I recently had my very first run in with someone who I believe is certifiably batsh*t crazy. It happened a few weeks ago one morning when my wife and I were on our way to work. We normally follow each other until I reach my office; she works a little farther into the city, so she continues on, obviously, until she reaches her office.
Anyway, this particular morning, she made a turn onto a street she normally doesn't turn on, which puzzled me. So, I sent her a text message asking her where she was going. She responded by saying that she really didn't know why she'd turned and hadn't even realized she'd done it until receiving my text message. I let it go at that.
Five minutes later, she called me and, when I answered, told me she had been "in a wreck". I asked her where she was, told her to stay in the car and that I would be there as soon as I could. She proceeded to tell me that she had turned onto the highway, which was heavily congested with traffic. Everyone was crawling along at a snail's pace when the truck in front of her tapped the bumper of the vehicle in front of him. My wife hit the brakes, stopping so close to the bumper of the truck in front of her that she couldn't be sure if she made contact with it or not. For clarification purposes, I will refer to the driver whose vehicle's bumper was tapped as "Driver #1" and the driver my wife thought she might have hit as "Crazy Driver".
When the other two vehicles pulled over, she decided to err on the side of caution and pull over, too. She sat in the car for a few minutes, thinking one of the two other drivers involved would get out to begin the process of checking the damage and exchanging insurance info and blah-blah-blah. That's not what happened.
Crazy Driver didn't get out; he just sat there, not moving. Driver #1 did get out, however, checked the damage and walked back to Crazy Driver's truck. After seeing Driver #1 get out, my wife got out and walked up to the driver's side window of Crazy Driver's truck (this is where the story took a detour from Run of the Mill Avenue onto Bizzaro Drive). Crazy Driver rolled his window down, looked at my wife and called her a "white motherf**ker". He then looked at Driver #1 (which is what caused this whole mess in the first place) , called him a "black motherf**ker" and said, "call the police", before rolling up his window. So...my wife and Driver #1 looked at each other for a second or two in disbelief at what Crazy Driver had just said, turned and went back to their respective vehicles.
Now, when I heard this, my blood began to boil. I knew I wouldn't be able to control my temper when I got there, but at the time, I didn't care. Someone had just called my wife a disgusting name, and that someone was about to pay for it.
When I pulled up, I checked on my wife, who looked fantastic. Then I checked the front bumper of her car and found...nothing. Not a scratch. My wife drives a Toyota Camry, which has a plastic bumper designed to give way and absorb energy in the event of a frontal collision. If she would've tapped Crazy Driver's bumper, there would have been some kind of mark.
Moving right along, my next stop was the rear bumper of Crazy Driver's truck. Again, no damage anywhere. Now, my blood was really boiling over. I ignored my wife's pleas to get in her car and walked up to Crazy Driver's window. He was sitting in his truck, arms folded, staring straight ahead. After ten or fifteen seconds, he looked at me and I asked him to roll his window down so we could talk, to which he responded with, "Aw, f**k you!" My response? I gave him the middle finger and turned to walk away.
My memory after that point is a little blurry, but the next thing I know, I'm demanding that Crazy Driver show me some evidence that my wife hit him, which caused him to begin showing signs that he was genuinely mentally unstable. I remember him cursing at me and my wife getting between him and I. I remember threatening to knock the glasses off of his face and him taking the glasses off and throwing them into traffic on the highway. I remember me trying to keep him from groping my wife while he sobbed, "Please don't let him kill me, please!!" I also remember him screaming random things like, "Jesus is Jehovah!!" and, "F*ck Jimmy Swaggart!!" I was content to let it continue to escalate to the point where I actually saw a chance to throw a punch at the turd.
That is, until I saw my wife's face. She was crying and obviously scared and, since I couldn't get her out of there, we got in her car and sat there until the police arrived. Crazy Driver didn't make the State trooper wait very long before revealing his batsh*t craziness. While the trooper was asking my wife questions about the accident, Crazy Driver got out of his truck and started screaming, "Hey faggot! Hey, you! Faggot!"
The trooper reacted as you might expect. He was clearly in shock at what Crazy Driver had just said, but the shock quickly turned to rage as he got right in Crazy Driver's face and screamed, "You better calm the f*ck down, buddy!" The next few minutes were consumed by the trooper trying to get Crazy Driver under control, after which the trooper took one glance at my wife's bumper and Crazy Driver's bumper before telling us we could go. The trooper's parting comment brought it all home: "You didn't hit him and, if you did, he wouldn't have known it anyway."
What's the moral of this long story? I have no idea...
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
The Phantom Senior Citizen Poot
Alrighty. Here I am at work, in my office with the door open. My coworker is at her desk, and I hear her talking to Mumbles. Those of you who have read some of my previous posts know exactly who Mumbles is...
The conversation slowly morphs from the upcoming election to caring for the elderly. As some of you are aware, Mumbles is nearly 65 years old and is scheduled to retire next May. He is also an ex-police officer who loves nothing more than the sound of his own voice as he regales whoever is in earshot with tales of his "policing" back in the 1960's during the civil rights movement when he spent countless nights exhausting himself from swinging his night stick at the skulls of "suspected marijuana users"...
Anyway, Mumbles is talking with my coworker, and they're having a ball. Then comes a knock at the back door. Mumbles finishes his statement with a guffaw and, as he stands to go answer the back door, he...
...well, he rips one, if you know what I mean. *Skwooomp* Yep, he floated an air biscuit loud enough for me to hear it from fifteen feet away! Initially, I wasn't sure if I had heard what I thought I'd heard.
So, to get some sort of confirmation, I emailed my coworker and asked her if Mumbles had just farted. She confirmed that he had, in fact, tooted his ass-horn. What we couldn't figure out, though, was why he didn't say, "Excuse me", or "Oops", or something of that nature. At first I just assumed that, due to his pompous personality, he didn't give a rats ass about what he'd just done.
But then I had an epiphany. He is 65, after all, right? I think my coworker and I witnessed Mumbles' very first Phantom Senior Citizen Poot. You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't ya? The sound of a poot slams into your ear drums, causing you to spin around and search for the source, and there he is: Salt and pepper gray hair, slightly stooped posture, sans-a-belt slacks, and a cardigan. No one else in sight. "But this dude never broke stride!", you say to yourself. That's right. He gave you a taste of the Phantom Senior Citizen Poot.
It's a rare occurrence among the younger elderly so, if you ever catch one, like me and my coworker caught today, consider yourself lucky. I rank a personal Phantom Senior Citizen Poot experience right up there with sightings of Bigfoot, UFOs and Elvis. That's how rare they are...
I'm a lucky guy...
The conversation slowly morphs from the upcoming election to caring for the elderly. As some of you are aware, Mumbles is nearly 65 years old and is scheduled to retire next May. He is also an ex-police officer who loves nothing more than the sound of his own voice as he regales whoever is in earshot with tales of his "policing" back in the 1960's during the civil rights movement when he spent countless nights exhausting himself from swinging his night stick at the skulls of "suspected marijuana users"...
Anyway, Mumbles is talking with my coworker, and they're having a ball. Then comes a knock at the back door. Mumbles finishes his statement with a guffaw and, as he stands to go answer the back door, he...
...well, he rips one, if you know what I mean. *Skwooomp* Yep, he floated an air biscuit loud enough for me to hear it from fifteen feet away! Initially, I wasn't sure if I had heard what I thought I'd heard.
So, to get some sort of confirmation, I emailed my coworker and asked her if Mumbles had just farted. She confirmed that he had, in fact, tooted his ass-horn. What we couldn't figure out, though, was why he didn't say, "Excuse me", or "Oops", or something of that nature. At first I just assumed that, due to his pompous personality, he didn't give a rats ass about what he'd just done.
But then I had an epiphany. He is 65, after all, right? I think my coworker and I witnessed Mumbles' very first Phantom Senior Citizen Poot. You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't ya? The sound of a poot slams into your ear drums, causing you to spin around and search for the source, and there he is: Salt and pepper gray hair, slightly stooped posture, sans-a-belt slacks, and a cardigan. No one else in sight. "But this dude never broke stride!", you say to yourself. That's right. He gave you a taste of the Phantom Senior Citizen Poot.
It's a rare occurrence among the younger elderly so, if you ever catch one, like me and my coworker caught today, consider yourself lucky. I rank a personal Phantom Senior Citizen Poot experience right up there with sightings of Bigfoot, UFOs and Elvis. That's how rare they are...
I'm a lucky guy...
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Football...Why Do I Keep Doing This to Myself?
I think it might be time for me to "give up" football. I've gotten to the point where I'm so emotionally invested in my teams that, when they decide to play crappy football, I tend to get way too angry.
I say things I shouldn't say. In fact, I say things no man should say in front of his wife. I know I shouldn't get so pissed off about a dumb game that's not putting any money into my bank account, regardless of which team wins or loses. I tell myself to try and stay calm...
...but it just doesn't work. Before I know it, I've reached the end of my patience and I'm cursing my team, the opposing team, the referees and the commentators, my breathing increases to the point where I almost feel out of breath, and I can barely stave off the urge to throw the remote control at the television.
Football is supposed to be fun to watch, but feeling that way is no fun. It's simply not worth it and, ultimately, it's a waste of my time. Time I could be spending doing something else with my wife...
So, at least for now, my teams (and they know who they are) can kiss my ass. I'm done rooting for you, and I'm too loyal to start rooting for anyone else. So, my only option is to tell you all to kiss my ass...
I say things I shouldn't say. In fact, I say things no man should say in front of his wife. I know I shouldn't get so pissed off about a dumb game that's not putting any money into my bank account, regardless of which team wins or loses. I tell myself to try and stay calm...
...but it just doesn't work. Before I know it, I've reached the end of my patience and I'm cursing my team, the opposing team, the referees and the commentators, my breathing increases to the point where I almost feel out of breath, and I can barely stave off the urge to throw the remote control at the television.
Football is supposed to be fun to watch, but feeling that way is no fun. It's simply not worth it and, ultimately, it's a waste of my time. Time I could be spending doing something else with my wife...
So, at least for now, my teams (and they know who they are) can kiss my ass. I'm done rooting for you, and I'm too loyal to start rooting for anyone else. So, my only option is to tell you all to kiss my ass...
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Smell of Nitro in the Morning... Smells Like Victory
So, I'm a dude. I like dude things. Football, sports cars, steak and potatoes, my wife in her birthday suit...you know, stuff like that. Well, I had the opportunity to experience a true "dude" event this weekend in my home town of Dallas, Texas.
That event was an NHRA (National Hot Rod Association) drag race, which included top-fuel dragsters and funny cars. Wow... Just writing the words "top-fuel" gave me goosebumps and caused a flashback of yesterdays action. You may be saying to yourself, "So? What's the big freaking deal?"
I'll tell you what the big freaking deal is. Unless you have stood on the deck of an aircraft carrier during the launch of a fighter jet or been present at the launch of the space shuttle, you have never, never, ever heard a sound as unbelievably loud as a top-fuel car streaking by at 300-+ miles per hour, right in front of your face...
And the sound is only half of the goosebump-inducing, adrenaline-pumping experience. As the cars passed in front of me, the ground shook so intensely that, combined with the deafening roar, made me feel as if the world was coming to an end, or that the race track was being bombed. It's that violent.
The only disappointing aspect of the entire experience was that, from the time I entered the gate 'til the time I exited the gate, I don't think I drew one breath of air that didn't contain cigarette smoke, B.O., beer fumes, or some combination of the three. At some point after constantly (and I do mean constantly) smelling cigarette smoke, I became acutely aware that, in every direction, in the stands, lining the fences and in the pit area, were rednecks.
Even more startlingly, these rednecks were the prototypical, quintessential brand of redneck: Deep tan from years of sunburn presumably caused by working outside in the sun and attending hundreds of events just like this one; dirty baseball caps advertising their favorite race car driver, their favorite auto parts store, or their favorite brand of malt liquor; cut-off blue jean shorts; the ubiquitous mullet on both men and women; cigarette dangling from a mouth full of yellowish-brown teeth; and last, but not least, plastic bottles of Coors light gripped firmly in hand.
For a brief time, I was actually distracted from the majesty of the cars racing as I gazed, open-mouthed, at the sheer volume of white trash that surrounded me. My first thought was, "Well, at least now I know why I can't get the smell of cigarette smoke out of my sinuses." Another thing surprised me: There was not one disturbance, despite the vast number of drunken idiots stumbling around the complex. Not one fight, not one verbal altercation, nothing.
The only violence came from the 7,500 horsepower engines of the top-fuel cars. And, you know what? In spite of the company I'll be forced to keep, I absolutely can't wait for the opportunity to go to another NHRA race...
That event was an NHRA (National Hot Rod Association) drag race, which included top-fuel dragsters and funny cars. Wow... Just writing the words "top-fuel" gave me goosebumps and caused a flashback of yesterdays action. You may be saying to yourself, "So? What's the big freaking deal?"
I'll tell you what the big freaking deal is. Unless you have stood on the deck of an aircraft carrier during the launch of a fighter jet or been present at the launch of the space shuttle, you have never, never, ever heard a sound as unbelievably loud as a top-fuel car streaking by at 300-+ miles per hour, right in front of your face...
And the sound is only half of the goosebump-inducing, adrenaline-pumping experience. As the cars passed in front of me, the ground shook so intensely that, combined with the deafening roar, made me feel as if the world was coming to an end, or that the race track was being bombed. It's that violent.
The only disappointing aspect of the entire experience was that, from the time I entered the gate 'til the time I exited the gate, I don't think I drew one breath of air that didn't contain cigarette smoke, B.O., beer fumes, or some combination of the three. At some point after constantly (and I do mean constantly) smelling cigarette smoke, I became acutely aware that, in every direction, in the stands, lining the fences and in the pit area, were rednecks.
Even more startlingly, these rednecks were the prototypical, quintessential brand of redneck: Deep tan from years of sunburn presumably caused by working outside in the sun and attending hundreds of events just like this one; dirty baseball caps advertising their favorite race car driver, their favorite auto parts store, or their favorite brand of malt liquor; cut-off blue jean shorts; the ubiquitous mullet on both men and women; cigarette dangling from a mouth full of yellowish-brown teeth; and last, but not least, plastic bottles of Coors light gripped firmly in hand.
For a brief time, I was actually distracted from the majesty of the cars racing as I gazed, open-mouthed, at the sheer volume of white trash that surrounded me. My first thought was, "Well, at least now I know why I can't get the smell of cigarette smoke out of my sinuses." Another thing surprised me: There was not one disturbance, despite the vast number of drunken idiots stumbling around the complex. Not one fight, not one verbal altercation, nothing.
The only violence came from the 7,500 horsepower engines of the top-fuel cars. And, you know what? In spite of the company I'll be forced to keep, I absolutely can't wait for the opportunity to go to another NHRA race...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Being Poor
Being poor is knowing exactly how much everything costs.
Being poor is hoping the toothache goes away.Being poor is knowing your kid goes to friends' houses but never has friends over to yours.
Being poor is going to the restroom before you get in the school lunch line so your friends will be ahead of you and won't hear you say "I get free lunch" when you get to the cashier.
Being poor is living next to the freeway.
Being poor is coming back to the car with your children in the back seat, clutching that box of Raisin Bran you just bought and trying to think of a way to make the kids understand that the box has to last.
Being poor is wondering if your well-off sibling is lying when he says he doesn't mind when you ask for help.
Being poor is off-brand toys.
Being poor is a heater in only one room of the house.
Being poor is knowing you can't leave $5 on the coffee table when your friends are around.
Being poor is hoping your kids don't have a growth spurt.
Being poor is stealing meat from the store, frying it up before your mom gets home and then telling her she doesn't have make dinner tonight because you're not hungry anyway.
Being poor is Goodwill underwear.
Being poor is not enough space for everyone who lives with you.
Being poor is feeling the glued soles tear off your supermarket shoes when you run around the playground.
Being poor is your kid's school being the one with the 15-year-old textbooks and no air conditioning.
Being poor is thinking $8 an hour is a really good deal.
Being poor is an overnight shift under florescent lights.
Being poor is finding the letter your mom wrote to your dad, begging him for the child support.
Being poor is stopping the car to take a lamp from a stranger's trash.
Being poor is making lunch for your kid when a cockroach skitters over the bread, and you looking over to see if your kid saw.
Being poor is not taking the job because you can't find someone you trust to watch your kids.
Being poor is the police busting into the apartment right next to yours.
Being poor is not talking to that girl because she'll probably just laugh at your clothes.
Being poor is hoping you'll be invited for dinner.
Being poor is a sidewalk with lots of brown glass on it.
Being poor is people thinking they know something about you by the way you talk.
Being poor is needing that 35-cent raise.
Being poor is your kid's teacher assuming you don't have any books in your home.
Being poor is six dollars short on the utility bill and no way to close the gap.
Being poor is crying when you drop the mac and cheese on the floor.
Being poor is knowing you work as hard as anyone, anywhere.
Being poor is people surprised to discover you're not actually stupid.
Being poor is people surprised to discover you're not actually lazy.
Being poor is a six-hour wait in an emergency room with a sick child asleep on your lap.
Being poor is never buying anything someone else hasn't bought first.
Being poor is picking the 10 cent ramen instead of the 12 cent ramen because that's two extra packages for every dollar.
Being poor is having to live with choices you didn't know you made when you were 14 years old.
Being poor is getting tired of people wanting you to be grateful.
Being poor is knowing you're being judged.
Being poor is a box of crayons and a $1 coloring book from a community center Santa.
Being poor is checking the coin return slot of every soda machine you go by.
Being poor is deciding that it's all right to base a relationship on shelter.
Being poor is knowing you really shouldn't spend that buck on a Lotto ticket.
Being poor is hoping the register lady will spot you the dime.
Being poor is feeling helpless when your child makes the same mistakes you did, and won't listen to you beg them against doing so.
Being poor is a cough that doesn't go away.
Being poor is making sure you don't spill on the couch, just in case you have to give it back before the lease is up.
Being poor is a $200 paycheck advance from a company that takes $250 when the paycheck comes in.
Being poor is four years of night classes for an Associates of Art degree.
Being poor is a lumpy futon bed.
Being poor is knowing where the shelter is.
Being poor is people who have never been poor wondering why you choose to be so.
Being poor is knowing how hard it is to stop being poor.
Being poor is seeing how few options you have.
~ Author Unknown
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Hurricane Gustav Diet Worked for Me!!
Well, we made it. Gustav passed through Louisiana, causing massive infrastructure damage and more or less kicking Baton Rouge in the crotch. Though he's dead now, Gustav left an innumerable amount of downed trees in his wake. Those downed trees have become the bane of existence for most residents of the Baton Rouge area. Why? Because those downed trees sliced right through homes and power lines by the hundreds. Maybe even by the thousands. I have lived in Baton Rouge (off and on) since 1975 and have never, ever seen so much destruction.
The first couple of days after Gustav were surreal, to say the least. There were no traffic lights working anywhere in the city. There were no gas stations open. There were no grocery stores open. Many roads were impassable due to the aforementioned downed trees. No one had electricity; not hospitals, not government agencies...no one. All most of us had was the bottled water and granola bars we purchased prior to the storm and a small battery-powered radio. Other than that, the citizens of Baton Rouge and the surrounding parishes were cut off from civilization.
The electricity was restored here at my home yesterday and, while I am exceedingly happy about that, there is a part of me that feels very guilty about having electricity while many of my fellow Gustav veterans are still without electricity as I type this.
Not having electricity in south Louisiana isn't quite the same as not having electricity in, say, Minnesota. July/August/September in south Louisiana is an endurance event for all who live here, with static temperatures in the upper-90's and humidity levels in the 80%-+ range. It can be unbearable sometimes, and electricity provides air conditioning, which provides the only relief from the hot, sticky atmosphere.
Without electricity, no number of cold showers can wash away the stench of a day's sweat. Eating granola bars, beef jerky, and peanut butter sandwiches for days on end dulls the senses, as does the never ending search for ice to cool the bottled water and keep the packaged lunch meat from rotting.
What about a generator, you ask? Wouldn't a generator provide an energy source to run a refrigerator? Sure, a generator is an amazing machine to have in a situation like this, if you can afford the hyper-inflated price tag and $3.75-per-gallon gasoline to run it. I was able to borrow a generator, and I'm thankful for that opportunity. However, after spending over $200 in gasoline in a weeks' time to run the generator, I realized I could not afford such a luxury. So, into the storage shed went the generator, and unfortunately, I know I was not the only one to find himself in this situation.
This past week hasn't necessarily been a complete disaster for me, I must confess. Since last weekend, I have lost nearly 10 pounds, ostensibly due to the constant sweating, sleeplessness and lack of nutrition. I call it the "Hurricane Gustav Diet".
So, if you find yourself squinting against a bright, sunny blue sky tomorrow, I hope you'll be reminded of the many families here in south Louisiana who are still shell shocked in the aftermath of hurricane Gustav. We covet your prayers...
The first couple of days after Gustav were surreal, to say the least. There were no traffic lights working anywhere in the city. There were no gas stations open. There were no grocery stores open. Many roads were impassable due to the aforementioned downed trees. No one had electricity; not hospitals, not government agencies...no one. All most of us had was the bottled water and granola bars we purchased prior to the storm and a small battery-powered radio. Other than that, the citizens of Baton Rouge and the surrounding parishes were cut off from civilization.
The electricity was restored here at my home yesterday and, while I am exceedingly happy about that, there is a part of me that feels very guilty about having electricity while many of my fellow Gustav veterans are still without electricity as I type this.
Not having electricity in south Louisiana isn't quite the same as not having electricity in, say, Minnesota. July/August/September in south Louisiana is an endurance event for all who live here, with static temperatures in the upper-90's and humidity levels in the 80%-+ range. It can be unbearable sometimes, and electricity provides air conditioning, which provides the only relief from the hot, sticky atmosphere.
Without electricity, no number of cold showers can wash away the stench of a day's sweat. Eating granola bars, beef jerky, and peanut butter sandwiches for days on end dulls the senses, as does the never ending search for ice to cool the bottled water and keep the packaged lunch meat from rotting.
What about a generator, you ask? Wouldn't a generator provide an energy source to run a refrigerator? Sure, a generator is an amazing machine to have in a situation like this, if you can afford the hyper-inflated price tag and $3.75-per-gallon gasoline to run it. I was able to borrow a generator, and I'm thankful for that opportunity. However, after spending over $200 in gasoline in a weeks' time to run the generator, I realized I could not afford such a luxury. So, into the storage shed went the generator, and unfortunately, I know I was not the only one to find himself in this situation.
This past week hasn't necessarily been a complete disaster for me, I must confess. Since last weekend, I have lost nearly 10 pounds, ostensibly due to the constant sweating, sleeplessness and lack of nutrition. I call it the "Hurricane Gustav Diet".
So, if you find yourself squinting against a bright, sunny blue sky tomorrow, I hope you'll be reminded of the many families here in south Louisiana who are still shell shocked in the aftermath of hurricane Gustav. We covet your prayers...
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Gustav Is Causing Mass Hysteria...In Reverse
Man, it's Katrina all over again, only this time in reverse. Sort of. Instead of mass hysteria occurring after the storm, we're experiencing it right now. Before the storm even hits. Everyone is already so stressed out over the possibility (probability) of the Katrina situation repeating itself with Gustav, they're running around from store to store, eyes glazed over, pained expressions on their faces, talking to themselves.
We had one nice distraction today, though. Our National Champion LSU Tigers opened the football season by lowering the boom on poor ol' Appalachian State. What a great time we had getting severely sunburned and flirting with heat stroke while screaming ourselves hoarse. Unfortunately, the game finally ended, the crowds dissolved, and we all settled back into reality. The reality of Gustav.
Reality in Baton Rouge: Every gas station is packed, all hours of the day and night, five and six cars deep per pump. Want regular unleaded? Sorry; all that's left is mid-grade and super. Want a loaf of bread? Tough; no bread anywhere. Want some D batteries for your flashlight? Too bad; they're all gone. How 'bout some propane so you can at least grill some burgers after the electricity goes out? Not a chance; no propane anywhere in the city.
The one item that seems to be in plentiful supply is bottled water. Our neighborhood Target had dozens and dozens of pallets of bottled water seemingly scattered randomly throughout the store. I now have over 100 bottles of water chilling in my refrigerator. Just in case, right?
Anyway, if you are reading this from somewhere outside the "Cone of Uncertainty", please pray for us here in Louisiana as we prepare to go through this hurricane thing. Again.
See you guys on the other side of Gustav...
We had one nice distraction today, though. Our National Champion LSU Tigers opened the football season by lowering the boom on poor ol' Appalachian State. What a great time we had getting severely sunburned and flirting with heat stroke while screaming ourselves hoarse. Unfortunately, the game finally ended, the crowds dissolved, and we all settled back into reality. The reality of Gustav.
Reality in Baton Rouge: Every gas station is packed, all hours of the day and night, five and six cars deep per pump. Want regular unleaded? Sorry; all that's left is mid-grade and super. Want a loaf of bread? Tough; no bread anywhere. Want some D batteries for your flashlight? Too bad; they're all gone. How 'bout some propane so you can at least grill some burgers after the electricity goes out? Not a chance; no propane anywhere in the city.
The one item that seems to be in plentiful supply is bottled water. Our neighborhood Target had dozens and dozens of pallets of bottled water seemingly scattered randomly throughout the store. I now have over 100 bottles of water chilling in my refrigerator. Just in case, right?
Anyway, if you are reading this from somewhere outside the "Cone of Uncertainty", please pray for us here in Louisiana as we prepare to go through this hurricane thing. Again.
See you guys on the other side of Gustav...
Monday, August 25, 2008
Mumbles Is Going to the Doctor...
Um... I'm not sure how I should begin. But, I suppose it's best to just start at the beginning and unload it all.
I was at my desk, working away like the little drone I am, when Mumbles came into my office, walked right up next to me, and informed me that he was about to leave to go to the doctor's office. Big deal, right? That's all my boss needs to tell me, right?
Wrong.
Mumbles then begins to describe what, exactly, he is going to the doctor for. In Mumbles' primitive dialect, it came out sounding like, "Ahma gun git er test whirthuh puttuh hose enmuh penis in runnit allthuhwaytuhmuh colon..."
Translation: "I'm going to have my colon examined and the doctor will run a tube from my penis to my colon." Blech... Why, God? Why? Why did he have to tell me that? And why did he have to graphically gesture with his hands while he was telling me?!?!?
After he was through talking, I lowered my head and said, "Too much information...", to which he chuckled and replied, "Ahma gone take a shire..."
Translation: "I'm going to take a shower." Again, blech!!
I was just about to eat lunch, too...
I was at my desk, working away like the little drone I am, when Mumbles came into my office, walked right up next to me, and informed me that he was about to leave to go to the doctor's office. Big deal, right? That's all my boss needs to tell me, right?
Wrong.
Mumbles then begins to describe what, exactly, he is going to the doctor for. In Mumbles' primitive dialect, it came out sounding like, "Ahma gun git er test whirthuh puttuh hose enmuh penis in runnit allthuhwaytuhmuh colon..."
Translation: "I'm going to have my colon examined and the doctor will run a tube from my penis to my colon." Blech... Why, God? Why? Why did he have to tell me that? And why did he have to graphically gesture with his hands while he was telling me?!?!?
After he was through talking, I lowered my head and said, "Too much information...", to which he chuckled and replied, "Ahma gone take a shire..."
Translation: "I'm going to take a shower." Again, blech!!
I was just about to eat lunch, too...
Friday, August 22, 2008
Escape from The Mall of America...
Okay, so I had to spend a week in Minneapolis for work. The flight up to Minnesota wasn't bad except for missing my connection in Dallas. I got over all of the running, sweating and breathing hard...for nothing. Having the extra time at the airport was actually nice. I got to have an expensive, disgusting lunch at the airport TGI Friday's. The beer was good, though... *reminiscing*
Anyway, the week in Minneapolis was pleasant, especially the weather! High temps in the mid-70's and low temps in the low 60's was a great alternative to the steamy upper 90's here in south Louisiana. The food was...uh...well, it wasn't horrible.
What was horrible was the Mall of America. What a torture pit! I got lost so fast in that place it made my head spin. It's like a roach motel for tourists; you check in, but you never check out! How could I, a self-respecting grown man, get lost in a frigging mall, you ask?
Well, aside from the sheer immensity of the place, there are multiple locations for just about every major store. So you may pass two locations of the same store, causing you to think you've passed the same place twice, which causes you to think you need to change directions, which causes you to wander even deeper into the seemingly endless maze of retail hell that is the Mall of America.
By the time I finally escaped, my feet were somewhere between on fire and numb, my back and shoulders were killing me, and I had a migraine.
But, hey, I guess that's what being a 21st-Century American is all about, right? Shop 'til you die. But I didn't go into the place looking to "shop". I don't know any guys who do that. I just wanted to see it, but the Mall had another plan, and that plan was to trap me, spin me around in circles until I was dazed and confused, and not let me go until I bought something.
Guys, if you're ever in Minneapolis, don't- I repeat, do not- let a woman trick you into going to the Mall of America. If you do find yourself there, just head for the amusement park in the center, wait for her, and whatever you do, don't move!
Anyway, the week in Minneapolis was pleasant, especially the weather! High temps in the mid-70's and low temps in the low 60's was a great alternative to the steamy upper 90's here in south Louisiana. The food was...uh...well, it wasn't horrible.
What was horrible was the Mall of America. What a torture pit! I got lost so fast in that place it made my head spin. It's like a roach motel for tourists; you check in, but you never check out! How could I, a self-respecting grown man, get lost in a frigging mall, you ask?
Well, aside from the sheer immensity of the place, there are multiple locations for just about every major store. So you may pass two locations of the same store, causing you to think you've passed the same place twice, which causes you to think you need to change directions, which causes you to wander even deeper into the seemingly endless maze of retail hell that is the Mall of America.
By the time I finally escaped, my feet were somewhere between on fire and numb, my back and shoulders were killing me, and I had a migraine.
But, hey, I guess that's what being a 21st-Century American is all about, right? Shop 'til you die. But I didn't go into the place looking to "shop". I don't know any guys who do that. I just wanted to see it, but the Mall had another plan, and that plan was to trap me, spin me around in circles until I was dazed and confused, and not let me go until I bought something.
Guys, if you're ever in Minneapolis, don't- I repeat, do not- let a woman trick you into going to the Mall of America. If you do find yourself there, just head for the amusement park in the center, wait for her, and whatever you do, don't move!
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Hyena?!?!?
So, you're likely familiar with my boss, Mumbles, by now. I've already put up one post listing some of his mispronunciations of words that...well, aren't that difficult to pronounce. So, since that point, I've tried to be extra attentive to what he says because his syntax is so bad it's all too easy to make an incorrect assumption.
For example, he might be saying, "I've tried to explain it to that guy before", but it sounds as if he's saying, "Fly tide is painful if you're a gay whore."
So I've learned to listen extra hard when he's speaking since his poor syntax makes it hard to determine if he's really mispronouncing a word or if you just can't understand what the bloody hell he's saying.
Well...this afternoon he schleps into my office, sits down at the unoccupied desk next to me, crosses his legs, folds his Popeye arms behind his head and begins to tell me about his wife's health scare the week before.
The doctors can't seem to figure out what's wrong with her. Her symptoms are severe chest pains, shortness of breath and heartburn. Sounds like a heart attack, right? Wrong. The doctors have ruled that out.
Then Mumbles uttered the one sentence that motivated me to write this blog today. He said, "I think it might be a hyena."
What?!?!? The?!?!?!? Frick?!?!?!?
And, before I could say, "What the frick", my brain translated the word from Mumblesese to English: Hyena = Hernia. Hernia!
Then came the almost uncontrollable urge to guffaw in his face. Luckily, I had to pee, so I jumped up out of my chair and ran to the bathroom laughing.
I can't believe it. Mumbles' wife has a hyena...
For example, he might be saying, "I've tried to explain it to that guy before", but it sounds as if he's saying, "Fly tide is painful if you're a gay whore."
So I've learned to listen extra hard when he's speaking since his poor syntax makes it hard to determine if he's really mispronouncing a word or if you just can't understand what the bloody hell he's saying.
Well...this afternoon he schleps into my office, sits down at the unoccupied desk next to me, crosses his legs, folds his Popeye arms behind his head and begins to tell me about his wife's health scare the week before.
The doctors can't seem to figure out what's wrong with her. Her symptoms are severe chest pains, shortness of breath and heartburn. Sounds like a heart attack, right? Wrong. The doctors have ruled that out.
Then Mumbles uttered the one sentence that motivated me to write this blog today. He said, "I think it might be a hyena."
What?!?!? The?!?!?!? Frick?!?!?!?
And, before I could say, "What the frick", my brain translated the word from Mumblesese to English: Hyena = Hernia. Hernia!
Then came the almost uncontrollable urge to guffaw in his face. Luckily, I had to pee, so I jumped up out of my chair and ran to the bathroom laughing.
I can't believe it. Mumbles' wife has a hyena...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
"Luxury Apartments"...Whatever!!
The wife and I sold our home in July, 2007 for a couple of reasons. First, because the neighborhood appeared to be in the first stage of serious decline ("For Rent" signs everywhere). Second, because an "affordable housing" apartment complex was about to be built on the next street. Third, because we wanted to pay off our debt.
So, we started apartment hunting; what a miserable task. But, after one or two weekends, we found some apartments that we actually liked. They're only a few years old, they're in the area we want to live, they're not outrageously expensive, and the front-office personnel seemed to be a little better than the run-of-the-mill knuckle-draggers that you usually encounter.
You see, these apartments are "luxury apartments". Fenced property with a security gate and everything and the assurance that every single vehicle that entered the property would be photographed! Whoa...(Insert sarcastic remark)... We actually looked forward to moving in.
Our love-affair with these "luxury apartments" lasted exactly two days, when the sound of our upstairs neighbor's footsteps began to really irritate us. His floorboards (our ceiling) creak with every step. Not only that, but we can hear his phone ringing. We can hear him taking a piss. We can hear him vacuuming. So, as revenge, we have nauseatingly loud sex. Hah-hah! Hope that creeps him out.
Next, someone smashed the security gate, which in reality is nothing more than a two-by-four painted white. It stayed broken for about a month before being repaired. Less than a week later, someone smashed it again.
This routine has been repeated several times over the last year. Sometimes someone smashes the gate, and sometimes they just break and stay in the "up" position.
When combined with our upstairs neighbor, the constant shortage of parking spots, and the propensity of both our refrigerator and our dishwasher to suddenly, unexpectedly dump several gallons of water into the kitchen floor, it's not hard to conclude that "luxury apartments" are no different than regular old dumpy apartments.
Whoever invented apartments should be punched in the throat...
So, we started apartment hunting; what a miserable task. But, after one or two weekends, we found some apartments that we actually liked. They're only a few years old, they're in the area we want to live, they're not outrageously expensive, and the front-office personnel seemed to be a little better than the run-of-the-mill knuckle-draggers that you usually encounter.
You see, these apartments are "luxury apartments". Fenced property with a security gate and everything and the assurance that every single vehicle that entered the property would be photographed! Whoa...(Insert sarcastic remark)... We actually looked forward to moving in.
Our love-affair with these "luxury apartments" lasted exactly two days, when the sound of our upstairs neighbor's footsteps began to really irritate us. His floorboards (our ceiling) creak with every step. Not only that, but we can hear his phone ringing. We can hear him taking a piss. We can hear him vacuuming. So, as revenge, we have nauseatingly loud sex. Hah-hah! Hope that creeps him out.
Next, someone smashed the security gate, which in reality is nothing more than a two-by-four painted white. It stayed broken for about a month before being repaired. Less than a week later, someone smashed it again.
This routine has been repeated several times over the last year. Sometimes someone smashes the gate, and sometimes they just break and stay in the "up" position.
When combined with our upstairs neighbor, the constant shortage of parking spots, and the propensity of both our refrigerator and our dishwasher to suddenly, unexpectedly dump several gallons of water into the kitchen floor, it's not hard to conclude that "luxury apartments" are no different than regular old dumpy apartments.
Whoever invented apartments should be punched in the throat...
Saturday, July 19, 2008
A Paying Gig? Yeah, Right...
I swear, man... Just when I think I'm right where I'm supposed to be, I go and see a live show, and it completely throws my world into a tailspin...
The wife is in Las Vegas this weekend, so I'm a "bachelor" for a few days, right? An acquaintance of mine had a CD release party tonight at a local club and I thought, for a change, I'd actually go and check it out. I wanted to support her show, you know?
So, I showed up early, hoping some of the friends I invited might show up, too. They didn't.
There I am, the old guy all by himself at the bar. Waiting. Waiting for the show to start, with no one to talk to. Drinking Heineken. All alone. One Heine after another. I began to think about how this acquaintance actually asked me to be her drummer at one point.
Of course, since I'm a complete dumb-ass, I turned her down. Now, sitting on a barstool watching her and her band perform, I realize that I missed out on a great opportunity. She's playing precisely the style of music I'd love to be playing right now.
Then another realization hit me: I have no confidence in my abilities as a drummer. She probably would have replaced me by now, anyway, and I'd still be right here, right now, whining about this situation.
So........I need to drink some water, put a little food into my stomach, go to bed, and forget about ever playing drums anywhere other than at church on Sundays...
The wife is in Las Vegas this weekend, so I'm a "bachelor" for a few days, right? An acquaintance of mine had a CD release party tonight at a local club and I thought, for a change, I'd actually go and check it out. I wanted to support her show, you know?
So, I showed up early, hoping some of the friends I invited might show up, too. They didn't.
There I am, the old guy all by himself at the bar. Waiting. Waiting for the show to start, with no one to talk to. Drinking Heineken. All alone. One Heine after another. I began to think about how this acquaintance actually asked me to be her drummer at one point.
Of course, since I'm a complete dumb-ass, I turned her down. Now, sitting on a barstool watching her and her band perform, I realize that I missed out on a great opportunity. She's playing precisely the style of music I'd love to be playing right now.
Then another realization hit me: I have no confidence in my abilities as a drummer. She probably would have replaced me by now, anyway, and I'd still be right here, right now, whining about this situation.
So........I need to drink some water, put a little food into my stomach, go to bed, and forget about ever playing drums anywhere other than at church on Sundays...
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday on Tuesday...
Yeah, yeah, yeah, maybe I'm trying too hard with the title. But, who cares? Today was one of those days when, as a Christian, I am spending a lot of energy trying to decide whether today is just one of "those days", or if God is trying to tell me something.
It all started...well, it all started last night, when I got really, really, really sleepy and went to bed. Shortly thereafter I became wide awake. I tossed, I turned. I tossed some more. I lay on my back. I lay on my stomach. I lay on my right side...then my left. I tied myself into the shape of a pretzel. I counted sheep. I counted bulldozers. But, no matter what I did, I could not go to sleep.
So, around 10:00, I heaved myself out of bed and moved it to the couch, where I felt around in the dark until I found the remote. Pushing the power button, I said to myself, "Let the channel flipping begin!" The channel flipping didn't end until after midnight, when I couldn't push the channel button any more and decided to move it to the computer, where I checked on my eBay auctions. I inherited an expensive watch from my grandfather, and, since the wife and I are house-hunting, I decided to listed it along with another vintage watch I own. That led me to think about all the cool "stuff" I could get with the money I make from the sale of the watches...
...until I got tired of that.
Back to bed I went, where I lay for another half-hour or so before finally sinking beneath the waves of sleep, where I had a series of violently bizarre dreams. Until the alarm went off at 6:00. I got out of bed and did my usual morning routine of stumbling around the bedroom trying to get ready for the day. It was considerably more difficult this morning due to my lack of sleep, but I eventually made it to work.
My patience was at an all-time low, which corresponded nicely with the onslaught of phone calls and emails I got. I felt completely exhausted and drained the entire day, as if I was in a fog. Food and drink tasted strange, and there was a haze around me, like I was covered in cheesecloth or something...
Until my wife called me and said she was broken down on the side of the interstate; that snapped me out of it. I leaped into "Husband-Protecting-His-Wife" mode and ran out of the office. During the high-speed drive to get to her, my tired brain was embroiled in a struggle with whether or not to get mad at God for "doing this to me". I don't think God sits in Heaven and chortles over our misfortune. On the contrary, I think everything happens for a reason from which we can benefit if we're willing to be patient. I just couldn't figure this out. What was God trying to tell me?
I mean, of the two vehicles I own, I would have expected my Ford Exploder (yes, I meant to call it an Exploder), whom I lovingly refer to as "Eleanor", to die first. I would have bet everything I own that my wife's Honda Civic, which has only 114,000 miles on it, wouldn't have bit the dust first. But, based on the wife's description of what happened, that's exactly what it sounded like. She talked of the car shaking, sputtering, lurching, clattering, and thumping. I convinced myself that the engine had thrown a rod or something.
So, I finally reached her car and made a death-defying u-turn in the median. Seriously, it was death-defying. You should have seen it! I was actually proud of my Eleanor. Anyway, I pulled up to the car, got out, and turned the key to my wife's Civic.
Vroooooom! Started right up. I mashed the accelerator. Vroooooom, vroooooom! Sounded like it always has: like a little four-cylinder. My wife and I stared at each other and shrugged.
I drove the car home, fully expecting the engine/transmission to fall out onto the road at any second, only to have the car run perfectly all the way home. The only quirk was that the ubiquitous "check engine" light won't go off.
So, now I'm home, typing this, still trying to figure out why everything that happened over the last 18-hours happened. My initial gut reaction is that the watches will sell. And I'll spend every cent on fixing the wife's car...
Hmm...
It all started...well, it all started last night, when I got really, really, really sleepy and went to bed. Shortly thereafter I became wide awake. I tossed, I turned. I tossed some more. I lay on my back. I lay on my stomach. I lay on my right side...then my left. I tied myself into the shape of a pretzel. I counted sheep. I counted bulldozers. But, no matter what I did, I could not go to sleep.
So, around 10:00, I heaved myself out of bed and moved it to the couch, where I felt around in the dark until I found the remote. Pushing the power button, I said to myself, "Let the channel flipping begin!" The channel flipping didn't end until after midnight, when I couldn't push the channel button any more and decided to move it to the computer, where I checked on my eBay auctions. I inherited an expensive watch from my grandfather, and, since the wife and I are house-hunting, I decided to listed it along with another vintage watch I own. That led me to think about all the cool "stuff" I could get with the money I make from the sale of the watches...
...until I got tired of that.
Back to bed I went, where I lay for another half-hour or so before finally sinking beneath the waves of sleep, where I had a series of violently bizarre dreams. Until the alarm went off at 6:00. I got out of bed and did my usual morning routine of stumbling around the bedroom trying to get ready for the day. It was considerably more difficult this morning due to my lack of sleep, but I eventually made it to work.
My patience was at an all-time low, which corresponded nicely with the onslaught of phone calls and emails I got. I felt completely exhausted and drained the entire day, as if I was in a fog. Food and drink tasted strange, and there was a haze around me, like I was covered in cheesecloth or something...
Until my wife called me and said she was broken down on the side of the interstate; that snapped me out of it. I leaped into "Husband-Protecting-His-Wife" mode and ran out of the office. During the high-speed drive to get to her, my tired brain was embroiled in a struggle with whether or not to get mad at God for "doing this to me". I don't think God sits in Heaven and chortles over our misfortune. On the contrary, I think everything happens for a reason from which we can benefit if we're willing to be patient. I just couldn't figure this out. What was God trying to tell me?
I mean, of the two vehicles I own, I would have expected my Ford Exploder (yes, I meant to call it an Exploder), whom I lovingly refer to as "Eleanor", to die first. I would have bet everything I own that my wife's Honda Civic, which has only 114,000 miles on it, wouldn't have bit the dust first. But, based on the wife's description of what happened, that's exactly what it sounded like. She talked of the car shaking, sputtering, lurching, clattering, and thumping. I convinced myself that the engine had thrown a rod or something.
So, I finally reached her car and made a death-defying u-turn in the median. Seriously, it was death-defying. You should have seen it! I was actually proud of my Eleanor. Anyway, I pulled up to the car, got out, and turned the key to my wife's Civic.
Vroooooom! Started right up. I mashed the accelerator. Vroooooom, vroooooom! Sounded like it always has: like a little four-cylinder. My wife and I stared at each other and shrugged.
I drove the car home, fully expecting the engine/transmission to fall out onto the road at any second, only to have the car run perfectly all the way home. The only quirk was that the ubiquitous "check engine" light won't go off.
So, now I'm home, typing this, still trying to figure out why everything that happened over the last 18-hours happened. My initial gut reaction is that the watches will sell. And I'll spend every cent on fixing the wife's car...
Hmm...
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Quotes and Mispronunciations by Mumbles
Typical statements made by Mumbles, as they sound to me:
"Chore and score the floor some more..."
"Sheeba-shabba-shooba-shabba..."
"Clean um for a fistful uh googen..."
"Ah had uh dang ol' flattop since 19-and-65..."
Typical mispronunciations by Mumbles of relatively simple words:
Actual word: Walmart Mumbles' version: Walmark
Actual word: hereditary Mumbles' version: herditatory
Actual word: sever Mumbles' version: severe
...more to follow...
"Chore and score the floor some more..."
"Sheeba-shabba-shooba-shabba..."
"Clean um for a fistful uh googen..."
"Ah had uh dang ol' flattop since 19-and-65..."
Typical mispronunciations by Mumbles of relatively simple words:
Actual word: Walmart Mumbles' version: Walmark
Actual word: hereditary Mumbles' version: herditatory
Actual word: sever Mumbles' version: severe
...more to follow...
Thursday, July 3, 2008
R.I.P. Big Daddy
My friend, my "big brother", Robert Bardsley passed away Tuesday afternoon, July 1, 2008. I will miss him, but at the same time, I'm glad his suffering is now over and he is finally Home...
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Ms. Gollum SnailiVader
Gollum SnailiVader is a nickname developed over time by me and a few of my coworkers for a particular member of our staff. This...employee...is in her mid-60's and has the metabolism of someone in her mid-90's.
If she sits still for more than two minutes, she's asleep. And I don't mean dozing; I mean she is in REM-stage sleep, drooling all over herself. But, that's not the worst of it.
It's what she does when she's awake that drives us all insane. What is that, you ask? I'll tell you!
But, before I tell you about that, let me explain her nickname. The "SnailiVader" surname actually evolved from "Snailigator", which is an animal that stays in a constant state of hunger because it is too slow to actually catch something to eat. Gollum's last name remained "Snailigator" until the day someone in the office mentioned her excessively loud and raspy breathing being similar to that of Darth Vader. Nobody knows exactly who changed Snailigator to SnailiVader. We just know that Gollum's last name is better than it used to be.
Now for her first name: Gollum. Some of you may recognize the name as it appears in the Lord of the Ring books and movies. Gollum was a pathetic little creature who had this chronic, hacking cough that actually sounded like, "gollum...gollum..." Thus the name. Now you know where I'm going with this, don't you? Ms. SnailiVader is afflicted with a similar condition, although it's not really a cough, per se. What she's actually doing is, well...hocking up a "loogie", which she promptly swallows. She does this several hundred times each day.
So, now you know why her name is what it is. Now I'll tell you what she does when she's awake.
She doesn't do anything. This mouth-breathing knuckle-dragger sits at her desk and vacillates between playing solitaire, checking the online obituaries, and having a pleasant conversation with herself. She used to have duties, but, one by one, The Boss took them away from her due to her utter incompetence.
Why hasn't she been fired, you ask? Silly private-sector employee, we are State government employees, that's why! Gollum can't be fired! Oh, sure The Boss could have written her up the required amount of times, which would have led to some sort of "formal reprimand". Then, The Boss could've continued to write her up, which may have eventually led to a Civil Service hearing, which may have resulted in Ms. SnailiVader finally being fired, but...I suppose she would rather just take the easy road and dump all of Gollum's former duties on the rest of the staff.
That worked for awhile, until The Boss finally began to hear the rumblings of dissent coming from the staff. She knew she had to do something about Gollum. So, at long last, The Boss had a "fire & brimstone" meeting with Ms. SnailiVader, reassigning one of her former duties with the requirement that she pay attention to what she's doing and earn her paycheck. Not surprisingly, Gollum called in sick the next day, ostensibly in protest to the new requirements.
Gollum's next day at work started with her stomping into the office, pouting like an 8-year-old, and attempting to start her day by playing a freaking game of solitaire! After discovering that the games had all been removed from her computer, she begrudgingly began working. She was not, however, having her usual pleasant conversation with herself. Hell, no. She was now having a bitter argument with herself, punctuated occasionally by her standing up and flopping violently back down into her chair.
Luckily for us, that only lasted two days. But it's obvious that she longs for the days when she could play computer games, sleep, and ignore the phone when it rang, because she now has a hearing problem when she answers the phone. Her greeting sounds something like this, "Uh...gollum...gollum...*gulp*...(name of business)...gollum...can I help you? Huh? Huh?!? I can't hear you...gollum...gollum...You're gonna have to speak up, I can't hear what you're saying..." I am convinced that she does this on purpose in an effort to convince The Boss that she shouldn't be allowed to answer the phones, and I'll bet that day is coming.
After being banned from answering the phones, her next mission will be to get out of having to answer the office's front door. I'm thinking she'll formulate some nasty habit to engage in just as she's opening the door, like digging in her nose or digging in her cottage-cheese butt crack, which will induce the gag reflex of whoever she's letting in the front door. After that happens a few times, or after The Boss sees her do it once or twice, she'll ban Ms. SnailiVader from answering the front door.
Then, the diabolical plan of Ms. Gollum SnailiVader will be complete: She'll once again have, at the direction of The Boss, nothing to do...
If she sits still for more than two minutes, she's asleep. And I don't mean dozing; I mean she is in REM-stage sleep, drooling all over herself. But, that's not the worst of it.
It's what she does when she's awake that drives us all insane. What is that, you ask? I'll tell you!
But, before I tell you about that, let me explain her nickname. The "SnailiVader" surname actually evolved from "Snailigator", which is an animal that stays in a constant state of hunger because it is too slow to actually catch something to eat. Gollum's last name remained "Snailigator" until the day someone in the office mentioned her excessively loud and raspy breathing being similar to that of Darth Vader. Nobody knows exactly who changed Snailigator to SnailiVader. We just know that Gollum's last name is better than it used to be.
Now for her first name: Gollum. Some of you may recognize the name as it appears in the Lord of the Ring books and movies. Gollum was a pathetic little creature who had this chronic, hacking cough that actually sounded like, "gollum...gollum..." Thus the name. Now you know where I'm going with this, don't you? Ms. SnailiVader is afflicted with a similar condition, although it's not really a cough, per se. What she's actually doing is, well...hocking up a "loogie", which she promptly swallows. She does this several hundred times each day.
So, now you know why her name is what it is. Now I'll tell you what she does when she's awake.
She doesn't do anything. This mouth-breathing knuckle-dragger sits at her desk and vacillates between playing solitaire, checking the online obituaries, and having a pleasant conversation with herself. She used to have duties, but, one by one, The Boss took them away from her due to her utter incompetence.
Why hasn't she been fired, you ask? Silly private-sector employee, we are State government employees, that's why! Gollum can't be fired! Oh, sure The Boss could have written her up the required amount of times, which would have led to some sort of "formal reprimand". Then, The Boss could've continued to write her up, which may have eventually led to a Civil Service hearing, which may have resulted in Ms. SnailiVader finally being fired, but...I suppose she would rather just take the easy road and dump all of Gollum's former duties on the rest of the staff.
That worked for awhile, until The Boss finally began to hear the rumblings of dissent coming from the staff. She knew she had to do something about Gollum. So, at long last, The Boss had a "fire & brimstone" meeting with Ms. SnailiVader, reassigning one of her former duties with the requirement that she pay attention to what she's doing and earn her paycheck. Not surprisingly, Gollum called in sick the next day, ostensibly in protest to the new requirements.
Gollum's next day at work started with her stomping into the office, pouting like an 8-year-old, and attempting to start her day by playing a freaking game of solitaire! After discovering that the games had all been removed from her computer, she begrudgingly began working. She was not, however, having her usual pleasant conversation with herself. Hell, no. She was now having a bitter argument with herself, punctuated occasionally by her standing up and flopping violently back down into her chair.
Luckily for us, that only lasted two days. But it's obvious that she longs for the days when she could play computer games, sleep, and ignore the phone when it rang, because she now has a hearing problem when she answers the phone. Her greeting sounds something like this, "Uh...gollum...gollum...*gulp*...(name of business)...gollum...can I help you? Huh? Huh?!? I can't hear you...gollum...gollum...You're gonna have to speak up, I can't hear what you're saying..." I am convinced that she does this on purpose in an effort to convince The Boss that she shouldn't be allowed to answer the phones, and I'll bet that day is coming.
After being banned from answering the phones, her next mission will be to get out of having to answer the office's front door. I'm thinking she'll formulate some nasty habit to engage in just as she's opening the door, like digging in her nose or digging in her cottage-cheese butt crack, which will induce the gag reflex of whoever she's letting in the front door. After that happens a few times, or after The Boss sees her do it once or twice, she'll ban Ms. SnailiVader from answering the front door.
Then, the diabolical plan of Ms. Gollum SnailiVader will be complete: She'll once again have, at the direction of The Boss, nothing to do...
Friday, June 27, 2008
Big Daddy...
I am the second of my mother's four kids, with one older sister, one younger brother, and a "baby sister". My dad, God bless him, wasn't too interested in his kids, so I was more or less on my own growing up. I never had that "male influence" in my life. That is...until I went to work for No Fault Industries.
I was hired to be the assistant warehouse manager, and my new boss would turn out to be the closest thing I've ever had to a big brother. His name is Robert Bardsley, but most people refer to him as "Big Daddy". Big Daddy, as the expression goes, has never met a stranger. When meeting somebody for the first time, he grins from ear to ear, throws out his hand, and says, "Hey, Big Daddy!" Robert loves people; he loves conversation, he loves telling jokes, and most of all, he loves his wife.
This may not seem like much until juxtaposed against his "other side". Big Daddy is undoubtedly the toughest man I've ever known. His hands are scarred from years of bar fights, and his brothers (one of whom worked with us) all testified that Big Daddy has never lost a fight. So, you're probably imagining Big Daddy to be 6'2", 240lbs. or so, right? Wrong. Robert stands 5'4", 170lbs. I think the best way to describe someone of his size is "scrappy".
The tales I have heard over the years of Robert's fights, sometimes against two or more opponents at the same time, are not the only reason I consider him to be the toughest man I've ever known. No, there are more horrific things Robert has endured that earn him that title.
Prior to going to work for No Fault Industries, I had been told that Big Daddy was very sick. A brain tumor had been discovered behind his right eye in 1991. The doctors discovered that it would likely be impossible to remove the entire tumor without, at the very least, blinding Robert. So, they cut out what they could and decided to try and kill the rest with aggressive radiation and chemotherapy while giving him no more than five years to live. In case you don't know, radiation treatment is devastating enough all by itself, but, when coupled with chemotherapy, is downright debilitating. Robert continued to come to work until he was physically unable to haul himself out of bed.
Big Daddy missed the better part of a year of work before the remnants of the tumor were gone. During that time, the section of skull the surgeons had removed during his operation died, causing him to endure another operation to have a piece of plastic implanted to replace the dead bone.
After being released by the doctors, he returned to No Fault. Now, being the warehouse manager at No Fault didn't include sitting in an office and directing a warehouse crew. Robert was the crew. He did all of the manual labor, such as unloading truckloads of supplies, keeping the warehouse orderly, cutting the grass, "weed-eating";etc. There were very few easy days.
Robert loves to hunt, and at that time, he was a member at a hunting club in Gross Tete, which is between Baton Rouge and Lafayette. One morning, as he was riding his four-wheeler out to his deer stand, Robert forgot to duck as he passed beneath a section of "drill-pipe". The pipe struck him right on the bridge of his nose, completely crushing it into his face with enough force to drive his head back until it bounced off the rear of the four-wheeler
Now, what Big Daddy did next is one of the reasons he gets my vote for "Toughest Man Alive": He hooked his freaking thumbs into his freaking nostrils and pulled his freaking nose back out of his freaking skull so he could breathe!! What?!?!?!? Luckily, his hunting partners saw the whole thing, and rushed him to the nearest hospital.
Big Daddy's tumor stayed in remission until 2002, when he was forced to begin chemotherapy again. He continued to come to work every day in spite of his weakened condition.
Finally, in 2003, he admitted that he could use some help, and that's where I came in. Robert and I hit it off immediately, and over the next three years, I had more fun at work than at any other time of my life. Robert had fun no matter what menial task he was involved in, and it rubbed off on me. For the first time in my life, I had another man I could really talk to, and who could give me advice about things.
The doctors finally felt comfortable ending Big Daddy's chemotherapy in 2004. The tumor was still there, but it wasn't growing. Times were good. Robert was healthy, strong, and we worked well together...
...until 2005, when he fell 18 feet out of his deer stand and broke his back. So, back into the hospital he went for a solid month. After another several months at home, he came back to work. Most men would have retired long ago, but not Big Daddy. He wasn't nearly as healthy or strong, but he was back, and we were working together again...
...until 2006, when rumors began to surface that the company wasn't doing well. Key members of management began leaving, and Big Daddy decided to retire. Less than six months after his retirement, I was let go. Robert and I only spoke occasionally by phone after that, and I didn't see him until this week.
Unfortunately, I had to go to the hospital to see him. His tumor had begun growing again sometime in late 2007, and, since that time, he has lost the ability to speak as well as the use of the right side of his body, all while undergoing his third round of aggressive chemotherapy. Last week, Robert's wife came home to find him unconscious, and he hasn't woken up since that time.
So, it's come to this... The doctors have told the family that there is nothing else they can do, and they've stopped the chemotherapy. So I'm praying for Big Daddy. I'm praying that, once again, his tumor will shrink, and I'll get one more opportunity to sit and talk with him and thank him for being that "older brother" figure, and for being Big Daddy...
I was hired to be the assistant warehouse manager, and my new boss would turn out to be the closest thing I've ever had to a big brother. His name is Robert Bardsley, but most people refer to him as "Big Daddy". Big Daddy, as the expression goes, has never met a stranger. When meeting somebody for the first time, he grins from ear to ear, throws out his hand, and says, "Hey, Big Daddy!" Robert loves people; he loves conversation, he loves telling jokes, and most of all, he loves his wife.
This may not seem like much until juxtaposed against his "other side". Big Daddy is undoubtedly the toughest man I've ever known. His hands are scarred from years of bar fights, and his brothers (one of whom worked with us) all testified that Big Daddy has never lost a fight. So, you're probably imagining Big Daddy to be 6'2", 240lbs. or so, right? Wrong. Robert stands 5'4", 170lbs. I think the best way to describe someone of his size is "scrappy".
The tales I have heard over the years of Robert's fights, sometimes against two or more opponents at the same time, are not the only reason I consider him to be the toughest man I've ever known. No, there are more horrific things Robert has endured that earn him that title.
Prior to going to work for No Fault Industries, I had been told that Big Daddy was very sick. A brain tumor had been discovered behind his right eye in 1991. The doctors discovered that it would likely be impossible to remove the entire tumor without, at the very least, blinding Robert. So, they cut out what they could and decided to try and kill the rest with aggressive radiation and chemotherapy while giving him no more than five years to live. In case you don't know, radiation treatment is devastating enough all by itself, but, when coupled with chemotherapy, is downright debilitating. Robert continued to come to work until he was physically unable to haul himself out of bed.
Big Daddy missed the better part of a year of work before the remnants of the tumor were gone. During that time, the section of skull the surgeons had removed during his operation died, causing him to endure another operation to have a piece of plastic implanted to replace the dead bone.
After being released by the doctors, he returned to No Fault. Now, being the warehouse manager at No Fault didn't include sitting in an office and directing a warehouse crew. Robert was the crew. He did all of the manual labor, such as unloading truckloads of supplies, keeping the warehouse orderly, cutting the grass, "weed-eating";etc. There were very few easy days.
Robert loves to hunt, and at that time, he was a member at a hunting club in Gross Tete, which is between Baton Rouge and Lafayette. One morning, as he was riding his four-wheeler out to his deer stand, Robert forgot to duck as he passed beneath a section of "drill-pipe". The pipe struck him right on the bridge of his nose, completely crushing it into his face with enough force to drive his head back until it bounced off the rear of the four-wheeler
Now, what Big Daddy did next is one of the reasons he gets my vote for "Toughest Man Alive": He hooked his freaking thumbs into his freaking nostrils and pulled his freaking nose back out of his freaking skull so he could breathe!! What?!?!?!? Luckily, his hunting partners saw the whole thing, and rushed him to the nearest hospital.
Big Daddy's tumor stayed in remission until 2002, when he was forced to begin chemotherapy again. He continued to come to work every day in spite of his weakened condition.
Finally, in 2003, he admitted that he could use some help, and that's where I came in. Robert and I hit it off immediately, and over the next three years, I had more fun at work than at any other time of my life. Robert had fun no matter what menial task he was involved in, and it rubbed off on me. For the first time in my life, I had another man I could really talk to, and who could give me advice about things.
The doctors finally felt comfortable ending Big Daddy's chemotherapy in 2004. The tumor was still there, but it wasn't growing. Times were good. Robert was healthy, strong, and we worked well together...
...until 2005, when he fell 18 feet out of his deer stand and broke his back. So, back into the hospital he went for a solid month. After another several months at home, he came back to work. Most men would have retired long ago, but not Big Daddy. He wasn't nearly as healthy or strong, but he was back, and we were working together again...
...until 2006, when rumors began to surface that the company wasn't doing well. Key members of management began leaving, and Big Daddy decided to retire. Less than six months after his retirement, I was let go. Robert and I only spoke occasionally by phone after that, and I didn't see him until this week.
Unfortunately, I had to go to the hospital to see him. His tumor had begun growing again sometime in late 2007, and, since that time, he has lost the ability to speak as well as the use of the right side of his body, all while undergoing his third round of aggressive chemotherapy. Last week, Robert's wife came home to find him unconscious, and he hasn't woken up since that time.
So, it's come to this... The doctors have told the family that there is nothing else they can do, and they've stopped the chemotherapy. So I'm praying for Big Daddy. I'm praying that, once again, his tumor will shrink, and I'll get one more opportunity to sit and talk with him and thank him for being that "older brother" figure, and for being Big Daddy...
Friday, June 20, 2008
Sheeba-Shabba-Shooba-Shabba
So, my boss (a retired backwoods police officer we lovingly refer to as Mumbles )and I are working on a case involving a couple of different violations. One of the people we're looking for is a woman who drew up some plans for a church. The woman isn't a licensed engineer, so what she did is illegal…
Anyway, we've been digging around, trying to find a valid phone number or address or something so we can serve the "official papers". Mumbles found a couple of numbers, one at the church she drew the plans for, the other being what he assumed was her cell phone.
So Mumbles calls both numbers and comes running into my office waving his arms to tell me, "the voice on both answering machines sounds like the same cotton pickin' woman!!" *GASP* So, we thought we'd go over to the church, which is several miles from the middle of nowhere, and see if she might be there. We take the 2-hour drive out to the church...and find it abandoned. Then Mumbles decides it will be a great idea to drive up and down every road we can find looking at names on mailboxes. After what seems like an eternity of listening to Mumbles read every single name on every single mailbox we pass, we call it quits and go back to Baton Rouge.
The next day, we're back at the office talking about the phone numbers, the addresses, and all of that, and Mumbles reminds me of his "discovery" of the same voice on the two different answering machines. So, I arbitrarily call one of the numbers with my speaker on so we can both hear.
The answering machine picks up, and, to my horror, it's the default automatic female-sounding message! And as I was sitting there trying not to laugh, Mumbles blurted out, "See, that's the same dang ol' voice as the one on the other dang ol' machine!"
So, I spun my chair around, folded my arms, and explained to him that the voice he heard was, in reality, not that of a real person.
You should have seen his face; it was as if I were speaking Cantonese to him or something. He just sat there staring at me, and I knew that the realization was dawning on him slowly.
I wanted so bad to say, "Great sleuthing there, Sherlock!" But, out of sheer respect for Mumbles' age, I didn't…
East Baton Rouge Parish Courthouse = Chinese Fire Drill
Okay, so I got caught daydreaming in February. I was driving 45 through a school zone, and before I realized it, an East Baton Rouge Sherriff's deputy was standing in the road in front of me, waving his arms violently and directing me to pull over. So...I got a nice little $112.50 ticket for going 45 in a 35.
I went to pay my fine yesterday, since today was the deadline. Well, if you know anything about downtown Baton Rouge, you're aware that there are pathetically few parking spaces available. As I was driving around in circles looking for a parking spot, the sky went from cloudy to torrential rain in less than a minute.
I finally found a parking spot in one of the many "public parking lots" downtown. This one had a new-fangled electronic payment kiosk which accepts your hard-earned cash in exchange for the privilege of parking in a pockmarked, weed-infested, garbage-strewn "parking lot".
I opened my umbrella and stepped out of my truck...into akle deep water...and slogged to the payment kiosk, where I discovered the "flat rate" was $5.00 for the first hour (!!). I was just about to insert a $20.00 when I noticed the hand-written note taped to the kiosk stating, "This machine does not give change". So...without paying, I shrugged my shoulders and trudged off towards the courthouse.
After reaching the second floor of the courthouse and finding the appropriate department, I found myself at the end of a long line of miserable-looking, half-drowned people waiting to pay their fines. A half-hour later, it was finally my turn! I handed the "cashier" my ticket, which she promptly handed back to me. We stood there looking at each other for a few awkward seconds before she informed me that I had to first go to the 10th floor and have myself removed from tomorrow's court docket before she could accept payment for the ticket... Off to the elevators I went.
When the elevator doors opened, I stepped out onto the 10th floor and began the search for the appropriate department. After finding it, I opened the door and immediately found myself at the end of another long line consisting of many of the same miserable-looking, half-drowned people I had stood in line with on the 2nd floor!
Another half-hour later, it was my turn! I handed the friendly City-Parish employee my ticket, which she placed on the counter as, in a lazy monotone voice, she went through the motions of explaining what was happening and what my options were. Her last statement was, "After you pay the ticket, you gotta bring me back the yellow ticket". In my mind, I responded with, "Are you F**KING kidding me?!?!?!?". In reality, I grimaced, took the paperwork she gave me and walked away silently, headed back to the 2nd floor. Again.
So, after reaching the second floor (again), I found myself in the same long line (again) with the same group of miserable-looking people I had been following since I got to the courthouse. At this point, we had all basically lost the will to live and had resigned ourselves to this never-ending back-and-forth trek; time had lost all meaning. Sometime later, I was handing the "cashier" my money and paperwork (again).
She handed me my copies and reminded me to go back to the 10th floor (again) to return the "yellow ticket". Off to the elevators (again)!
...back on the 10th floor (again)...back in line (again). I noticed that, by this time, most of us had dried out, our clothes becoming shrunken, ill-fitting and wrinkled...waiting...waiting...to...hand...the...friendly...City-Parish employee...my..."yellow ticket"...
...now I'm at the window (again), handing her my "yellow ticket". She chuckles and informs me that it wasn't necessary to wait in line just to hand her my "yellow ticket". Again, in my mind, I responded with, "Are you F**KING kidding?!?!?!?" Again, in reality, I grimaced and walked away silently, headed back to the elevators. The ordeal was finally over. I was free from the maze. I wanted to live! I wanted to see the sunshine!
In the elevator, I instinctively pushed the 2nd floor button and, when the doors opened, I instinctively assumed my place at the end of the line. It was only after realizing that the line consisted of a completely different group of miserable-looking, half-drowned schmucks that I snapped back to reality. I smiled to myself, spun on my heel, and schlepped out of the courthouse.
It was then that I remembered I had parked without paying!! Oh crap!! Now, I was jogging down the wet sidewalk praying that my truck hadn't been towed.
Finally, I rounded the last corner, and...there it was! My truck hadn't been towed, and I had never been so glad to see it. So I sat there in my truck for a few minutes, letting the cold A/C dry the sweat on my face...
Note to Self: Next time you get a speeding ticket (God forbid!), pay it through the mail!!
I went to pay my fine yesterday, since today was the deadline. Well, if you know anything about downtown Baton Rouge, you're aware that there are pathetically few parking spaces available. As I was driving around in circles looking for a parking spot, the sky went from cloudy to torrential rain in less than a minute.
I finally found a parking spot in one of the many "public parking lots" downtown. This one had a new-fangled electronic payment kiosk which accepts your hard-earned cash in exchange for the privilege of parking in a pockmarked, weed-infested, garbage-strewn "parking lot".
I opened my umbrella and stepped out of my truck...into akle deep water...and slogged to the payment kiosk, where I discovered the "flat rate" was $5.00 for the first hour (!!). I was just about to insert a $20.00 when I noticed the hand-written note taped to the kiosk stating, "This machine does not give change". So...without paying, I shrugged my shoulders and trudged off towards the courthouse.
After reaching the second floor of the courthouse and finding the appropriate department, I found myself at the end of a long line of miserable-looking, half-drowned people waiting to pay their fines. A half-hour later, it was finally my turn! I handed the "cashier" my ticket, which she promptly handed back to me. We stood there looking at each other for a few awkward seconds before she informed me that I had to first go to the 10th floor and have myself removed from tomorrow's court docket before she could accept payment for the ticket... Off to the elevators I went.
When the elevator doors opened, I stepped out onto the 10th floor and began the search for the appropriate department. After finding it, I opened the door and immediately found myself at the end of another long line consisting of many of the same miserable-looking, half-drowned people I had stood in line with on the 2nd floor!
Another half-hour later, it was my turn! I handed the friendly City-Parish employee my ticket, which she placed on the counter as, in a lazy monotone voice, she went through the motions of explaining what was happening and what my options were. Her last statement was, "After you pay the ticket, you gotta bring me back the yellow ticket". In my mind, I responded with, "Are you F**KING kidding me?!?!?!?". In reality, I grimaced, took the paperwork she gave me and walked away silently, headed back to the 2nd floor. Again.
So, after reaching the second floor (again), I found myself in the same long line (again) with the same group of miserable-looking people I had been following since I got to the courthouse. At this point, we had all basically lost the will to live and had resigned ourselves to this never-ending back-and-forth trek; time had lost all meaning. Sometime later, I was handing the "cashier" my money and paperwork (again).
She handed me my copies and reminded me to go back to the 10th floor (again) to return the "yellow ticket". Off to the elevators (again)!
...back on the 10th floor (again)...back in line (again). I noticed that, by this time, most of us had dried out, our clothes becoming shrunken, ill-fitting and wrinkled...waiting...waiting...to...hand...the...friendly...City-Parish employee...my..."yellow ticket"...
...now I'm at the window (again), handing her my "yellow ticket". She chuckles and informs me that it wasn't necessary to wait in line just to hand her my "yellow ticket". Again, in my mind, I responded with, "Are you F**KING kidding?!?!?!?" Again, in reality, I grimaced and walked away silently, headed back to the elevators. The ordeal was finally over. I was free from the maze. I wanted to live! I wanted to see the sunshine!
In the elevator, I instinctively pushed the 2nd floor button and, when the doors opened, I instinctively assumed my place at the end of the line. It was only after realizing that the line consisted of a completely different group of miserable-looking, half-drowned schmucks that I snapped back to reality. I smiled to myself, spun on my heel, and schlepped out of the courthouse.
It was then that I remembered I had parked without paying!! Oh crap!! Now, I was jogging down the wet sidewalk praying that my truck hadn't been towed.
Finally, I rounded the last corner, and...there it was! My truck hadn't been towed, and I had never been so glad to see it. So I sat there in my truck for a few minutes, letting the cold A/C dry the sweat on my face...
Note to Self: Next time you get a speeding ticket (God forbid!), pay it through the mail!!
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