Some people have some very strange ideas on how to go about saving our environment. There's even a wacky sect that doesn't care at all. Keeps rambling about creation and Jesus Christ and stuff. Let's not discuss those ones.
We know that every single day, 25,000 trees die of asphyxiation and being cut down and such. Not only that, but 200,000 crickets are eaten by frogs per day- that's not an exaggeration, those are the cold, hard facts! And in just one 24-hour period!
Now, trees shelter the crickets, which prevents the frogs from eating them. The only problem with this is the thousands of frogs which will die periodically of cricket deprivation; but there's a balance to everything and we will find it eventually. For now, I'd rather see 20,000 frogs die each day than 200,000 crickets. Crickets are tasty.
So. How do we save the 25,000 trees? Simple. Exact change. Try this:
Go to convenience store. Buy a drink. Maybe a canned coffee product. Those am (sic) expensive. Now, checkout.
What happened? You paid with a $100 bill (or at least this is how it went in my fictional completely true experience), and they gave you change back. Then you climbed back in your Jaguar to return to your high-paying CEO job and realized...they also gave you a receipt.
Every day, more than 1 billion receipts are printed in Kansas alone. That amounts to about 400 billion receipts per day worldwide. Every 1,000 receipts weighs an average of 15 lbs. That's 1,050,000,000 pounds of paper I think- a lot of useless paper, filling up our landfills and killing all the crocodiles that usually call those landfills home sweet landfill.
Each tree weighs an average of 38,000 pounds. That's roughly 27,500 trees worth of paper we could save if we could eliminate these vile receipt-fiends.
I have a solution. Brethren, we have vic'try:
Provide exact change! With exact change, there's no loose ends to tie up, so you have a fun, safe, frog-loving paperless transaction. Otherwise, they have to print up the receipt to see how much money to give you back. This also takes time.
Think of the shoplifter: in and out of store very fast. No receipts for them; they're actually halping- oh my, I have no idea what just happened, sorry- they're actually helping the environment by shoplifting.
You- yes, you- can be just like a petty thief if you provide exact change. All you'll need for this Step is to carry around 100 pennies at all times, preferably leaving the house with...400 billion receipts = 100 per person per day, maximum of 99 pennies needed per receipt...about 9,900 pennies for your 100 transactions, max of 99 pennies needed per transaction. (Be prepared.) You can do it. For your children. For the frogs...for those tasty crickets.
Second thought, who could possibly blame those frogs?
Showing posts with label I probably made that up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I probably made that up. Show all posts
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 7: Max, the Backroom Gnome
I cook food, I heat food. Sometimes I make it from scratch, but the vast majority of the time I heat up food that comes in from our supplier. Which takes comparably little time.
That means that I end up having some "free" time. I use this time to tweak my log/manifest system, harass people ("other duties as assigned", but I don't like anyone enough to harass them), or rearrange the backroom. The backroom is a place where stuff goes. It's in the back. The Hamster Wheel (the hall that looks like an 'O' from the sky and houses all of the cubicle-dwellers) is near to it, kind of.
I was in there, rearranging- and there's all sorts of stuff to rearrange- when I hear this smokey, raspy, drained breathing. Then I hear this raspy, dusty voice. "I useda be jus't like you," it said. "I use to be at the tip of my game!"
You should have seen the look on my face. I sure wish I could have.
Now, I've spent hours and tax in that room. Hours, and with tax! I made the soda manifest- counting every soda and labeling them for quality- and I rearranged the soda God knows how many times. I've stored odds, I've stowed ends, I've archived files...if there wasn't all that concrete, I would have buried treasure in that room. I...I love that room. I never knew there was anything in there except supplies.
And now, there's quite possibly the creepiest voice I've ever heard (In Real Life, at least) emanating from somewhere behind the Gatorade jugs, which are stored alphabetically from left-rear to front-middle (it's a complicated process) on the floor underneath the Emergency Magazines.
I reacted diffe...defensively. I kind of stood there. Then I turned around.
There he was, peeking out from behind the 5-gallon Gatorade jugs with a scowl on his face. The kind of face that would go well with a cigar in or next to it. His hair was that really ugly kind of red-brown and it was curly, but not very dense. I wasn't exactly sure he was human. I considered a preemptive strike.
"I useda be JUST LIKE YOU!" he said, pulling himself out from the jungle of jugs. "Once time, I OWNED this town, and everyone in it! ALL OF THEM, ALL OF YOU...YOU...RATS!"
He looked up at me angrily. He's about 70 pounds, 2.5-3 feet tall. "IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I LOST MY TOWN!" he shouted.
Uhh, unexpected.
"What?"
Paranoia creased his face. "Aren't you the new mayor of Arizona?"
Arizona has a mayor? "No, I'm the new cook," I said.
"Oh. Wow. Sorry about that whole thing there. My name's Max." "Hi, Max."
He stuck out his hand. I shook it. I made a mental note to wash my hands. "My name's Kevin," I said.
"So what brings you here, Kevin?"
"Well, it's kind of my job to rearrange stuff here." Stars formed in his eyes. He held his imaginary hat in his hands. "Can...can I help, Kev?"
Long story short, Max is my new backroom assistant. He said I could call him the Backroom Gnome, hence the post title. He lives in the backroom- and has lived here for years, and I didn't notice him earlier, creepy- and he's good at rearranging things. Better yet, he's really good at working with me so that I can feel comfortable with how things are arranged. You know, like, he only halfway cares about the rearranging, so...I can do whatever I want with what he's done, and he doesn't get offended. He works with the new parameters.
For my part, I have to provide him with food. We were already doing that, but now it's on my Other Duties As Assigned list. As Executive head assistant chef, Feed Max. Frozen soup (or canned soup that's frozen), coarse-, medium-, and fine-ground dried corn, and citrus peels when possible. I'm really still not that wholly convinced that he's human. He sometimes doesn't act like it. But he's a fine rearranger.
And by the way, we keep the emergency magazines just in case the magazine producers ever stop producing magazines. We're totally prepared.
That means that I end up having some "free" time. I use this time to tweak my log/manifest system, harass people ("other duties as assigned", but I don't like anyone enough to harass them), or rearrange the backroom. The backroom is a place where stuff goes. It's in the back. The Hamster Wheel (the hall that looks like an 'O' from the sky and houses all of the cubicle-dwellers) is near to it, kind of.
I was in there, rearranging- and there's all sorts of stuff to rearrange- when I hear this smokey, raspy, drained breathing. Then I hear this raspy, dusty voice. "I useda be jus't like you," it said. "I use to be at the tip of my game!"
You should have seen the look on my face. I sure wish I could have.
Now, I've spent hours and tax in that room. Hours, and with tax! I made the soda manifest- counting every soda and labeling them for quality- and I rearranged the soda God knows how many times. I've stored odds, I've stowed ends, I've archived files...if there wasn't all that concrete, I would have buried treasure in that room. I...I love that room. I never knew there was anything in there except supplies.
And now, there's quite possibly the creepiest voice I've ever heard (In Real Life, at least) emanating from somewhere behind the Gatorade jugs, which are stored alphabetically from left-rear to front-middle (it's a complicated process) on the floor underneath the Emergency Magazines.
I reacted diffe...defensively. I kind of stood there. Then I turned around.
There he was, peeking out from behind the 5-gallon Gatorade jugs with a scowl on his face. The kind of face that would go well with a cigar in or next to it. His hair was that really ugly kind of red-brown and it was curly, but not very dense. I wasn't exactly sure he was human. I considered a preemptive strike.
"I useda be JUST LIKE YOU!" he said, pulling himself out from the jungle of jugs. "Once time, I OWNED this town, and everyone in it! ALL OF THEM, ALL OF YOU...YOU...RATS!"
He looked up at me angrily. He's about 70 pounds, 2.5-3 feet tall. "IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I LOST MY TOWN!" he shouted.
Uhh, unexpected.
"What?"
Paranoia creased his face. "Aren't you the new mayor of Arizona?"
Arizona has a mayor? "No, I'm the new cook," I said.
"Oh. Wow. Sorry about that whole thing there. My name's Max." "Hi, Max."
He stuck out his hand. I shook it. I made a mental note to wash my hands. "My name's Kevin," I said.
"So what brings you here, Kevin?"
"Well, it's kind of my job to rearrange stuff here." Stars formed in his eyes. He held his imaginary hat in his hands. "Can...can I help, Kev?"
Long story short, Max is my new backroom assistant. He said I could call him the Backroom Gnome, hence the post title. He lives in the backroom- and has lived here for years, and I didn't notice him earlier, creepy- and he's good at rearranging things. Better yet, he's really good at working with me so that I can feel comfortable with how things are arranged. You know, like, he only halfway cares about the rearranging, so...I can do whatever I want with what he's done, and he doesn't get offended. He works with the new parameters.
For my part, I have to provide him with food. We were already doing that, but now it's on my Other Duties As Assigned list. As Executive head assistant chef, Feed Max. Frozen soup (or canned soup that's frozen), coarse-, medium-, and fine-ground dried corn, and citrus peels when possible. I'm really still not that wholly convinced that he's human. He sometimes doesn't act like it. But he's a fine rearranger.
And by the way, we keep the emergency magazines just in case the magazine producers ever stop producing magazines. We're totally prepared.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 6: Meet The Soda Lady and My Catch Phrase
The Soda Lady.
She drinks a whole lot of soda. So much soda, in fact, that she can go into the kitchen and get it on her own. Usually I or Mrs. Merry are the mediators between sodas and humans, but Soda Lady just drinks way too much. She’s kind of annoying- you know the kind of person where you say, “Do you have a health card?” and they say, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, OF COURSE I DO!!!OVERREACT!!STEPPASTYOUANDGETITANYWAY!!”?
Well, she’s the type. And she’s old, so I can’t really punch her in the face or anything. That would be a disaster. I just have to live with her barging into the kitchen every 25 minutes. Sometimes it’s 15, sometimes it’s 35, never more, never less, unless something’s wrong. At the end of each day, she takes 3 sodas for the trip home. During lunch she has two. I’m fairly certain that 85% of her nourishment is provided by soda.
Her favorites are Mountain Dew, Pepsi, and Dr. Pepper. In lieu of these, Coke, Sierra Mist, Root Beer- if it has sugar and is carbonated, or at one point in time was carbonated, it will do. You know it, she drinks it. I mean…I meant, “you name it,” she drinks it. Sorry.
I don’t really care for Soda Lady. She’s there from about 6:30 AM to 2:00 PM, during which time she drinks nearly 20 cans of soda. In, out, in, out, to the bathroom (out), in. Then she takes the 3 home. That’s almost 1 case of soda in the time it takes me to prepare food for and feed 50 people. Let me put it another way: she alone drinks more soda per day than those 50 people combined. They don’t drink much soda; Soda Lady drinks it for them. Just watching her, their thirst for sugary, carbonated goodness is satiated. Or they lose their appetite, whichever works for them.
My boss says that Soda Lady is just a part of the landscape I have to learn to live with. I asked her if she believed in Caterpillars. She said “Yes, but you don’t get the keys.” Drat, I thought.
Did I introduce my catch phrase? What am I asking you for, I’d know if I did, you fool. News! I gots a catch phrase! I can’t believe it. I feel so honored by myself. Here it is: “That would be a disaster.“
“I know, I’m glad that the inspector didn’t throw out our food, too, as that would have been a disaster!” or “Why would I ever do something like that?! That’d be a disaster!”
Yep, I love it. It works so well; it’s one of the catch phrases that people can ignore 20 times, then they realize what I’m actually saying, and then they feel like fools because they ignored it for so long. It’s the deceptive kind of catch phrase. Kind of like that one that King Orthwall Piper XV used. You remember that one, right? “Peter the Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” it went.
He used it half-a-hundred times before his citizenry realized it was a catch phrase. When Orthwall Piper XV died, Tommy III took his place. Tommy III’s catch phrase was “Three times, fast.” The rest was history.
As for my catch phrase, hopefully it won’t take off like that.
That would be a disaster.
She drinks a whole lot of soda. So much soda, in fact, that she can go into the kitchen and get it on her own. Usually I or Mrs. Merry are the mediators between sodas and humans, but Soda Lady just drinks way too much. She’s kind of annoying- you know the kind of person where you say, “Do you have a health card?” and they say, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, OF COURSE I DO!!!OVERREACT!!STEPPASTYOUANDGETITANYWAY!!”?
Well, she’s the type. And she’s old, so I can’t really punch her in the face or anything. That would be a disaster. I just have to live with her barging into the kitchen every 25 minutes. Sometimes it’s 15, sometimes it’s 35, never more, never less, unless something’s wrong. At the end of each day, she takes 3 sodas for the trip home. During lunch she has two. I’m fairly certain that 85% of her nourishment is provided by soda.
Her favorites are Mountain Dew, Pepsi, and Dr. Pepper. In lieu of these, Coke, Sierra Mist, Root Beer- if it has sugar and is carbonated, or at one point in time was carbonated, it will do. You know it, she drinks it. I mean…I meant, “you name it,” she drinks it. Sorry.
I don’t really care for Soda Lady. She’s there from about 6:30 AM to 2:00 PM, during which time she drinks nearly 20 cans of soda. In, out, in, out, to the bathroom (out), in. Then she takes the 3 home. That’s almost 1 case of soda in the time it takes me to prepare food for and feed 50 people. Let me put it another way: she alone drinks more soda per day than those 50 people combined. They don’t drink much soda; Soda Lady drinks it for them. Just watching her, their thirst for sugary, carbonated goodness is satiated. Or they lose their appetite, whichever works for them.
My boss says that Soda Lady is just a part of the landscape I have to learn to live with. I asked her if she believed in Caterpillars. She said “Yes, but you don’t get the keys.” Drat, I thought.
Did I introduce my catch phrase? What am I asking you for, I’d know if I did, you fool. News! I gots a catch phrase! I can’t believe it. I feel so honored by myself. Here it is: “That would be a disaster.“
“I know, I’m glad that the inspector didn’t throw out our food, too, as that would have been a disaster!” or “Why would I ever do something like that?! That’d be a disaster!”
Yep, I love it. It works so well; it’s one of the catch phrases that people can ignore 20 times, then they realize what I’m actually saying, and then they feel like fools because they ignored it for so long. It’s the deceptive kind of catch phrase. Kind of like that one that King Orthwall Piper XV used. You remember that one, right? “Peter the Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” it went.
He used it half-a-hundred times before his citizenry realized it was a catch phrase. When Orthwall Piper XV died, Tommy III took his place. Tommy III’s catch phrase was “Three times, fast.” The rest was history.
As for my catch phrase, hopefully it won’t take off like that.
That would be a disaster.
Friday, March 06, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 5, Post 3: Make Everything Right with the World
On Wednesday, after that we had stayed late cleaning the kitchen, I told Mr. dataDyne at bible study about my predicament. He said that I need to gird up now my loins like a man. With that pep talk (that's as peppy as his talk gets) and my Ducky Syndrome, I managed to not crash into a light pole on the way home. More on Ducky Syndrome later.
Now we'll focus on Thursday, the 5th of February, for a while, humble fool. Try to keep up.
The walk-in refrigerator purged of all rebellion, the freezers cleared of scourges, the ovens prim and proper, the floor bleached, the ceiling painted, the paint droppings from the painting painstakingly removed with a scraper (that maintenance man is a jerk), the mop bucket cleansed and the mop and broom hung neatly, the cutting board sanded to remove scratches, and with the doors lovingly propped open, my boss told me two things as we awaited our OSA.
First, none of this is my fault. Second, if we fail this OSA, none of what she does to me is her fault. Reassuring, right? Mrs. Merry joined us, and I left; she's the kitchen manager, and I don't really need to be there, just to be available if the inspectors want to meet me. Lemmings (or employees) kept casually walking into the kitchen to see how they were doing. That didn't go over well.
Soon the inspectors arrived. Three of them, all guys. I went and hid myself in my office and frenziedly checked my email; Vixen forwarded me an obvious scam email for fast cash. She's wiggy, but in a colorful kind of way. I emailed her back: "I've already got so much money that I can't spend it fast enough. Maybe I'll buy you some shampoo." I knew that that would eat at her for hours.
Time slowed. But it also sped, so half of the time it was slow, half of the time it was fast. Honestly, I couldn't tell when it was fast or when it was slow. It seemed just like normal time, but man, it was fluctuating, I just couldn't tell. I attempted to call Manny Hitman. She's hard to reach sometimes, and her voice message (welcome to "message boxland") is really weird.
Foiled, I paced; I browsed recipes for peanut butter pie (and contemplated how that could ever be good), I pondered pecan pie (Mrs. Merry loves them), and I felt somber but excited at the same time. Then out of nowhere, I was broadsided by guilt.
I'm not often absent-minded, but sometimes my mind is not on the matter at hand. It was in that moment of clarity that I realized I hadn't played video games for about a month.
And then I realized that I still haven't completed Metroid Prime 2: Echoes. I wimped out; I didn't want to face the end, and the assured death that would follow me; I hate it when Samus dies. It bothers me, and so I stopped playing. Fear of a hard fight is a common problem with gamers.
At this point, I didn't really care whether we passed or failed. I was a sad sailor. My boat had a hole in it, you could say.
Good thing, though, we did pass. It's like this: Saundra (the inspector) is a little long in the tooth, and according to one inspector who trained with her years back, is going kind of nuts. Problem, she's so adored that they don't want to fire her. The OSA was to start us out with a clean slate, and "hopefully we could all put this behind us."
Sweetheart inspections, HERE WE COME! YEEHAW!
Also, more protesters (picketers/ASPCA flyer and phone campaign) showed up, but that's not so important. During the pre-inspection cleanup (we wanted to be sure we passed), I got to rearrange the kitchen to my liking. Now, that's what I call a functional disaster!
I may have left out some details. If I have, I'll post it in a future post and call it "The Lost Post." Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some articles on hair care to forward, and some video games to play. Not necessarily in that order.
Now we'll focus on Thursday, the 5th of February, for a while, humble fool. Try to keep up.
The walk-in refrigerator purged of all rebellion, the freezers cleared of scourges, the ovens prim and proper, the floor bleached, the ceiling painted, the paint droppings from the painting painstakingly removed with a scraper (that maintenance man is a jerk), the mop bucket cleansed and the mop and broom hung neatly, the cutting board sanded to remove scratches, and with the doors lovingly propped open, my boss told me two things as we awaited our OSA.
First, none of this is my fault. Second, if we fail this OSA, none of what she does to me is her fault. Reassuring, right? Mrs. Merry joined us, and I left; she's the kitchen manager, and I don't really need to be there, just to be available if the inspectors want to meet me. Lemmings (or employees) kept casually walking into the kitchen to see how they were doing. That didn't go over well.
Soon the inspectors arrived. Three of them, all guys. I went and hid myself in my office and frenziedly checked my email; Vixen forwarded me an obvious scam email for fast cash. She's wiggy, but in a colorful kind of way. I emailed her back: "I've already got so much money that I can't spend it fast enough. Maybe I'll buy you some shampoo." I knew that that would eat at her for hours.
Time slowed. But it also sped, so half of the time it was slow, half of the time it was fast. Honestly, I couldn't tell when it was fast or when it was slow. It seemed just like normal time, but man, it was fluctuating, I just couldn't tell. I attempted to call Manny Hitman. She's hard to reach sometimes, and her voice message (welcome to "message boxland") is really weird.
Foiled, I paced; I browsed recipes for peanut butter pie (and contemplated how that could ever be good), I pondered pecan pie (Mrs. Merry loves them), and I felt somber but excited at the same time. Then out of nowhere, I was broadsided by guilt.
I'm not often absent-minded, but sometimes my mind is not on the matter at hand. It was in that moment of clarity that I realized I hadn't played video games for about a month.
And then I realized that I still haven't completed Metroid Prime 2: Echoes. I wimped out; I didn't want to face the end, and the assured death that would follow me; I hate it when Samus dies. It bothers me, and so I stopped playing. Fear of a hard fight is a common problem with gamers.
At this point, I didn't really care whether we passed or failed. I was a sad sailor. My boat had a hole in it, you could say.
Good thing, though, we did pass. It's like this: Saundra (the inspector) is a little long in the tooth, and according to one inspector who trained with her years back, is going kind of nuts. Problem, she's so adored that they don't want to fire her. The OSA was to start us out with a clean slate, and "hopefully we could all put this behind us."
Sweetheart inspections, HERE WE COME! YEEHAW!
Also, more protesters (picketers/ASPCA flyer and phone campaign) showed up, but that's not so important. During the pre-inspection cleanup (we wanted to be sure we passed), I got to rearrange the kitchen to my liking. Now, that's what I call a functional disaster!
I may have left out some details. If I have, I'll post it in a future post and call it "The Lost Post." Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some articles on hair care to forward, and some video games to play. Not necessarily in that order.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 5, Post 2: Operations Ceased
This is the post in which everything goes horribly, horribly bad. It's ...terrible. And long.
Wednesday morning, 7:30 AM, I was hanging my head and prepping salad (which I pronounce sah-lahd when I prepare it) when the kitchen was paged. It was our in-person receptionist. The phone receptionist, as you'll remember, freaks out easily. It wasn't her.
Apparently, there were two more representatives of the AZGFD in the lobby to meet with me. Suddenly feeling ornery, I told her I didn't want to meet with those pansies. Then I called them yellow. Then I told her they can come to me, I'm cutting sahlad. "Hold on, I'll tell them," she said. I pressed the "speaker off" button.
Before I knew it, they arrived! One guy was black and looked like he needed to be named Steve, the other was white and looked like a Lars. Lars had a camera, Steve-o had a clipboard. They both had neat uniforms.
"Hello. Are you the kitchen manager?" Steve asked.
"Big guy, bad day, big knife," I said. "Couldn't we possibly reschedule this?" I gestured the knife in a fanciful spiral as I talked.
Larry gave me one of those "you made yourself look like a freak again" looks. I put the knife down. "Nope, Mrs. Merry is. She's out sick today," I said. "I'm Kevin, the executive head assistant chef." They exchanged "Kev made himself look like a fool again" looks.
"That means I'm the speaker, she's the box," I said.
"Well, Kevin," Larry said, "My name's Mike, this is my partner, George." I looked at Steve. Lars continued."We're from the Arizona Game and Fish Department operating under the jurisdiction of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service to confirm reports of species endangerment."
"Wow...that's a-mazing," I said, sincerely as can be. They weren't sure how to handle that; then Jen (the boss) showed up and took care of matters.
Turns out, the AZDFG (Department of Fish and Game) doesn't list bald eagle as endangered, but the USFWS (Fish and Wildlife Service) does. So here's how it went, from the top:
Saundra (Health Inspector) gets AZDFG on us. AZDFG comes after us, we send his guy packing. AZDFG contacts USFWS, USFWS tells AZDFG to carry out their will, Steve and Larson show up, my boss tries to be diplomatic, my boss is bad at being diplomatic, Steve-o and Larry can't prove we had bald eagle, but to punish us for our irreverence the AZDFG contacts the USFWS who contacts MCESD (Maricopa County Environmental Services Department, or the Health Inspector People), MCESD closes our kitchen until it passes a full OSA ("oh-say," Operational Sufficiency Assessment), 10 lemmings are ripped from their duties to assist in purchasing a suitable lunch substitute and also to clean the kitchen in preparation of the assessment.
Sort of confusing, right? It appears that the AZDFG hasn't updated their conservation status on bald eagle. Roughly, AZDFG utilized USFWS's laws (which was really quite strange), couldn't prove anything, went to the ESD, ESD shut us down. I was not a happy camper. I was a sad sailor, if anything.
Here's a good halfway point. While chillin' out, and taking your break, why not read this post about how 8-9 years ago I served lunch for this very kitchen? OK, back to our post.
But now, somewhere in all of that, word of our predicament leaked to some super-advanced hippie activist website. It seems that the message they received said that we were cooking up bald eagle and "serving" it to endangered willow flooces. Willow flooce is a type of bird, or maybe a type of sheep that has birds that nest in its fleece. Or a sheep that nests in a willow tree. The endangered and mysterious Willow Sheep that hosts flooces in its fleece. That's it...I feel like Dr. Seuss.
Our OSA was scheduled for Thursday, the day after Wednesday (the day before Thursday and our scheduled OSA.) Midway through Wednesday in our halls was displayed an old 60's tie-dye revival; from the clothes that they wear to the shape of their hair these odd fools now render a trial.
If there's one thing my boss, Jen, hates with fierce wrath, it's protesters protesting out there on our grass. They trample and stample and then come inside; our clients get harried and stressed by their tide. They howl and they prance, they sing and they dance; our boss wills to bop them, and jumps at the chance.
Firemen rock and turn in their grave as our boss takes the tank from the wall with great haste; it extinguishes fires and hippies alike, and to remind you she hates them verges on trite. The engine that could was outshone that day as the halls filled with screams and a ghostly, cold haze. She laughed and she chased and the hippies, they ran; they flew right on back to their old hippie vans. Then they drove away and rued the day that they ever crossed my boss.
And a few of them probably went to the emergency room. My boss is tough.
Anyway, we got rid of the first wave of protesters easily enough. It definitely did not involve my boss running amuck with a fire extinguisher. I completely made that up. Hah, that's nuts. You're crazy. You're a laugh.
About 1 PM, shortly after lunch, as I was directing a few members of the cleanup crew, Vixen walked up bearing tidings. "What is it," I said, disgusted. "Well," she said, joyfully relishing her moment in the sun, "I guess, blah blah blah blah blah..."
She told me that a certain sensitive issue was exacerbated, and as a result, the LGBT community started actions against us. They're like hippies, but wear suits. They have lawyers, their hair is cut neatly. These are harder to deal with than the tie-dyes. They say things like "we're suing you"; all tie-dyes say is "don't spray me [with that fire extinguisher], bro."
Later in the day, halfway through 2 PM, Vixen had more news. (Her boss was running a lot of errands, so she got to be the newsgirl for a while. More on that later.)
She told Mrs. Jen that someone called in an anonymous tip: according to reports, we had imported the "tasty, nutrient-dense" spinal cords of cattle infected with BSE/Mad Cow Disease from someplace that isn't America; and then we, allegedly, made "delicious, delectable, heavenly and scrumptious stock" from this tasty, nutrient-dense, mad cow-infected cow spinal cord.
I think that the same person that got the lawyers on us is also the person who reported the fantastic cow-spine story. And I only know of two people who would use that many words to describe a "rich stock." My boss agrees. One of the people is me (who didn't see that coming?); the other is an old guy
Old folk, sometimes, say things that, sometimes, they shouldn't say. And sometimes, they say these things that, sometimes, they shouldn't say, to people that they really should not be saying these things to.
I almost feel bad for the primordial coot. There's quite a lot of hell coming his way. My boss? She's tough.
I'll try to wrap this week up with the next post...the post where everything gets kind of worse, then there's a blurry part, then most of it gets better.
Wednesday morning, 7:30 AM, I was hanging my head and prepping salad (which I pronounce sah-lahd when I prepare it) when the kitchen was paged. It was our in-person receptionist. The phone receptionist, as you'll remember, freaks out easily. It wasn't her.
Apparently, there were two more representatives of the AZGFD in the lobby to meet with me. Suddenly feeling ornery, I told her I didn't want to meet with those pansies. Then I called them yellow. Then I told her they can come to me, I'm cutting sahlad. "Hold on, I'll tell them," she said. I pressed the "speaker off" button.
Before I knew it, they arrived! One guy was black and looked like he needed to be named Steve, the other was white and looked like a Lars. Lars had a camera, Steve-o had a clipboard. They both had neat uniforms.
"Hello. Are you the kitchen manager?" Steve asked.
"Big guy, bad day, big knife," I said. "Couldn't we possibly reschedule this?" I gestured the knife in a fanciful spiral as I talked.
Larry gave me one of those "you made yourself look like a freak again" looks. I put the knife down. "Nope, Mrs. Merry is. She's out sick today," I said. "I'm Kevin, the executive head assistant chef." They exchanged "Kev made himself look like a fool again" looks.
"That means I'm the speaker, she's the box," I said.
"Well, Kevin," Larry said, "My name's Mike, this is my partner, George." I looked at Steve. Lars continued."We're from the Arizona Game and Fish Department operating under the jurisdiction of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service to confirm reports of species endangerment."
"Wow...that's a-mazing," I said, sincerely as can be. They weren't sure how to handle that; then Jen (the boss) showed up and took care of matters.
Turns out, the AZDFG (Department of Fish and Game) doesn't list bald eagle as endangered, but the USFWS (Fish and Wildlife Service) does. So here's how it went, from the top:
Saundra (Health Inspector) gets AZDFG on us. AZDFG comes after us, we send his guy packing. AZDFG contacts USFWS, USFWS tells AZDFG to carry out their will, Steve and Larson show up, my boss tries to be diplomatic, my boss is bad at being diplomatic, Steve-o and Larry can't prove we had bald eagle, but to punish us for our irreverence the AZDFG contacts the USFWS who contacts MCESD (Maricopa County Environmental Services Department, or the Health Inspector People), MCESD closes our kitchen until it passes a full OSA ("oh-say," Operational Sufficiency Assessment), 10 lemmings are ripped from their duties to assist in purchasing a suitable lunch substitute and also to clean the kitchen in preparation of the assessment.
Sort of confusing, right? It appears that the AZDFG hasn't updated their conservation status on bald eagle. Roughly, AZDFG utilized USFWS's laws (which was really quite strange), couldn't prove anything, went to the ESD, ESD shut us down. I was not a happy camper. I was a sad sailor, if anything.
Here's a good halfway point. While chillin' out, and taking your break, why not read this post about how 8-9 years ago I served lunch for this very kitchen? OK, back to our post.
But now, somewhere in all of that, word of our predicament leaked to some super-advanced hippie activist website. It seems that the message they received said that we were cooking up bald eagle and "serving" it to endangered willow flooces. Willow flooce is a type of bird, or maybe a type of sheep that has birds that nest in its fleece. Or a sheep that nests in a willow tree. The endangered and mysterious Willow Sheep that hosts flooces in its fleece. That's it...I feel like Dr. Seuss.
Our OSA was scheduled for Thursday, the day after Wednesday (the day before Thursday and our scheduled OSA.) Midway through Wednesday in our halls was displayed an old 60's tie-dye revival; from the clothes that they wear to the shape of their hair these odd fools now render a trial.
If there's one thing my boss, Jen, hates with fierce wrath, it's protesters protesting out there on our grass. They trample and stample and then come inside; our clients get harried and stressed by their tide. They howl and they prance, they sing and they dance; our boss wills to bop them, and jumps at the chance.
Firemen rock and turn in their grave as our boss takes the tank from the wall with great haste; it extinguishes fires and hippies alike, and to remind you she hates them verges on trite. The engine that could was outshone that day as the halls filled with screams and a ghostly, cold haze. She laughed and she chased and the hippies, they ran; they flew right on back to their old hippie vans. Then they drove away and rued the day that they ever crossed my boss.
And a few of them probably went to the emergency room. My boss is tough.
Anyway, we got rid of the first wave of protesters easily enough. It definitely did not involve my boss running amuck with a fire extinguisher. I completely made that up. Hah, that's nuts. You're crazy. You're a laugh.
About 1 PM, shortly after lunch, as I was directing a few members of the cleanup crew, Vixen walked up bearing tidings. "What is it," I said, disgusted. "Well," she said, joyfully relishing her moment in the sun, "I guess, blah blah blah blah blah..."
She told me that a certain sensitive issue was exacerbated, and as a result, the LGBT community started actions against us. They're like hippies, but wear suits. They have lawyers, their hair is cut neatly. These are harder to deal with than the tie-dyes. They say things like "we're suing you"; all tie-dyes say is "don't spray me [with that fire extinguisher], bro."
Later in the day, halfway through 2 PM, Vixen had more news. (Her boss was running a lot of errands, so she got to be the newsgirl for a while. More on that later.)
She told Mrs. Jen that someone called in an anonymous tip: according to reports, we had imported the "tasty, nutrient-dense" spinal cords of cattle infected with BSE/Mad Cow Disease from someplace that isn't America; and then we, allegedly, made "delicious, delectable, heavenly and scrumptious stock" from this tasty, nutrient-dense, mad cow-infected cow spinal cord.
I think that the same person that got the lawyers on us is also the person who reported the fantastic cow-spine story. And I only know of two people who would use that many words to describe a "rich stock." My boss agrees. One of the people is me (who didn't see that coming?); the other is an old guy
Old folk, sometimes, say things that, sometimes, they shouldn't say. And sometimes, they say these things that, sometimes, they shouldn't say, to people that they really should not be saying these things to.
I almost feel bad for the primordial coot. There's quite a lot of hell coming his way. My boss? She's tough.
I'll try to wrap this week up with the next post...the post where everything gets kind of worse, then there's a blurry part, then most of it gets better.
Monday, March 02, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 5, Post 1: Saundra the Health Inspector Ruins My Week
These events take place one week after WEEK 4 and should have been posted February 6th, 2009, or about 1 month ago. Now, let us continue unabated...
Tuesday. It was a day like unto every other workday...except that this workday, I got to actually almost-cook real food from almost-scratch. It was almost glorious. Raw, slightly cooked beef, raw, partially cooked rice, and raw, canned condensed mushroom soup made into Ricey Mushroom Beef Cream Surprise. Vixen even managed to not stress me out much.
But, just when things are going good, and I get to actually cook scratchy meals, and don't have to look over my shoulder so much to see if my coworkers are against me or just against me, Saundra shows up.
Saundra is the inspector. The Health Inspector. Usually, it's Hector. This time it was Saundra.
Saundra's bad news. I didn't see her, as I was out purchasing lettuce when she arrived, but from reports, she's something like a cross between a scraggly old man and a dog afflicted with mange, has a skull that looks like the shell of a coconut, and has cracked lips. They said she had scars and open wounds from lip-end to lip-end and when she scowled during her vitriolic ramblings, they could almost hear the wounds breaking open and swore they saw blood. Her hair was nasty, lopped, and dripping grease.
Further reports are that her eyes are empty, black and soulless (and not in a good way), and she does not listen to reason. And her shoes are loud, squeaky, and "paddly." Don't ask me what that means; loud and squeaky makes sense, loud and paddly makes sense, but all three just don't jive.
Here's how it went:
10:00 AM (almost on the dot). Kev goes to store for lettuce.
10:15 AM. Kev returns, triumphant, with lettuce. Waves to adoring peasants on way to kitchen.
10:16 AM. Kev is intercepted during victory march, and is informed that a lady inspector named Saundra has appeared and looks like the embodiment of Satan. Kev hides in office, hopes it isn't really Satan.
11:04 AM. Boss updates Kev. Says there was a Critical Violation and a Severe Violation and Inspector is printing a report. Inspector claimed that there was raw bald eagle over packaged goods, i.e. cross-contamination, and found zebra stripes and leopard spots in the dishwasher/sanitizer, i.e. inoperable sanitizer (improper sanitization).
11:04 AM. Kev and Boss reassure each other that the "raw bald eagle" was actually frozen cooked soup, and Boss says inspector didn't even look at the dishwasher. Kev ponders how frozen cooked soup could look like eagle.
11:09 AM. Boss goes to retrieve printed statement. Kev bites the ends off of all of his nails, including his toenails. Promptly puts shoes back on, wipes mouth with sock.
11:15 AM. Boss tells Kev that the inspector is gone and to go finish lunch. While lunch is being prepped (lunch served at 11:30), Boss tells Kev that it was the worst inspector she has seen in 29 years of dealing with inspectors.
And so, within roughly one hour, my week had officially turned terrible. Again: the inspector said that we had raw bald eagle over packaged food. We had cooked, frozen soup over food- it was not bald eagle. It was not any kind of meat. Maybe it had cooked sausage, but nothing raw.
Nevertheless, the inspector even threatened to call our not-for-profit food delivery agency and shut down our food supply, effectively costing me my job and a source of "prorevenue" (?) if successful. Further, she was calling the Arizona Game and Fish Department (AZGFD) to report an incidence of illegal hunting.
A few hours later, after the lunch rush, a representative from AZGFD actually showed up- with a briefcase!- and demanded to see the bald eagle remains. The Boss tried to tell him that it wasn't eagle, and it surely wasn't bald. Problematically, the inspector (Saundra) happened to be a veterinarian in the northern part of Arizona for 20 years and "knew plucked bald eagle when she saw it."
Kind of suspect that she knew what a plucked bald eagle looks like.
Aaand, she happened to have connections with the AZGFD because of her career as a "rescue veterinarian." She would go out to the areas they service with dirt bikes and hiking shoes and if they break down (this was before cell phones), they die. That's how she got the AZGFD rep to attack us. His offensive failed and he "went to report his findings." (Dooooork.)
Then we got a call from the Maricopa County Environmental Services Department (MCESD, or ESD). They wanted to know if we had prior knowledge that we were serving illegal, possibly tainted meat. We said we weren't serving any meat tainted with anything, and they said that their inspector had observed tainted meat. Our receptionist freaked out and hung up the phone. Great job, there, Sharon...that's the receptionist's version of stuffing the inspector in the oven.
One half of one hour later, two hazmat agents showed up to do a hazardous materials check in our kitchen because "potentially hostile contaminants" had been observed "in or around" the food service area. That report was NOT on the receipt we received from the inspector. And that's not hazmat's job; the inspector should have handled that.
The hazmat people found "excess contained chemicals stored in the food storage area." What that means is that we had a few cups of soap left and we had our new bucket under the sink because we would run out any day. AND WE STILL DIDN'T HAVE ANY BALD EAGLE! Sorry, I freaked out.
Word, of course, spread throughout the building. And some delivery men were told. And a garbage man heard about it.
The next day, things went real bad.
Tuesday. It was a day like unto every other workday...except that this workday, I got to actually almost-cook real food from almost-scratch. It was almost glorious. Raw, slightly cooked beef, raw, partially cooked rice, and raw, canned condensed mushroom soup made into Ricey Mushroom Beef Cream Surprise. Vixen even managed to not stress me out much.
But, just when things are going good, and I get to actually cook scratchy meals, and don't have to look over my shoulder so much to see if my coworkers are against me or just against me, Saundra shows up.
Saundra is the inspector. The Health Inspector. Usually, it's Hector. This time it was Saundra.
Saundra's bad news. I didn't see her, as I was out purchasing lettuce when she arrived, but from reports, she's something like a cross between a scraggly old man and a dog afflicted with mange, has a skull that looks like the shell of a coconut, and has cracked lips. They said she had scars and open wounds from lip-end to lip-end and when she scowled during her vitriolic ramblings, they could almost hear the wounds breaking open and swore they saw blood. Her hair was nasty, lopped, and dripping grease.
Further reports are that her eyes are empty, black and soulless (and not in a good way), and she does not listen to reason. And her shoes are loud, squeaky, and "paddly." Don't ask me what that means; loud and squeaky makes sense, loud and paddly makes sense, but all three just don't jive.
Here's how it went:
10:00 AM (almost on the dot). Kev goes to store for lettuce.
10:15 AM. Kev returns, triumphant, with lettuce. Waves to adoring peasants on way to kitchen.
10:16 AM. Kev is intercepted during victory march, and is informed that a lady inspector named Saundra has appeared and looks like the embodiment of Satan. Kev hides in office, hopes it isn't really Satan.
11:04 AM. Boss updates Kev. Says there was a Critical Violation and a Severe Violation and Inspector is printing a report. Inspector claimed that there was raw bald eagle over packaged goods, i.e. cross-contamination, and found zebra stripes and leopard spots in the dishwasher/sanitizer, i.e. inoperable sanitizer (improper sanitization).
11:04 AM. Kev and Boss reassure each other that the "raw bald eagle" was actually frozen cooked soup, and Boss says inspector didn't even look at the dishwasher. Kev ponders how frozen cooked soup could look like eagle.
11:09 AM. Boss goes to retrieve printed statement. Kev bites the ends off of all of his nails, including his toenails. Promptly puts shoes back on, wipes mouth with sock.
11:15 AM. Boss tells Kev that the inspector is gone and to go finish lunch. While lunch is being prepped (lunch served at 11:30), Boss tells Kev that it was the worst inspector she has seen in 29 years of dealing with inspectors.
And so, within roughly one hour, my week had officially turned terrible. Again: the inspector said that we had raw bald eagle over packaged food. We had cooked, frozen soup over food- it was not bald eagle. It was not any kind of meat. Maybe it had cooked sausage, but nothing raw.
Nevertheless, the inspector even threatened to call our not-for-profit food delivery agency and shut down our food supply, effectively costing me my job and a source of "prorevenue" (?) if successful. Further, she was calling the Arizona Game and Fish Department (AZGFD) to report an incidence of illegal hunting.
A few hours later, after the lunch rush, a representative from AZGFD actually showed up- with a briefcase!- and demanded to see the bald eagle remains. The Boss tried to tell him that it wasn't eagle, and it surely wasn't bald. Problematically, the inspector (Saundra) happened to be a veterinarian in the northern part of Arizona for 20 years and "knew plucked bald eagle when she saw it."
Kind of suspect that she knew what a plucked bald eagle looks like.
Aaand, she happened to have connections with the AZGFD because of her career as a "rescue veterinarian." She would go out to the areas they service with dirt bikes and hiking shoes and if they break down (this was before cell phones), they die. That's how she got the AZGFD rep to attack us. His offensive failed and he "went to report his findings." (Dooooork.)
Then we got a call from the Maricopa County Environmental Services Department (MCESD, or ESD). They wanted to know if we had prior knowledge that we were serving illegal, possibly tainted meat. We said we weren't serving any meat tainted with anything, and they said that their inspector had observed tainted meat. Our receptionist freaked out and hung up the phone. Great job, there, Sharon...that's the receptionist's version of stuffing the inspector in the oven.
One half of one hour later, two hazmat agents showed up to do a hazardous materials check in our kitchen because "potentially hostile contaminants" had been observed "in or around" the food service area. That report was NOT on the receipt we received from the inspector. And that's not hazmat's job; the inspector should have handled that.
The hazmat people found "excess contained chemicals stored in the food storage area." What that means is that we had a few cups of soap left and we had our new bucket under the sink because we would run out any day. AND WE STILL DIDN'T HAVE ANY BALD EAGLE! Sorry, I freaked out.
Word, of course, spread throughout the building. And some delivery men were told. And a garbage man heard about it.
The next day, things went real bad.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 4, Post 2: Return of The Vixen
This post was meant to be posted on February 6th.
-
Remember two weeks ago when I told The Vixen to shut the hell up, get the hell out of my office, and let me get some work done, for once??
That was Tuesday morning, and after that, I couldn't get any work done. OK, I couldn't get much work done. The work I was doing was not simple work, you see. I felt terrible; and not only did I have a deadline I was failing to meet, I also had to determine whether the sour looks and ill demeanor of my workmates was due to word spreading about what I had said to Vixen, or just their usual jealous contempt toward me.
The next day, Wednesday, I was in my office trying to perform my electronic duties- bookkeeping for kitchens- and still feeling bad. It was about 9:00 AM, and I was just about to go check on the kitchen stuff when I heard a knock accompanied by a disembodied arm wrenching around my door.
Then The Vixen appeared. She sat down and said "hi," avoiding eye contact. I stared at her; she entered so quickly and in such an erratic and haphazard way that I couldn't really process what happened. I flipped into Auto Pilot, and I didn't feel much pressure to figure it out.
I looked at her really hard. Her hair was all brown, like usual, and kind of weirdish looking...but in a good way. I had the impulse to see what it felt like. Her hands were clasped in her lap and her shoulders were in the slump position.
The seconds droned. Maintaining her slumpedness, she gave me one of those "I really wish I wasn't" looks. You know, where they try to smile a little, but they're not happy, and they're not sure what to do.
Her eyes are brown.
I said hi, and we talked. She said some things, I said some things. And I managed to get a little work done.
-
Remember two weeks ago when I told The Vixen to shut the hell up, get the hell out of my office, and let me get some work done, for once??
That was Tuesday morning, and after that, I couldn't get any work done. OK, I couldn't get much work done. The work I was doing was not simple work, you see. I felt terrible; and not only did I have a deadline I was failing to meet, I also had to determine whether the sour looks and ill demeanor of my workmates was due to word spreading about what I had said to Vixen, or just their usual jealous contempt toward me.
The next day, Wednesday, I was in my office trying to perform my electronic duties- bookkeeping for kitchens- and still feeling bad. It was about 9:00 AM, and I was just about to go check on the kitchen stuff when I heard a knock accompanied by a disembodied arm wrenching around my door.
Then The Vixen appeared. She sat down and said "hi," avoiding eye contact. I stared at her; she entered so quickly and in such an erratic and haphazard way that I couldn't really process what happened. I flipped into Auto Pilot, and I didn't feel much pressure to figure it out.
I looked at her really hard. Her hair was all brown, like usual, and kind of weirdish looking...but in a good way. I had the impulse to see what it felt like. Her hands were clasped in her lap and her shoulders were in the slump position.
The seconds droned. Maintaining her slumpedness, she gave me one of those "I really wish I wasn't" looks. You know, where they try to smile a little, but they're not happy, and they're not sure what to do.
Her eyes are brown.
I said hi, and we talked. She said some things, I said some things. And I managed to get a little work done.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Cardinals Lose, 2009
This is the post that was posted before I meanted it to be posted. It goes thus:
Yep, the Cardinals lost. The only surprise for me was that the Steelers toyed with them so much in the second half...remember when the Steelers intercepted what should have been a touchdown, ran the entire field and scored a play-of-the-game touchdown? That was great.
Then the Cardinal's coach, when interviewed before halftime, offered this explanation of their game plan:
Taking that genius statement into account, let's see how I can make this a positive post.
Um...well, they really, REALLY suck, so it's great that they made it this far. I mean, just the fact that they were able to...make it this far, you know.
How many years have we watched as our team repeatedly, consistently lost? Remember the time that they practiced with the Sun Devils and got beaten 24-10? That might be understandable if we were talking about the Sun Devils football team; but I'm talking about that time that they practiced (football) with the Sun Devils Women's Softball team and got trounced (at football). That was embarrassing.
The only saving grace for that instance is that the players are not only terrible at football, they're also quite stupid, so they thought they were playing the Sun Devils football team and their pride was not damaged.
Uhhhh, that um, is an example of their good, positiveness as a team. It's just so amazing that they made it as far as they did. I get mad every time I see a Steelers fan. I say, "What's wrong with you, man? You're like the guy at a mixed horserace that yells, "GO HORSES! I hope you really outrun and beat that inbred mule!"...what's wrong with you, you jerk?"
It always shames them. I like to think of the Cardinals like an 8th grade team that somehow is playing in the Rose Bowl.
Alternatively, I think of them in the lowest of their glory getting knocked around by a college women's softball team. :\
Yep, the Cardinals lost. The only surprise for me was that the Steelers toyed with them so much in the second half...remember when the Steelers intercepted what should have been a touchdown, ran the entire field and scored a play-of-the-game touchdown? That was great.
Then the Cardinal's coach, when interviewed before halftime, offered this explanation of their game plan:
"The other team got the ball, that was a mistake. Then they got a touchdown, and we really should have stopped that. So what we need to do is get some points for the second half, and try not to let them get too many points, if they're OK with that, I hope, I mean, if their defense is OK with that, I mean."
Taking that genius statement into account, let's see how I can make this a positive post.
Um...well, they really, REALLY suck, so it's great that they made it this far. I mean, just the fact that they were able to...make it this far, you know.
How many years have we watched as our team repeatedly, consistently lost? Remember the time that they practiced with the Sun Devils and got beaten 24-10? That might be understandable if we were talking about the Sun Devils football team; but I'm talking about that time that they practiced (football) with the Sun Devils Women's Softball team and got trounced (at football). That was embarrassing.
The only saving grace for that instance is that the players are not only terrible at football, they're also quite stupid, so they thought they were playing the Sun Devils football team and their pride was not damaged.
Uhhhh, that um, is an example of their good, positiveness as a team. It's just so amazing that they made it as far as they did. I get mad every time I see a Steelers fan. I say, "What's wrong with you, man? You're like the guy at a mixed horserace that yells, "GO HORSES! I hope you really outrun and beat that inbred mule!"...what's wrong with you, you jerk?"
It always shames them. I like to think of the Cardinals like an 8th grade team that somehow is playing in the Rose Bowl.
Alternatively, I think of them in the lowest of their glory getting knocked around by a college women's softball team. :\
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 4: Cause and Effect with The Vixen
The Vixen.
Usually all people are the same; they want something, and once you identify what they want, everything falls into line. For example, I want to get my job done. Once you realize this about me, all of my intentions will fall into line, and you'll know just what to do. Yet, most people- especially The Vixen- have failed to grasp this concept, and they've surely failed to apply it to me.
It all began when I was out sick for a week.
The star new employee, the Beloved One, the Great No-Breaker, Kev, was out sick for an entire week. I work Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, because that's the only time we provide food. It went like this: 4 hours sleep on Tuesday, 6 hours on Wednesday (11-hour day), 3 hours on Thursday. This is normal sleep patterning, but on Thursday I forgot to eat breakfast, and then I was so busy I wasn't able to eat lunch. All of that wearing and tearing produced a very sick Kev the following week, and I was still a bit weak this week.
I was fulfilling my duty on Tuesday morning when the boss, Jen, came in and gave me an direct order. She said, "Kev, I know what's been going around, and I know that you can relapse easier than a knob twisted off of a pickle, so I need you to take breaks throughout the day."
"But...I don't...I don't take breaks," I pleaded. "I know you don't. Now make due!" she said. "But how?" "Just go out there, sit down and talk for a few minutes until you feel you've broken! Now, get to it!" I cast down my countenance. "Yes, ma'am."
The work I'm doing is learn-as-you-go,-by-the-way-improve-and-update-and-cater-the-system-to-your-specifications-as-you-learn-it-even-though-you-don't-all-of-the-intricacies work. Not the kind of work you get done when you have to take breaks throughout the day.
A few hours later, I was in my office formulating a menu. I was facing a hard deadline, and I had to excel in it or else I'd be bogged. I don't like the sound of bogging, neither do I know what it is, so I determined to excel, despite having to break.
Like clockwork, here came The Vixen. "Knock-knock!" she said, all perky like an idiot. "Oh, hi," I said, and tried to look really busy. She actually makes me feel physically sick. In a bad way.
"So how are you feeling?" she said. I looked up. "Just great, just a lot of work to do." Pause. "You were out for three days, you must have been really sick! How are you doing?"
"Yeah," I said, "doing fine, strong as a sailor, not as drunk, how are you." She grabbed the dry-erase eraser and began erasing my dry-erase board. I stared in horror. Zofia-1, Tanya-2, Eva-3, Umagon-4, CABAL-5, Kane-6, all erased! If I hadn't of memorized them and kept a separate copy, how on earth would I have remembered them?!
I tried not to let my frustration show. I am a professional; I don't get mad, I don't get sad, I don't get happy. I don't do inhibitions. I do my job. Vixen does not get this. She started drawing a picture of Hawaii, telling me how she wants to go there, how she wants to see Italy someday. Italy? Come on! That's like saying you want to see New York's sewage system someday. Not that there's anything wrong with New York's sewage system.
There are 8 colors of dry-erase markers in my office, and she can actually draw pretty well. It looked awesome, and my heart was about to grow three sizes that day...when she sat down.
If there's one thing that makes me angry, it's when somebody sits down in my office to waste my time. If you are going to waste my time, waste your body's precious energy reserves to do it, damn it.
I interrupted her mid-doesn't like her cousins-sentence. "Charlotte," I said, "could you do me a, uh, a favor?" She looked wide-eyed, but nodded. I nodded. "Could you, ah..." I struggled for the words. "Could you shut the hell up, get the hell out of my office, and let me get some work done, for once?"
I regretted the words before I said them. After a moment of trying to contain herself (I hate that look, I really, really hate it, it kills me), she teared up, stood and walked off. Based on how fast she walked, and that she didn't retort, and that she hid her face, and that she was headed to her office, I'd say that she was probably tearing up pretty badly, likely crying.
I didn't get any work done the rest of the day.
Usually all people are the same; they want something, and once you identify what they want, everything falls into line. For example, I want to get my job done. Once you realize this about me, all of my intentions will fall into line, and you'll know just what to do. Yet, most people- especially The Vixen- have failed to grasp this concept, and they've surely failed to apply it to me.
It all began when I was out sick for a week.
The star new employee, the Beloved One, the Great No-Breaker, Kev, was out sick for an entire week. I work Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, because that's the only time we provide food. It went like this: 4 hours sleep on Tuesday, 6 hours on Wednesday (11-hour day), 3 hours on Thursday. This is normal sleep patterning, but on Thursday I forgot to eat breakfast, and then I was so busy I wasn't able to eat lunch. All of that wearing and tearing produced a very sick Kev the following week, and I was still a bit weak this week.
I was fulfilling my duty on Tuesday morning when the boss, Jen, came in and gave me an direct order. She said, "Kev, I know what's been going around, and I know that you can relapse easier than a knob twisted off of a pickle, so I need you to take breaks throughout the day."
"But...I don't...I don't take breaks," I pleaded. "I know you don't. Now make due!" she said. "But how?" "Just go out there, sit down and talk for a few minutes until you feel you've broken! Now, get to it!" I cast down my countenance. "Yes, ma'am."
The work I'm doing is learn-as-you-go,-by-the-way-improve-and-update-and-cater-the-system-to-your-specifications-as-you-learn-it-even-though-you-don't-all-of-the-intricacies work. Not the kind of work you get done when you have to take breaks throughout the day.
A few hours later, I was in my office formulating a menu. I was facing a hard deadline, and I had to excel in it or else I'd be bogged. I don't like the sound of bogging, neither do I know what it is, so I determined to excel, despite having to break.
Like clockwork, here came The Vixen. "Knock-knock!" she said, all perky like an idiot. "Oh, hi," I said, and tried to look really busy. She actually makes me feel physically sick. In a bad way.
"So how are you feeling?" she said. I looked up. "Just great, just a lot of work to do." Pause. "You were out for three days, you must have been really sick! How are you doing?"
"Yeah," I said, "doing fine, strong as a sailor, not as drunk, how are you." She grabbed the dry-erase eraser and began erasing my dry-erase board. I stared in horror. Zofia-1, Tanya-2, Eva-3, Umagon-4, CABAL-5, Kane-6, all erased! If I hadn't of memorized them and kept a separate copy, how on earth would I have remembered them?!
I tried not to let my frustration show. I am a professional; I don't get mad, I don't get sad, I don't get happy. I don't do inhibitions. I do my job. Vixen does not get this. She started drawing a picture of Hawaii, telling me how she wants to go there, how she wants to see Italy someday. Italy? Come on! That's like saying you want to see New York's sewage system someday. Not that there's anything wrong with New York's sewage system.
There are 8 colors of dry-erase markers in my office, and she can actually draw pretty well. It looked awesome, and my heart was about to grow three sizes that day...when she sat down.
If there's one thing that makes me angry, it's when somebody sits down in my office to waste my time. If you are going to waste my time, waste your body's precious energy reserves to do it, damn it.
I interrupted her mid-doesn't like her cousins-sentence. "Charlotte," I said, "could you do me a, uh, a favor?" She looked wide-eyed, but nodded. I nodded. "Could you, ah..." I struggled for the words. "Could you shut the hell up, get the hell out of my office, and let me get some work done, for once?"
I regretted the words before I said them. After a moment of trying to contain herself (I hate that look, I really, really hate it, it kills me), she teared up, stood and walked off. Based on how fast she walked, and that she didn't retort, and that she hid her face, and that she was headed to her office, I'd say that she was probably tearing up pretty badly, likely crying.
I didn't get any work done the rest of the day.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 3: Meet The Vixen
The Vixen.
What can be said?
The Vixen's...um...not unattractive, let's say; and that's probably her biggest strength, so I'll put that first. She's the brown haired type who wears bell-bottoms a lot. It's hard to tell what else because it's winter, and winter's the time for overshirts, jackets, and ever stylish dress-sweaters. That's something I really envy about women...their wearing of dress-sweaters. When men wear them, they just turn out looking like Mr. Rogers.
Mr. Rogers.
One thing she does is walk really, really slowly, and you have to walk past her, and once you do, she matches your speed. Very unnerving. Then she starts talking. From there, she either follows you, or goes into the room you are heading for and slams the door in your face.
Then, when you open the door, she's standing right in your way and says, "Excuse me," very impatiently, and you have to let her past. And on her way out, she shuts the door. And usually locks it.
I'm the only one I know of that's been able to counteract her...or maybe I'm the only one who cares to. Regardless, I can count at least three times that I've left her on the other side of the door waiting for me to open it; meanwhile, I'm heading in the opposite direction. The Vixen is willing to go out of her way to do stuff like slam doors in your face; and I'm willing to go out of my way to foil her. Normally I would do this out of kindhearted crafty cunning, but she really isn't my favorite person, so there's a good bit of spite in it.
I don't know what her job is, but I don't think it calls for a lot of integrity, skill, work ethic, or morals. Not that any of those are bad in themselves, but usually are bad when (the lack of them is) combined. One point is that I don't think she's a whore, and I don't think she's a harlot. But I don't not think that, either, and this is one of her traits...she's extremely hard to get a read on.
The Vixen. She's about as useful as a box of rocks.
Best to avoid her.
Note: this post was supposed to be posted last week, but I didn't hit 'publish.'
What can be said?
The Vixen's...um...not unattractive, let's say; and that's probably her biggest strength, so I'll put that first. She's the brown haired type who wears bell-bottoms a lot. It's hard to tell what else because it's winter, and winter's the time for overshirts, jackets, and ever stylish dress-sweaters. That's something I really envy about women...their wearing of dress-sweaters. When men wear them, they just turn out looking like Mr. Rogers.
Mr. Rogers.
One thing she does is walk really, really slowly, and you have to walk past her, and once you do, she matches your speed. Very unnerving. Then she starts talking. From there, she either follows you, or goes into the room you are heading for and slams the door in your face.
Then, when you open the door, she's standing right in your way and says, "Excuse me," very impatiently, and you have to let her past. And on her way out, she shuts the door. And usually locks it.
I'm the only one I know of that's been able to counteract her...or maybe I'm the only one who cares to. Regardless, I can count at least three times that I've left her on the other side of the door waiting for me to open it; meanwhile, I'm heading in the opposite direction. The Vixen is willing to go out of her way to do stuff like slam doors in your face; and I'm willing to go out of my way to foil her. Normally I would do this out of kindhearted crafty cunning, but she really isn't my favorite person, so there's a good bit of spite in it.
I don't know what her job is, but I don't think it calls for a lot of integrity, skill, work ethic, or morals. Not that any of those are bad in themselves, but usually are bad when (the lack of them is) combined. One point is that I don't think she's a whore, and I don't think she's a harlot. But I don't not think that, either, and this is one of her traits...she's extremely hard to get a read on.
The Vixen. She's about as useful as a box of rocks.
Best to avoid her.
Note: this post was supposed to be posted last week, but I didn't hit 'publish.'
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 2: Bing Loo, Kim Soo, and 250 Candy Bars
Week #2. I'll try to keep this post light.
OK, first off, I had to go to the store. For the weekly shopping. I was almost out the door when I got a piece of paper and an order: "BUY OR DIE."
Not being one to purposely take my life into my own hands, I bought. Two boxes- 48 candybar-size bags- plain M&Ms. Two more boxes of peanut M&Ms. A box of Milkyway bars, 36 count, and a box of 3 Musketeers, 36 count. For the diabetics. I'm told they'll die without them. And I also got a hundred bags beloved. Those bags make my heart sing.
We got in 30- read 'em, 30- gallons of milk. I told Mrs. Merry, the official unofficial subordinate dictator-in-chief of kitchen affairs (I don't know either, except that she tells me what to do) that I never want to see milk again. She laughed. And then she brought out more milk.
Then she got to talking about how you can make a shake out of bananas and milk. I thought, "Wow, that sounds like the greatest thing since...since...since...ACHOO!" Whoop, sorry. I didn't really sneeze, I just lost my train of thought as I was typing and thought I sneezed, mentally. I only got 4 hours of sleep today with no coffee, and I was so busy I didn't eat lunch...so bear with me. Irony: I make and serve lunch, and I'm the one who's too busy to eat.
They've given me the title of Hoss. I told them, "Yeah, the only difference is, I don't fight like Hoss does. I go straight for the kill; and I'll shoot a man in the back if my fingers get a-itchin'." A-itchin' is the hardest word to pronounce when you're putting on a cowboy accent out of nowhere; it's a cross between uh-itshin and uh-itshun. Try it.
I haven't mentioned Kim Soo and Bing Loo, so here goes...I think they're married. I think. I hope. They're about the most standard Asian couple you could ever imagine except for...a few things.
From my vantage point- bear in mind they never speak to me in English- the case seems to be that they watch a lot of anime. A whole lot. And then they reenact these animes at work. Very, very dramatically. I swear, they're a pair of vocal...oh, I lost my nerve. I'll do it in the next post, I promise, Debbie.
Anyway, they do pretty good. They say something real loud (like they're watching someone go away), one will cry, plenty of weeeird shouts or screams, and the like. You know, anime. They do me the service of scaring the daylights out of me every few days by doing strange things...something about them puts me on edge. Maybe it's that I have no idea what their real names are, and though I call them Bing and Kim Loo-Soo, they haven't corrected me.
They do tend to make an entertaining lunch session. For example, Kim will start crying unexpectedly, and everyone is like, "Oh great here it goes," then they'll assume what I think is some scene about a dating couple where the girl wants to leave the guy, or feels that the guy doesn't love her, or something. Then Bing will get all dramatic. Once, she ran out of the place sobbing. It was quite hilarious.
And that's Bing and Kim. Bottom line: They freak me out.
I also set off the alarm. WHEWHEHWWHEHWHEWHEHW it went. I thought, "Wow, imagine what it'd be like to be cornered in a building- in possession of more than 250 candybars- by the police."
The Crazy Candybar Caper. Read all about it.
OK, first off, I had to go to the store. For the weekly shopping. I was almost out the door when I got a piece of paper and an order: "BUY OR DIE."
Not being one to purposely take my life into my own hands, I bought. Two boxes- 48 candybar-size bags- plain M&Ms. Two more boxes of peanut M&Ms. A box of Milkyway bars, 36 count, and a box of 3 Musketeers, 36 count. For the diabetics. I'm told they'll die without them. And I also got a hundred bags beloved. Those bags make my heart sing.
We got in 30- read 'em, 30- gallons of milk. I told Mrs. Merry, the official unofficial subordinate dictator-in-chief of kitchen affairs (I don't know either, except that she tells me what to do) that I never want to see milk again. She laughed. And then she brought out more milk.
Then she got to talking about how you can make a shake out of bananas and milk. I thought, "Wow, that sounds like the greatest thing since...since...since...ACHOO!" Whoop, sorry. I didn't really sneeze, I just lost my train of thought as I was typing and thought I sneezed, mentally. I only got 4 hours of sleep today with no coffee, and I was so busy I didn't eat lunch...so bear with me. Irony: I make and serve lunch, and I'm the one who's too busy to eat.
They've given me the title of Hoss. I told them, "Yeah, the only difference is, I don't fight like Hoss does. I go straight for the kill; and I'll shoot a man in the back if my fingers get a-itchin'." A-itchin' is the hardest word to pronounce when you're putting on a cowboy accent out of nowhere; it's a cross between uh-itshin and uh-itshun. Try it.
I haven't mentioned Kim Soo and Bing Loo, so here goes...I think they're married. I think. I hope. They're about the most standard Asian couple you could ever imagine except for...a few things.
From my vantage point- bear in mind they never speak to me in English- the case seems to be that they watch a lot of anime. A whole lot. And then they reenact these animes at work. Very, very dramatically. I swear, they're a pair of vocal...oh, I lost my nerve. I'll do it in the next post, I promise, Debbie.
Anyway, they do pretty good. They say something real loud (like they're watching someone go away), one will cry, plenty of weeeird shouts or screams, and the like. You know, anime. They do me the service of scaring the daylights out of me every few days by doing strange things...something about them puts me on edge. Maybe it's that I have no idea what their real names are, and though I call them Bing and Kim Loo-Soo, they haven't corrected me.
They do tend to make an entertaining lunch session. For example, Kim will start crying unexpectedly, and everyone is like, "Oh great here it goes," then they'll assume what I think is some scene about a dating couple where the girl wants to leave the guy, or feels that the guy doesn't love her, or something. Then Bing will get all dramatic. Once, she ran out of the place sobbing. It was quite hilarious.
And that's Bing and Kim. Bottom line: They freak me out.
I also set off the alarm. WHEWHEHWWHEHWHEWHEHW it went. I thought, "Wow, imagine what it'd be like to be cornered in a building- in possession of more than 250 candybars- by the police."
The Crazy Candybar Caper. Read all about it.
Friday, January 09, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 1: Garbage Has A Disposal
There I was, ordering stuff online with someone else's credit card. I was a bit sick, but not too sick to order stuff online with someone else's credit card. Anyways, then I heard over the phone system: "Jen to the kitchen, please."
I sat up straight in my chair. I was already sitting up straight, so hindsight, I must have overcorrected and actually leaned backwards in the chair. I then set out to find the cause of this summons.
You see...we're expecting Hector the Health Inspector to come by any day now, so I'm extra paranoid. I went out the back door and checked the parking lot. No Hectormobile. Mrs. Jen (Jen is her first name), or The Boss, is the one who deals with the inspector. She knows him the best and it keeps things from getting confused.
No idea why they don't use The Vixen for this. Not that I would agree with that, but still. More on The Vixen later.
Seeing no Hectorial car, I entered the building. Cautiously. I peeked around the corner...I saw Mrs. Merry with a mop and bucket. There was a water spill. Whew, I thought. That's all it is. No inspector. I'm terrified of the inspector. The inspector has a habit of beating you with health violations. Physically.
Anyway, Mrs. Merry, our janitor/head chef, has a temper. Some people have bad tempers, some people have horrible tempers. Hers is just...broken. After screaming at me for what seemed like two minutes, she handed me a mop and asked me to help. The good thing about Mrs. Merry is that once she expends all of her hatred, she's really nice as she mixes up more of that vitriol. Sometimes she'll attack others and be nice to you, sometimes she'll attack you so that she can go be nice to others. And she'll be in a really good mood if she can attack two people at once. It's give and take with Mrs. Merry.
Yesterday evening, as I was cleansing the refrigerator of the kitchen, I had to throw out three gallons of hot sauce. I didn't want to throw it in the dumpster (if I did that to our dumpster, we'd have half the boogeymen in the county after us, but I guess it's different in the city), so I put it down the garbage diposal. It was something to do with the hot sauce being too readily available and going down the pipes too fast, then sitting overnight, and it clogged the system up something fierce.
There was only ten or so gallons of water, but it took an hour and a half to clean up. As I'd later discover, Mrs. Merry's mop could absorb three times as much as mine, and when she left it to me to finish mopping, I continued with the bad one. For another forty minutes. After that I had to go finish ordering stuff with that credit card. Nothing makes you feel better faster than ordering something with someone else's credit card. Think about it: It's buying something with money that isn't yours, that isn't the other person's, either!
I was so happy. Then I got the news. I was informed that a plumber was on the way.
Then I got the bad news. I'd be paying.
So long, stillborn first pay check. I loved you 'ere I knew you.
I sat up straight in my chair. I was already sitting up straight, so hindsight, I must have overcorrected and actually leaned backwards in the chair. I then set out to find the cause of this summons.
You see...we're expecting Hector the Health Inspector to come by any day now, so I'm extra paranoid. I went out the back door and checked the parking lot. No Hectormobile. Mrs. Jen (Jen is her first name), or The Boss, is the one who deals with the inspector. She knows him the best and it keeps things from getting confused.
No idea why they don't use The Vixen for this. Not that I would agree with that, but still. More on The Vixen later.
Seeing no Hectorial car, I entered the building. Cautiously. I peeked around the corner...I saw Mrs. Merry with a mop and bucket. There was a water spill. Whew, I thought. That's all it is. No inspector. I'm terrified of the inspector. The inspector has a habit of beating you with health violations. Physically.
Anyway, Mrs. Merry, our janitor/head chef, has a temper. Some people have bad tempers, some people have horrible tempers. Hers is just...broken. After screaming at me for what seemed like two minutes, she handed me a mop and asked me to help. The good thing about Mrs. Merry is that once she expends all of her hatred, she's really nice as she mixes up more of that vitriol. Sometimes she'll attack others and be nice to you, sometimes she'll attack you so that she can go be nice to others. And she'll be in a really good mood if she can attack two people at once. It's give and take with Mrs. Merry.
Yesterday evening, as I was cleansing the refrigerator of the kitchen, I had to throw out three gallons of hot sauce. I didn't want to throw it in the dumpster (if I did that to our dumpster, we'd have half the boogeymen in the county after us, but I guess it's different in the city), so I put it down the garbage diposal. It was something to do with the hot sauce being too readily available and going down the pipes too fast, then sitting overnight, and it clogged the system up something fierce.
There was only ten or so gallons of water, but it took an hour and a half to clean up. As I'd later discover, Mrs. Merry's mop could absorb three times as much as mine, and when she left it to me to finish mopping, I continued with the bad one. For another forty minutes. After that I had to go finish ordering stuff with that credit card. Nothing makes you feel better faster than ordering something with someone else's credit card. Think about it: It's buying something with money that isn't yours, that isn't the other person's, either!
I was so happy. Then I got the news. I was informed that a plumber was on the way.
Then I got the bad news. I'd be paying.
So long, stillborn first pay check. I loved you 'ere I knew you.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Marshmallows that Roast in the Rain
Today it was raining. All over Arizona. It waz so crazy, I had to spell 'was' with an "z". A "z". Sorry.
So, being one to be taken with certain oddball songs, I got all nostalgic and asked Mrs. dataDyne and Manny Hitman if they had a recipe for marshmallows that roast in the rain. They looked at me funny. That's a red sign for a condition I call "everyone around Kev has suddenly been afflicted with disunderstandistic misunderstandism." At this point, nobody can form coherent sentences and usually accuses me of being acutely nuts.
I managed to distract them and make a clever escape ("I have to go"). I'm so subtle, it hurts.
Anyway, I remember stories where a wife would read a book- and in this book, it would say "a stew made with cubed beef, beef broth, carrots, potatoes, celeries (sic) and garlicks, as well a nary a not a little onion." And that's where beef stew came from. I figure it's the same with music. Or songs. So I figure there'd be a recipe, or something. The song is called Escape (The Marshmallows Roasted in the Rain song.) Lyrics, maestro.
"If you like pate de foie gras, and marshmallows that roast in the rain.
And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne."
I guess they never heard the song*. That's good.
*-note: I have precisely zero affection or affinity for this song.
So, being one to be taken with certain oddball songs, I got all nostalgic and asked Mrs. dataDyne and Manny Hitman if they had a recipe for marshmallows that roast in the rain. They looked at me funny. That's a red sign for a condition I call "everyone around Kev has suddenly been afflicted with disunderstandistic misunderstandism." At this point, nobody can form coherent sentences and usually accuses me of being acutely nuts.
I managed to distract them and make a clever escape ("I have to go"). I'm so subtle, it hurts.
Anyway, I remember stories where a wife would read a book- and in this book, it would say "a stew made with cubed beef, beef broth, carrots, potatoes, celeries (sic) and garlicks, as well a nary a not a little onion." And that's where beef stew came from. I figure it's the same with music. Or songs. So I figure there'd be a recipe, or something. The song is called Escape (The Marshmallows Roasted in the Rain song.) Lyrics, maestro.
"If you like pate de foie gras, and marshmallows that roast in the rain.
And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne."
I guess they never heard the song*. That's good.
*-note: I have precisely zero affection or affinity for this song.
Friday, January 02, 2009
"Our Guitars Good For You To Play"
Have you ever been to the Asiaman's Guitar Depot? It's a neat-looking guitar shop on the east border of downtown Phoenix. Or northeast, whichever. Anyways, it looks great from the outside.
Then you see the inside. It looks normal.
It really does. Then you meet the high-pressure salesmen. Plural. Two of them. Per person...but I'm getting ahead of the story.
"HIII!" he shouted and popped up in the air like a piece of toastt. I mean, toast. He landed very stiffly. Then another one behind me. "HALLO!WELCOME TO ASIAMAN'S GREAT GWEETARRS!"
I swear, if he could have turned that exclamation mark upside-down, he would have. Then the other one hit him really hard and said, "NO, you unfortifitable (?) dolt! It's ASIAMEN'S GWEETEAR DYEPOTT!"
It escalated. Shouting, screaming, popping up into the air like toast. Then landing and screaming some more.
It had to be the most uncomfortable argument between two Asian men I've ever had the misfortune of happening to be standing between them while they were arguing, ever. And I mean that.
Then they calmed their feud and we got to the gweetars. I must say, they were expertly tuned. I commented on it. "Wow...so who tunes all of these guitars?"
"YOU play them, and WE tune them!" one of them shouted angrily as he slammed his fist on the wall.
I'm not so sure what I said; he went from telling me that he recently taught his daughter how to braid her hair to trying to put his fist through the wall. I ...can't think of what I said. His daughter sounds awesome, though. He named her "after his grandfather's son's great-great granddaughter." I couldn't seem to figure that one out.
The other one has three boys, "all of them twins, all of them born several years apart." "Wow...those are some neat twins," I said. I couldn't figure that one out, either, but I wouldn't want to start a fight by asking how in the world that's possible. Usually we called three children triplets, and usually they're not all born several years apart.
Anyways, the guitars. Taylor, Takamine, Martin, Gibson. I told them I needed an acoustic electric...they told me I can turn any acoustic into an electric. I said, "How?"
They said, "Just buy an acoustic electric!" and burst into laughter. I was in stitches. Really. But I maintained my cheery demeanor...and after viewing thousand-dollar guitars, three-thousand-dollar guitars, and fifteen-hundred-dollar guitars...where was I. Too many numerical...ah, after viewing those expensive guitars, I asked a question.
"So why are these so quiet and gutless compared to my cheap, $200 guitar?"
Silence.
(1)"No, no, no, you did not say that!" one said, his disbelief manifesting as hilarity. They talked in...whatever they talked in (Asian pig Latin?), seemed to come to a conclusion, and walked away. Thirty seconds later, they were back. (2) "YOU DID NOT SAY THAT!" one shouted with angry, bitter tears. I stared. He walked through the store yelling, cursing, and popping into the air like toast.
(3) "Oh fine, oh fine, oh fine, oh fine," the other pleaded. I felt like I was in a house of mirrors. "What if you bought it at 80% discount?! Would they be better then?" I should have said yes, but "I really need one that you don't have to amp to hear," I said lightly.
(4) They wilted. Hunched. Hung their arms. Became all puffy-faced. And kinda pale.
Then something occurred to me......and a minute or two later, after they had finished sobbing, one faced me.
(5) "I understand your concern, valued and esteemed customer. We will pursue for you the loudest acoustic-electric not-amped gweetar in this land or ah-nee other." They bowed. Awkward pause. The other one popped into the air like toast. I cleared my throat and backed away.
Then I decided I don't really need an acoustic-electric that badly.
Then you see the inside. It looks normal.
It really does. Then you meet the high-pressure salesmen. Plural. Two of them. Per person...but I'm getting ahead of the story.
"HIII!" he shouted and popped up in the air like a piece of toastt. I mean, toast. He landed very stiffly. Then another one behind me. "HALLO!WELCOME TO ASIAMAN'S GREAT GWEETARRS!"
I swear, if he could have turned that exclamation mark upside-down, he would have. Then the other one hit him really hard and said, "NO, you unfortifitable (?) dolt! It's ASIAMEN'S GWEETEAR DYEPOTT!"
It escalated. Shouting, screaming, popping up into the air like toast. Then landing and screaming some more.
It had to be the most uncomfortable argument between two Asian men I've ever had the misfortune of happening to be standing between them while they were arguing, ever. And I mean that.
Then they calmed their feud and we got to the gweetars. I must say, they were expertly tuned. I commented on it. "Wow...so who tunes all of these guitars?"
"YOU play them, and WE tune them!" one of them shouted angrily as he slammed his fist on the wall.
I'm not so sure what I said; he went from telling me that he recently taught his daughter how to braid her hair to trying to put his fist through the wall. I ...can't think of what I said. His daughter sounds awesome, though. He named her "after his grandfather's son's great-great granddaughter." I couldn't seem to figure that one out.
The other one has three boys, "all of them twins, all of them born several years apart." "Wow...those are some neat twins," I said. I couldn't figure that one out, either, but I wouldn't want to start a fight by asking how in the world that's possible. Usually we called three children triplets, and usually they're not all born several years apart.
Anyways, the guitars. Taylor, Takamine, Martin, Gibson. I told them I needed an acoustic electric...they told me I can turn any acoustic into an electric. I said, "How?"
They said, "Just buy an acoustic electric!" and burst into laughter. I was in stitches. Really. But I maintained my cheery demeanor...and after viewing thousand-dollar guitars, three-thousand-dollar guitars, and fifteen-hundred-dollar guitars...where was I. Too many numerical...ah, after viewing those expensive guitars, I asked a question.
"So why are these so quiet and gutless compared to my cheap, $200 guitar?"
Silence.
(1)"No, no, no, you did not say that!" one said, his disbelief manifesting as hilarity. They talked in...whatever they talked in (Asian pig Latin?), seemed to come to a conclusion, and walked away. Thirty seconds later, they were back. (2) "YOU DID NOT SAY THAT!" one shouted with angry, bitter tears. I stared. He walked through the store yelling, cursing, and popping into the air like toast.
(3) "Oh fine, oh fine, oh fine, oh fine," the other pleaded. I felt like I was in a house of mirrors. "What if you bought it at 80% discount?! Would they be better then?" I should have said yes, but "I really need one that you don't have to amp to hear," I said lightly.
(4) They wilted. Hunched. Hung their arms. Became all puffy-faced. And kinda pale.
Then something occurred to me......and a minute or two later, after they had finished sobbing, one faced me.
(5) "I understand your concern, valued and esteemed customer. We will pursue for you the loudest acoustic-electric not-amped gweetar in this land or ah-nee other." They bowed. Awkward pause. The other one popped into the air like toast. I cleared my throat and backed away.
Then I decided I don't really need an acoustic-electric that badly.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Betty Breakdown
Ever had to deal with people? I have. And do. Not often. But one of those people is named Betty.
Betty Breakdown. As they call her.
They made a jingle:
People apparently don't get any nicer with age. You should see the jingles they made for Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman. Actually, they didn't make any for him, sorry. By the time they say his name it's time for the next part of that verse. Example:
Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman is,
Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman to,
Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman faced,
See? There's only room for one more word after his name. Betty Breakdown is much easier. Anyways, yes, Betty. I've been told by the resident Kev Guard (or 'person that tells Kev things he just can't grasp') that I'm a good target.
Kev. A shoulder to cry on.
I hear her approach. Tap, tap...slower taps. Silenced shuffling.
Sniffling. A knock. My door's open. The knock wasn't necessary.
"Mr. Kev?" she says. I'm twice her junior. No idea why she calls me "Mr." I look up from my keyboard. They're really nice keyboards, but I'm used to laptop keyboards and for a while I'll need to hunt and peck. I'm averaging two words a minute. Long words.
"Mrs. Breakdo- Agh! I mean, Mrs. Betty!" I say.
It's too late. She's sobbing, eyes halfway closed, unfocused and spewing tears. Mumbling. Mumbling something. Maybe an ancient curse, I think. Hopefully. No, darn it...just sob-speak.
She pulls up a chair. I hastily stow any vulnerable items; papers, my laptop, the desktop's tower and monitor, the keyboard and mouse...my voice recorder which I keep in a pocket...
Nothing is holy to Mrs. Breakdown. Not even pockets with sensitive electronics in them.
The best defense you have for Betty is to put your hands on her shoulders and try to hold her back. She fights like a drunken, angry bear, however, and is known to angle her head backward so that tears gather in her eye sockets. This allows her to fling her head forward and drench you with the "stored" water.
Betty...
Yeah...I think I'll keep my door closed from now on. Or invest in a stun gun.
Kzzapow.
Betty Breakdown. As they call her.
They made a jingle:
When you hear whining down the halls,
It's Betty Breakdown's wa'try falls!
When you hear sobbing and wish it'd stop,
It's Betty Breakdown - go get a mop!
When you get the feelin' you're being watched
Turn to see those cheeks all teary an' blotched
When you walk faster but a little too laaate...
It's Betty Breakdown! (someone at this point begins a mocking sob)
People apparently don't get any nicer with age. You should see the jingles they made for Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman. Actually, they didn't make any for him, sorry. By the time they say his name it's time for the next part of that verse. Example:
Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman is,
Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman to,
Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman faced,
See? There's only room for one more word after his name. Betty Breakdown is much easier. Anyways, yes, Betty. I've been told by the resident Kev Guard (or 'person that tells Kev things he just can't grasp') that I'm a good target.
Kev. A shoulder to cry on.
I hear her approach. Tap, tap...slower taps. Silenced shuffling.
Sniffling. A knock. My door's open. The knock wasn't necessary.
"Mr. Kev?" she says. I'm twice her junior. No idea why she calls me "Mr." I look up from my keyboard. They're really nice keyboards, but I'm used to laptop keyboards and for a while I'll need to hunt and peck. I'm averaging two words a minute. Long words.
"Mrs. Breakdo- Agh! I mean, Mrs. Betty!" I say.
It's too late. She's sobbing, eyes halfway closed, unfocused and spewing tears. Mumbling. Mumbling something. Maybe an ancient curse, I think. Hopefully. No, darn it...just sob-speak.
She pulls up a chair. I hastily stow any vulnerable items; papers, my laptop, the desktop's tower and monitor, the keyboard and mouse...my voice recorder which I keep in a pocket...
Nothing is holy to Mrs. Breakdown. Not even pockets with sensitive electronics in them.
The best defense you have for Betty is to put your hands on her shoulders and try to hold her back. She fights like a drunken, angry bear, however, and is known to angle her head backward so that tears gather in her eye sockets. This allows her to fling her head forward and drench you with the "stored" water.
Betty...
Yeah...I think I'll keep my door closed from now on. Or invest in a stun gun.
Kzzapow.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Flue on The Election, Part 1, "Obama HUSSEIN and the Poppy-Peanut Crop"
Flue says that Obama (Hussein Obama) may have the ears of an elephant, but if you rearrange the name 'Hussein' you can spell 'stupid.' (Flue can't read, if you're not able to tell, and he can't follow a thought process through to the end half of the time.)
He also says that Bill Ayers is just the tip of the Obamaburg, and that Ayers is just cover for Obama's more sinister allies, such as the Osama Al Panthers, which distribute poisoned circus peanuts that are tasty "beyond reproach" yet oh-so-poisonous to the trunk.
And Obama's a Muslim, too, due to his name 'Barack.' Flue says that if you don't believe that Obama's a Muslim, just rearrange the letters in the name 'Barry.' If you move one of the Rs, you will have the word 'Muslim.' "Pretty freaky, huh?" he asks enthusiastically. "Yeah...that's just scary," I reply flatly.
"And that's not all," Flue continues, certain that he's wooing his audience proficiently. "Obama actually founded Al Qaeda, but then turned it over to his young apprentice, Joe Biden, who turned it over to his apprentice, Osama Bin Laden. Ever wonder why Obama picked Biden? That's why!" he declares proudly.
"Then he set his sights on the presidency- not the presidency of the United States, but of Vietnam. The main stream media won't tell you this," he says conspiratorially, "But that's why the Vietnam war occurred. We were in there trying to hunt down Osama - I mean O- Obama because he caused..." (McCain appeared on the television for a second and broke his train of thought.)
(After McCain was over, he continued:)
"You might have heard a lot about the oil fields burning in Iraq," he said, eyes still on the screen, "but you never heard about the decimated peanut crops in Afghanistan. Obama- who has had previous names such as Cain, Judas, The Masher, Hitler- decimated all the peanut farms by sowing a poppy crop that mixed with the peanuts, creating a hybrid poppy-peanut crop, which caused a hallucinagenic daze when eaten.
"I ate my way through a quarter acre of those wonderful delights before I realized I was eating poppy-peanuts. By then it was too late, and I was hooked. Even Dr. Phil couldn't snap me out of my hallucinations, and Benny Hinn prayed the prayer over me to halt the cravings, but I couldn't stop.
"After those failed attempts, as I was living up my lifestyle with reckless abandon by 'poppy-peanut surfing,' I was abducted by baby Afghani tribesmen and forced into a newspaper cocoon.
"As I thrashed my way out of the newspaper cocoon- they added more layers daily to keep me confined- I began to lose hope, and the poppy-peanut cravings nearly drove me mad. The only comfort I received came in the form of villagers reading the newspapers that formed my cocoon. Through this I learned that I am the Republican Elephant, and once this set into my mind, I was a Pachyderm with Purpose. This gave me the strength..."
Then he grabbed the remote and started flipping through the channels, utilizing his trunk with great skill. He can't count, so he has to just keep flipping channels until he gets to Fox. He wanted to go vote with us so badly today, you could have swore he was having a poppy-peanut episode. He stopped chasing the van after about 300 yards.
More as the day progresses...
He also says that Bill Ayers is just the tip of the Obamaburg, and that Ayers is just cover for Obama's more sinister allies, such as the Osama Al Panthers, which distribute poisoned circus peanuts that are tasty "beyond reproach" yet oh-so-poisonous to the trunk.
And Obama's a Muslim, too, due to his name 'Barack.' Flue says that if you don't believe that Obama's a Muslim, just rearrange the letters in the name 'Barry.' If you move one of the Rs, you will have the word 'Muslim.' "Pretty freaky, huh?" he asks enthusiastically. "Yeah...that's just scary," I reply flatly.
"And that's not all," Flue continues, certain that he's wooing his audience proficiently. "Obama actually founded Al Qaeda, but then turned it over to his young apprentice, Joe Biden, who turned it over to his apprentice, Osama Bin Laden. Ever wonder why Obama picked Biden? That's why!" he declares proudly.
"Then he set his sights on the presidency- not the presidency of the United States, but of Vietnam. The main stream media won't tell you this," he says conspiratorially, "But that's why the Vietnam war occurred. We were in there trying to hunt down Osama - I mean O- Obama because he caused..." (McCain appeared on the television for a second and broke his train of thought.)
(After McCain was over, he continued:)
"You might have heard a lot about the oil fields burning in Iraq," he said, eyes still on the screen, "but you never heard about the decimated peanut crops in Afghanistan. Obama- who has had previous names such as Cain, Judas, The Masher, Hitler- decimated all the peanut farms by sowing a poppy crop that mixed with the peanuts, creating a hybrid poppy-peanut crop, which caused a hallucinagenic daze when eaten.
"I ate my way through a quarter acre of those wonderful delights before I realized I was eating poppy-peanuts. By then it was too late, and I was hooked. Even Dr. Phil couldn't snap me out of my hallucinations, and Benny Hinn prayed the prayer over me to halt the cravings, but I couldn't stop.
"After those failed attempts, as I was living up my lifestyle with reckless abandon by 'poppy-peanut surfing,' I was abducted by baby Afghani tribesmen and forced into a newspaper cocoon.
"As I thrashed my way out of the newspaper cocoon- they added more layers daily to keep me confined- I began to lose hope, and the poppy-peanut cravings nearly drove me mad. The only comfort I received came in the form of villagers reading the newspapers that formed my cocoon. Through this I learned that I am the Republican Elephant, and once this set into my mind, I was a Pachyderm with Purpose. This gave me the strength..."
Then he grabbed the remote and started flipping through the channels, utilizing his trunk with great skill. He can't count, so he has to just keep flipping channels until he gets to Fox. He wanted to go vote with us so badly today, you could have swore he was having a poppy-peanut episode. He stopped chasing the van after about 300 yards.
More as the day progresses...
Monday, October 13, 2008
Hey, I Know What We'll All Do!
Bored? I got it. We can all go to a rally.
Then we can hit each other with hammers. Not steel hammers, I suppose, but the symbolism of whacking each other with plastic/rubber hammers will suffice. I'm of course talking about the Grand Hammering of '92. You remember, right, humble fool?
You don't?!
Oh, it was dreadful. 30,000 hippies, losers, dorks, nerds, geeks, freaks and about 50 normal people gathered in the heart of the downtown of the city. They all brought hammers and well, the rest is history. I think that the hippies won; there are for sure more losers than hippies, but hippies are better-organized and, surprisingly, they don't shy away from violence- unless the government or anything that could be mistaken for "The Man" is involved. "The Man" is a hippie's kryptonite (and "Police" is equivalent to "Sunless Earth"). Otherwise, they're very adept warriors.
...well, mostly. But yes, we can all make plans to gather in downtown Phoenix to reenact the Grand Hammering of '92! We'd need to use real hammers, though. Think about it: The Grand Hammering took place right before the '92 election, so maybe we can do the same thing and in about 16 years they'll be talking about the "Grandiose Hammering of '08" and wanting to reenact it. What do you say, humble fools?
Yeah, I don't wanna, either. That sounds painful.
Then we can hit each other with hammers. Not steel hammers, I suppose, but the symbolism of whacking each other with plastic/rubber hammers will suffice. I'm of course talking about the Grand Hammering of '92. You remember, right, humble fool?
You don't?!
Oh, it was dreadful. 30,000 hippies, losers, dorks, nerds, geeks, freaks and about 50 normal people gathered in the heart of the downtown of the city. They all brought hammers and well, the rest is history. I think that the hippies won; there are for sure more losers than hippies, but hippies are better-organized and, surprisingly, they don't shy away from violence- unless the government or anything that could be mistaken for "The Man" is involved. "The Man" is a hippie's kryptonite (and "Police" is equivalent to "Sunless Earth"). Otherwise, they're very adept warriors.
...well, mostly. But yes, we can all make plans to gather in downtown Phoenix to reenact the Grand Hammering of '92! We'd need to use real hammers, though. Think about it: The Grand Hammering took place right before the '92 election, so maybe we can do the same thing and in about 16 years they'll be talking about the "Grandiose Hammering of '08" and wanting to reenact it. What do you say, humble fools?
Yeah, I don't wanna, either. That sounds painful.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Drat: Another Dream Crushed
You know I love Italian ice, right? It's wondrous. There are only a few things in this world I love more than Italian ice, amongst them the KJV, the Aran paladin, guitars, video games...and a few more things, then Italian ice is right there at like, #33.
Italian ice is everything I love about slushees without all the stuff I hate about slushees, such as...
...uh, well, second thought, I guess Italian ice is more like everything slushees should be in theory but aren't. So they really have nothing in common except that they're both cold. But yeah, Italian ice. It's wonderful. Yet for some reason- maybe it's just the world's policy of hating on me- it's not very popular, and thus hard to find. Luckily I've found a supplier.
But I've been thinking...why can't I make and supply this stuff? There's obviously a market, but there's a lack of someone really standing out as the Dreyers or Blue Bunny or eerily similar to Dreyers Breyers (or is it the other way around)...so I was defrosting the freezer today...
And WOOHOO! My Italian Ice business is off to a grand start. I'll call it, "Kevlevleo's Choice" and the flavors will be Actually Tastes Like Lemon Lemon, Wow This Doesn't Taste Horrendously Bad Cherry, and Ooh Who Knew Blue Raspberry Didn't Taste Horrible Blue Raspberry. Then I'll release What The Hell This Isn't Terrible Watermelon. I'll be rich and famous...except...
Well...
Index finger:
Middle Finger next to index finger:
And I also jabbed my Big Toe on Right Foot. It was all bloody, too. So, like, when I injure myself three times in one day such as the above, I get a little careful. And ...when I have ice in the freezer and I cut a the my (sic) finger, I put the finger in the ice to stop the bleeding. And this is what happens.
So ends Kevlevleo's Italian Ice. It goes down in a swirling, health inspector-fueled blaze reminiscent of glory. Fare thee well, What The Hell This Isn't Terrible Watermelon. I miss you forever.
(The dream that was crushed was my Kevlevleo's Italian Ice dream. In case I didn't make that clear.)
Italian ice is everything I love about slushees without all the stuff I hate about slushees, such as...
- Oversweetness
- Ability to melt into a puddle of syrup faster than a speeding bullet (syrup does not freeze, so what do you expect when you try to make it into a frozen product?)
- Inconsistency of the product
- Lack of decent flavors. (It's funny; for the widespread popularity of slushees, you'd think they would develop flavors that tasted good, but I guess that isn't their priority- their priority must be annoying me.)
...uh, well, second thought, I guess Italian ice is more like everything slushees should be in theory but aren't. So they really have nothing in common except that they're both cold. But yeah, Italian ice. It's wonderful. Yet for some reason- maybe it's just the world's policy of hating on me- it's not very popular, and thus hard to find. Luckily I've found a supplier.
But I've been thinking...why can't I make and supply this stuff? There's obviously a market, but there's a lack of someone really standing out as the Dreyers or Blue Bunny or eerily similar to Dreyers Breyers (or is it the other way around)...so I was defrosting the freezer today...
And WOOHOO! My Italian Ice business is off to a grand start. I'll call it, "Kevlevleo's Choice" and the flavors will be Actually Tastes Like Lemon Lemon, Wow This Doesn't Taste Horrendously Bad Cherry, and Ooh Who Knew Blue Raspberry Didn't Taste Horrible Blue Raspberry. Then I'll release What The Hell This Isn't Terrible Watermelon. I'll be rich and famous...except...
Well...
Index finger:
Middle Finger next to index finger:
And I also jabbed my Big Toe on Right Foot. It was all bloody, too. So, like, when I injure myself three times in one day such as the above, I get a little careful. And ...when I have ice in the freezer and I cut a the my (sic) finger, I put the finger in the ice to stop the bleeding. And this is what happens.
So ends Kevlevleo's Italian Ice. It goes down in a swirling, health inspector-fueled blaze reminiscent of glory. Fare thee well, What The Hell This Isn't Terrible Watermelon. I miss you forever.
(The dream that was crushed was my Kevlevleo's Italian Ice dream. In case I didn't make that clear.)
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Just Waiting for to Kill Me
So I was minding my own business a while back, trudging my way through my miserable existence on this here planet Earth, and I came upon THIS monstrosity, eagerly awaiting my arrival for to quench my life!!!
Thank goodness for 911. He was here before I knew it!
Officer Marv. Still putting in the good word.
Thank goodness for 911. He was here before I knew it!
Officer Marv. Still putting in the good word.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Two Birthdays!
Yesterday, as I was pondering the extremities of life (oh, how they toil and whip about), my parents started talking about chickens. They went on and on and on. Then my ear sent the signal to my brain, which sent the signal to me, that they had changed to the subtopic of killing chickens.
Now, a discussion about chickens is very uninteresting. But a discussion about killing chickens? Let me be a fly on that delightful wall!
I cut in. "Say...how would you kill 'em?"
"Well, Kev, do you think-" YES I CAN...sorry, in my haste I forgot the quotations. "YES I CAN SURELY STRANGLE THEM, JUST LINE 'EM UP AND SET 'EM TO DIE!" My eyes were wild and dancing with what surely could have figuratively been called flames. They looked at each other.
"Actually, Kev...I think we need to have a talk about this," Mom said. "I know, I totally know," I began. "For my part, I want to say that this whole 'small farm' thing, I thought it was stupid for the longest time, but now, strangling those animals...I don't know, I just feel, connected to the land, or something."
"Kev...uh...do you think that, um, maybe yo-"
"YES, I CAN TOTALLY STRANGLE A CHICKEN TONIGHT, JUST LEMME KNOW WHICH ONE HECK, I'll just go start strangling, and you can tell me when I've strangled the right one!" I practically screamed, wringing my hands and sitting on the edge of my seat.
After a pause: "Kev, don't strangle any chickens tonight," Dad said. "We aren't prepared to clean them, and it's too late. We can do it this weekend." My heart dropped, but it didn't hit the bottom. "Can't I just strangle one and, um, sacrifice it or something?" "NO, Kev. No." My heart continued its free-fall and hit the spike pit.
"Well, if we're going to play the waiting game, why don't we just wait until my birthday? That'd be the best present, ever!"
They looked at each other. My mom spoke. "Kev, on second thought, maybe we should just cut their heads off."
"Well, ch-yeah," I said, rolling my eyes and using an uncharacteristic 'ch' in front of 'yeah.' "That's the entirety of the idea! But first you have to strangle 'em."
"No, Kev...I mean, without the strangling."
I glared at one then the other. They actually meant it... "Look," I said. "It's a late night, none of us need to be making any rash, generalized, marginalized, over-the-top, dead wrong, disgusting decisions, and I'd say that most of the propagandistic hate-speech you're currently spewing is not at all to be considered a right nor sane addition to this subject! For now, let us leave it that we will strangle some chickens this weekend, and let me say, of sound mind and waxing eloquent, if chickens are not strangled on that fair day, then something else will be!"
I got up and stormed to my room.
How could they be so misunderstanding? How could they try to ruin my life like this? I can't believe it. But thus far they haven't said anything about not strangling chickens this weekend, so I think I made my point. It's gonna be great! The strangling...and the...well, just the strangling is good enough for me! It's gonna be great!
...boy, I just can't wait! It's like my birthday comes early this year!!! Or, like, I have two birthdays, or something! Yeah, that's totally it!
*The preceding may not have occurred.
Now, a discussion about chickens is very uninteresting. But a discussion about killing chickens? Let me be a fly on that delightful wall!
I cut in. "Say...how would you kill 'em?"
"Well, Kev, do you think-" YES I CAN...sorry, in my haste I forgot the quotations. "YES I CAN SURELY STRANGLE THEM, JUST LINE 'EM UP AND SET 'EM TO DIE!" My eyes were wild and dancing with what surely could have figuratively been called flames. They looked at each other.
"Actually, Kev...I think we need to have a talk about this," Mom said. "I know, I totally know," I began. "For my part, I want to say that this whole 'small farm' thing, I thought it was stupid for the longest time, but now, strangling those animals...I don't know, I just feel, connected to the land, or something."
"Kev...uh...do you think that, um, maybe yo-"
"YES, I CAN TOTALLY STRANGLE A CHICKEN TONIGHT, JUST LEMME KNOW WHICH ONE HECK, I'll just go start strangling, and you can tell me when I've strangled the right one!" I practically screamed, wringing my hands and sitting on the edge of my seat.
After a pause: "Kev, don't strangle any chickens tonight," Dad said. "We aren't prepared to clean them, and it's too late. We can do it this weekend." My heart dropped, but it didn't hit the bottom. "Can't I just strangle one and, um, sacrifice it or something?" "NO, Kev. No." My heart continued its free-fall and hit the spike pit.
"Well, if we're going to play the waiting game, why don't we just wait until my birthday? That'd be the best present, ever!"
They looked at each other. My mom spoke. "Kev, on second thought, maybe we should just cut their heads off."
"Well, ch-yeah," I said, rolling my eyes and using an uncharacteristic 'ch' in front of 'yeah.' "That's the entirety of the idea! But first you have to strangle 'em."
"No, Kev...I mean, without the strangling."
I glared at one then the other. They actually meant it... "Look," I said. "It's a late night, none of us need to be making any rash, generalized, marginalized, over-the-top, dead wrong, disgusting decisions, and I'd say that most of the propagandistic hate-speech you're currently spewing is not at all to be considered a right nor sane addition to this subject! For now, let us leave it that we will strangle some chickens this weekend, and let me say, of sound mind and waxing eloquent, if chickens are not strangled on that fair day, then something else will be!"
I got up and stormed to my room.
How could they be so misunderstanding? How could they try to ruin my life like this? I can't believe it. But thus far they haven't said anything about not strangling chickens this weekend, so I think I made my point. It's gonna be great! The strangling...and the...well, just the strangling is good enough for me! It's gonna be great!
...boy, I just can't wait! It's like my birthday comes early this year!!! Or, like, I have two birthdays, or something! Yeah, that's totally it!
*The preceding may not have occurred.
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