for them. Of course, in doing so they could also enlighten me and show me that I'm wrong, which is all the better.

But I digress. You want a story. I am here to oblige.

The past few days, I've been told to stop talking about my religious beliefs, or lack thereof, so I don't end up hurt people's feelings. Because I don't want to open a can of worms that won't close with anything less than fists flying, I stop talking about it.

I'm left to ask why, though. Most of the times I've been told not to talk about my lack of religion, It is days, sometimes even hours, after someone's gone on about their youth group or something to that effect. If I wasn't so apathetic about what people say around me in relation to my feelings, I'd probably get my feelings hurt quite a bit. No one seems to care about that though.

So, once again, I've come up with a list of things to say to people when I lose my sense of decency.

-"I found religion. It was hidden under the two thousand or so years of social evolution."
-"If God loves me so much, he'd send a card on my birthday."
-"I love God! He's the one that decides if that groundhog saw his shadow or not every year, right?"
-"Hey guys, awesome Laser Light Show"
-"Stop it right now. This kind of conversation can only end badly, now get back to work."

I Do Not Understand You

Life news first.

Seems as though my laptop's power chord has once again bent itself over and gone to town (or as those with lower brows might say, fucked itself). This wouldn't be such a problem, but on top of that the battery hasn't worked for at least three years now. This coming just after I saved it from certain doom and shutdown. Needless to say, I'm rather annoyed.


Now to the juicy bits.


Why are people that speak straight gibberish always such nice people? Notice I said gibberish there and not bullshit. This is not an admittance that I think that Rush Limbaugh or Sarah Palin are nice people (by the way, Sarah. Kudos on the hand-o-prompter. I haven't used that one since middle school!).

There were two different instances within five minutes of each other that I had no idea what someone was saying to me.

The first guy I heard loud and clear when he was about 30 feet away. He was shouting "WHO DAT!" in front of the seafood counter while wearing a New Orleans Saints hat. I had a pretty good idea where this guy was from by those context clues alone, but then I found out just how damned hard to understand cajun people are.

With a smile on his face, he started talking to me about this that and the other. I think I picked out "You e'er been Mardi Gras?" "Go up Bourbon Street" "Man, you young, man". Could be completely wrong about that, but I smiled and nodded through all of it as if he spoke perfect english.

The thing is, he was really passionate about what he was saying. It made me really, really want to understand him so I could smile and laugh about what he was saying. He probably would've been pretty funny. I mean, he was fucking hilarious when he was talking gibberish, I can only imagine what he'd be like if I could understand a word he said.

Then there's Eddy, the maintenance guy. I heard that he told everyone he had a brick dropped on his head when he was a kid, and that really, really explains a lot. I went into the back to go get my jacket when I saw him and this produce guy sitting there talking. I told them about this cajun dude that I'd just "talked" to. Eddy then started talking about something somehow related, which involved getting with 17 year old girls from California whose moms had run away and possibly died after they found their cell phones by a lake.

How I took that from "Hey man how're you a *indecipherable alien language* 17 years old?" is beyond me.

Thing is, Eddy is also a really nice guy. Sometimes I can even understand him.

My question is, why are these people so nice? They have prime opportunities to be absolute dicks to everyone, but they decide instead to waste a unique talent. What would you say to someone if you knew they couldn't understand you?

Here's a quick list:

-"Smile and nod if you've stuffed gerbils down your shirt."
-"Is that a ten gallon hat or are you just compensating for something?"
-"I think we should hoard all of the food we can and let all those dirty folks in Africa starve. Don't you agree?"

Human decency states we have to smile and nod if we don't understand what someone is saying to us. It's something we're hardwired to do. You have to wonder what God was thinking there. Really it proves he doesn't have a sense of humor. If you could give your creations one reaction to not understanding what people are saying, would you really waste that on smiling and nodding?

No. Here's a few things you'd do:

-A sharp, high-pitched shriek.
-Eyes rolling into the back of the head, followed by an unbreakable hallucinogenic trance.
-A deep humming noise coming from the midsection.
-Laser Light Show

Annoying People

Have you ever been talking to someone you find really, really, REALLY annoying and you reach a point in the conversation that presents you with an opportunity to say something really, really, REALLY evil to them, but you don't take it because you feel like you'll lose a little bit of your soul if you do?

I had that a few nights ago.

There's this guy I work with, who for anonymity purposes we'll call Bob (though even if I used his real name, I doubt he'd know seeing as he's quite possibly illiterate), that is like the Energizer bunny of conversation. Once he starts talking, he never...fucking...stops. The first night I worked in Seafood, he went out to talk to my sister and her then-fiancee. He carried a "conversation" for at least 20 minutes, during which time I worked the seafood counter, no real idea what the hell I was doing.

So here is our conversation...

Me: Hey Chris! Guess what my Facebook profile picture is now?
Bob: No one cares.
Me: No one cares about "Jane", but you keep talking about her to us.

Now at this point, it's worth explaining that "Jane" is Bob's girlfriend. If that's not enough, he's repeatedly described their sex life in detail. To give you half of the idea of what that disturbing image looks like, I'll refer you to Lord of the Rings.

Yes, Bob is an extremely scrawny person. He is at most 5'4" and while he is what optimists like to call "vertically challenged", his feet are the size of watermelons. Because of this, we've given him a nickname that the great J.R.R. Tolkien came up with so many years ago: The Hobbit.

We've asked him if he can give us directions to the Shire. It's hilarious.

But the conversation continues...

Bob: You're just jealous because I have her and you don't. You ain't got no one.

This is that moment I was talking about.

To give you an idea of what the OTHER half of that horrifying sexual image is, I'll describe Jane. Now, Bob had been talking and talking and talking and talking and TALKING (I was definitely not exaggerating when I said he talks a lot) about her for the longest time. None of us thought she was real. We thought it was just a lie he'd said enough times he believed it.

But then he brought her in to show her to us.

Now, if you've ever been by our seafood market, you've probably seen a ship bell. We have two official purpose for this bell, and that's to either announce that we have fresh fish or whenever we cut the exact weight of a fish that someone asks for. The unofficial purpose is what we call "Code:Red".

The Beer and Wine guys and some of the people in Produce all know what's going on when they hear the bell ring: There is a very, very attractive lady in the vicinity of the seafood market. The scene of a bunch of thirty-somethings coming out of three or four different aisles, scouring the area in front of meat/seafood for the sight of a hot chick is truly legendary.

Now when Bob brought Jane in for the first time, I considered adding a fourth purpose to the bell: Whale Watch.

Jane is one of those girls that just hasn't looked in a mirror recently. She is quite a big girl, but she dresses like quite a small girl. The amount of skin that spills out around her lower midsection could probably make another human being.

Of course, I'm not going to tell Bob "The first time I saw your girlfriend, I thought you'd rescued a beached Humpback. I'm really not jealous at all". Only bad things could ever come of that. While I'm not intimidated by Bob in the slightest, I know that there is a certain level of fury inside every man that is unlocked when their mother or significant other is insulted or otherwise degraded. I'm fairly certain I'd drop him like a sack of potatoes, but I'd probably get my nose broken in the process.

I like my pretty nose. It's like a button. No reason to get that messed up at the expense of my soul.

A Guide for a Prospective Market Street "Guest"

Working in a meat market is a lot more strenuous than it may seem. Once you get over the whole sticking your hands in raw meat aspect of the job, the rest of it just kind of becomes natural. There are some things, though, that never ever EVER become acceptable behavior for a customer, or a "guest" as a higher up at Market Street might say.

1.)We do not sell fish. Seafood sells fish.
You'd think this one was pretty self explanatory. The Seafood area has all sorts of decorative scenery on the walls to indicate that it does, in fact, sell fish, including a surfboard with a shark bite hole. It even has blue tiles. Blue being the same color as the sea, for those that don't know.

And if that wasn't enough, you can smell the fucking place from the moment you go in the front door of the store. I used to think that the people holding their noses as they breezed by the seafood counter with their carts were stupid for thinking that it wouldn't smell like low tide at the pier, but at least they could tell that we were the ones selling fish instead of the guys who were over on the other side of the wall, hands deep in what used to be a cow's thigh.

I mean, even today, I had two people (not just one, FUCKING TWO) come over and ask me where the eggs were (for those unfamiliar with Market Street, they're on the other fucking side of the store, where eggs are in every supermarket). As I was helping out the seafood guys at the time, I was tempted OH SO TEMPTED to hand her some of our $100 an ounce Caviar and tell her to enjoy the most expensive breakfast of her life. Unfortunately, that sort of thing gets you fired around our store.

But the worst, oh the worst...

I went out to "face" the deli meat area of the store, which basically means I go around the wall and make sure everything's straight (I never got why I have to do this over the course of the day. I'm not psychologist, but I'm pretty sure that an item's straightness on a wall does not factor into someone's willingness and/or ability to buy said product). Now, in the meat market, we protect our rustic-colored polo shirts with a lab coat, similar to one you might see in a hospital or research lab. As I'm straightening the Balogna (it might have been the ham, come to think of it, but I can never pass up the chance to type "Balogna" and sound it out phonetically in my head when I'm doing it), a woman comes up to me and asks "Do you work here?"

I have to thank my parents for a second, because if they'd never taught me what the word "restraint" meant, I would've gone off on this lady.

-"No, ma'am. I'm just the sort of pretentious prick who walks into supermarkets in a lab coat and a beanie."
-"No, ma'am. I just LOVE straightening deli meat in my spare time."
-"Yes, ma'am. I own the place, ma'am."
-"I went through ten years of med school to be confused for an $8 an hour meat market employee? Fuck. My. Life."


2.)If you take something off the shelves and decide you don't want it later, have the decency to put it back where you found it.
This also seems like something solved by a little common sense, but I have actually seen people walk for literally six feet and just drop whatever they got six feet ago in some completely different section.

This is more annoying than actually harmful, but people fail to realize that at the end of the day, someone is going to have to put all of that stuff back. Considering what we get paid, I think some of our "guests"... fuck it... customers should give a little bit back.


3.)MAYBE IF YOU'D WALK INSTEAD OF GOING AROUND IN THAT FUCKING SCOOTER YOU'D LOSE A FEW POUNDS
I'm fat. I'll put that out there. I don't use it as an excuse for laziness, though. I use it as an excuse for keeping the objects I'm told to stand on or lean against intact, but at least I realize that there is only one way I'm going to get into shape, and that's doing physical activity.

So when I see a gelatinous blob of flesh and hair moving towards me at a less than alarming rate on those little electric devils, I really, really, REALLY want to grab a few of the other "team members" from around the store and form an escort group for the scooter-riding elephants, shouting "CLEAR THE WAY. MARKET STREET IS NOT LIABLE IF YOU ARE CRUSHED OR OTHERWISE INJURED. YOU MAY TAKE COVER IN ONE OF OUR DAIRY VAULTS IF YOU SEE THAT AS A NECESSARY PRECAUTION FOR THE PROTECTION OF YOUR LIVES".

Again, I'd probably get fired for it, but that's the stuff of internet legend.


But enough about Market Street. I'm fairly certain I'll have a plethora of other simply fascinating stories to choose from come Super Bowl Sunday. That'll do me over for a few months I expect.


I really hate how unpredictable life is becoming. I used to be able to have a pretty good grasp on how I was feeling over the course of a few weeks, but now it seems like there's a bit of a roller coaster ride course from one day to the next. I'll be mellow in the mornings, feeling good about a good 7 or 8 hours of sleep, and then by the afternoon I'll be at least upbeat. On the other end of the spectrum, I could be grumpy as hell after an English essay-shortened 4-5 hours of sleep and end up giddy as one of those little annoying Chihuahuas by the end of the day.

I miss the days when I didn't really care about my feelings, when I would just go day to day without thinking about the pressure being steadily placed on me.

I also miss the days (that weren't actually that long ago) when I didn't care that I've been single for my entire life, outside of brief 1-to-24 hour periods. Trust me to turn this into a "Woe is me, I get none" talk, but I'm starting to get annoyed at how many girls I look at and say "holy shit, she's probably more of a freak than I am. She's so amazing. She will be mine" (except without the whole "she will be mine" business) only to realize that their attention is turned to greener pastures.

This one's been on the radar for sometime now. Not really much of a blip until I started to talk to and joke around with her more. She's the kind of girl that you want to talk to because you legitimately have no idea what she's going to say or do next, and you're okay with that.

That sounds kind of "I like being talked down to", but I assure you I'm not into that kind of thing. I don't like skintight leather or handcuffs.


So that's my life update for the night. Tomorrow I have to go lose 11-1 in a hockey game, so I should probably wrap it up on that little depressing tidbit.



You're my boy, blue.

Good Evening

For the record, no, I have not yet seen "The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus". I did not watch it and think "Oh my god, there needs to be a blog with a name that replaces part of the title of this genius movie (or stupid retarded movie, as the case may be) with some witty/sarcastic/another word describing high-brow humor interjection that takes my preconceptions and BLOWS THEM OUT OF THE FUCKING WATER".

No, instead I was looking for an appropriate title for a blog that I intend to vent my ramblings on, whether I'm overcome by anger or completely nonsensical. I tried thinking of something that would bring out something about imagination, making the fact that I stole a movie title a little bit ironic. First thing that came to mind was Imaginarium, probably because it has an I in it. Or something like that.

So yes, I've started a blog. I'm going in with the mindset that, unlike other blogs that I've seen, this is going to be completely freeform. Whatever I'm thinking of at the time, I'm going to write it. It means that this is going to be all-over-the-place bazonkers. I tend to have mood swings that would make a goth kid pretty jealous, so I could post something in the morning with a bright and cheery disposition about life and how great everything I'm doing is going and then at night I could come on and let everyone know how sad my life is and how everything has a grey tint and the sun doesn't seem to shine anymore.

I'm going to try avoiding the latter part of that as best I can, as nothing pisses me off more than reading my old stuff and thinking "Wow. Sack up you little emo prick". It doesn't do much for my past self's self esteem, and he's been bogged down with a lot recently, what with re-living the darkest parts of my life over and over.

I'm home-paging this shiznit so I'll subtly remind myself to write one of these every day, though really that's more of a "Hey you lazy fuck, write something. I don't care what, just do it. Make momma' proud."

And here's a fair bit of warning, although it is kind of late in the introductory post to say so. I'm going to put this in ALL CAPS AND MAYBE EVEN THROW IN A LITTLE RED TEXT TO GET MY POINT ACROSS. I WOULD ADD A GLITTERY LITTLE FONT THING HERE, BUT UNFORTUNATELY I'M DECIDELY NOT AMAZING WITH COMPUTERS. BUT I DIGRESS, THERE WILL BE A LOT, AND I DO MEAN A LOT, OF SWEARING AND BLASPHEMING GOING ON THROUGHOUT THIS WHOLE PROCESS. BECAUSE I HAVE WARNED YOU WITH BIG RED TEXT IN ALL CAPS, YOU DO NOT AND I MEAN DO NOT (BOLD? HOLY SHIT I FORGOT BOLD) TELL ME TO TONE ANYTHING DOWN. IT IS YOUR CHOICE AND YOUR CHOICE ALONE TO READ WHAT I HAVE TO SAY. THERE'S A BIG RED 'X' IN THE TOP RIGHT CORNER OF YOUR SCREEN FOR WHENEVER YOU GET SO UNCOMFORTABLE READING MY MATERIAL THAT YOU FEEL LIKE LESS OF A HUMAN BEING FOR CONTINUING. NOT MY FAULT IF YOU CAN'T FIND THAT.

In short, there are no rules to this blog outside of questions of legality. I am going to say whatever I want whenever I want to say it. If you have a problem with it, leave this place and never come back. It will save me a huge headache.

Just putting that out there.

Peace out, my homey dogs.