Road Ragin’

The road is quite an interesting place, as we all know. It is truly a wonder that most of the people driving were actually granted a license. Actually, it’s pretty terrifying.

I like to think I am a pretty reasonable driver. I’ve had my moments, but I am mostly aware and at least somewhat respectful of human life on the road, which is more than I can say for most drivers. I’ve had a lot of run-ins with ass clowns though, so here’s a quick story about one of them.

I was driving along, minding my own business, and obeying the speed limit. Suddenly, a car speeds up behind me and gets right on my ass. I double check that I’m going the speed limit and I am. The car is still on my ass but I keep the road rage in check and just merge over into the next lane. The car speeds up but stops once it is even with me. I look over and what is staring back at me is the most angry old lady I have ever seen. Like, heart attack angry. Like, demon-straight-out-of-Satan’-s-butthole angry.

This lady is staring into my soul and chopping it into tiny little pieces with her eye daggers. I’m confused as can be now and am looking around to check if I could’ve ran someone over or if I unknowingly have a bumper sticker on my car that says “QVC sucks”.

She shakes her fist at me and I give her the “You might as well be an 8-legged unicorn with a cowboy hat on cause I’m confused as shit” face. She motions for me to roll my window down and I oblige. She waits for the window to fully lower and for me to stick my head out in inquiry before she proceeds to enthusiastically flip me off.

Completely owned.

Who’s grandma was this?

I’m starting to feel my anger boil now. I attempt to ignore it and just stare ahead at the road. I glance into my rear-view mirror and can now see grandma is hot on my tail once again. She is still flipping me off and I can see her screaming now. I’ve had enough at this point and I begin to break check her. Before anyone tries to call me a dickhead for break checking a grandma, 1) She is the one who is a dickhead. And 2) You’re also a dickhead.

As I continue to lightly break check her, (yes, I wasn’t trying to kill her – time will be taking care of that soon) she snaps into an animalistic rage. I see her punching the ceiling of her car excitedly like some kind of strung out 80’s movie bully chasing down their nerd prey. For some reason this is when I notice her mullet. She looks like Kiefer Sutherland in The Lost Boys. She pulls out a cell phone and begins taking pictures of my license plate. Yes, this grandma was now texting and driving. After a few moments she looks at her phone with a satisfied smile and gives me a sarcastic thumbs up as if she finally acquired the incriminating evidence she needed. She then merges into the next lane and stares me down one last time before making a gun with her hand and pretending to cap me. (She’s obviously seen Gran Torino) She then kicks her Nissan Altima into high gear and shoots off into the sunset like Han Solo reaching light speed.

I quickly catch a sticker on the back of Grandma Satan’s car before she vanishes, and oh what a sticker it was.

“Coexist”.

The Crack Chronicles

Today I was sitting in my room studying when a knock on the door interrupted my half-assed attempt of acquiring knowledge. I answered it, and on the porch stood what I can only describe as the human form of crack-cocaine. This man looked like he had just crawled out of the New-York sewer system to restock on bath salts.

I skeptically asked him who he was, and after a moment of hesitation he says,

“I’m here to take some shit out of your garage?”

Yes, he said this in the form of a question. I didn’t know if this guy was asking me if I had anything he could take off my hands, or if he was asking me for my permission to rob me.

I close the door a little bit and say, “Huh?”

He looks confused and says,” I guess my boss wants me to take some shit out of your garage.”

So, now we are both just staring at each other, apparently equally confused. I decide that before shutting the door, I’ll give him one more chance. I ask him if he was sent by our landlord.

He responds with, “No.”

So, now I just tell him I don’t need anything taken out of the garage and start to wish him good luck on his next crack adventure when he says, “I talked to some dude who lives here, this is his number.”

Amazingly, it’s actually my roommates phone number. Completely astonished, I figure either my roommate has picked up a bad habit, or this guy is actually supposed to be here. Since my roommate is a pretty smart dude, and a work truck was actually visible in the street, I open up the garage.

The guy asks me what I need taken out and I legitimately have no clue. No one told me about this so I’m completely useless. There is a lot of crap in the garage and I just moved in a month ago so none of it’s mine.

He tells me, “I have no idea why I’m here, my boss just gave me this address. To be honest, I have three broken fingers in my neck.”

Yo, what the shit. So many questions. His boss just gave him an address with no further instructions? And he just went on over to the address and figured there must be shit in the garage? And he has broken fingers in his neck? Who put the broken fingers there? A unicorn? I’m thinking something was for sure broken above his shoulders but it wasn’t in his neck.

So, I tell him to call his “boss” (yeah, I had to tell him) and he does. The phone is on speaker and his boss seems normal. He tells Crack McGee to face the garage door from the inside and the stuff to his left is what he’s supposed to take. Seems to make sense as there is a bunch of shit piled in the corner. The guy mumbles something incomprehensible to his boss then hangs up. He then walks over to the RIGHT side of the garage, looks around and says, “I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, there’s no shit over here.”

Realizing he isn’t joking, I gently explain to him that he was on the wrong side of the garage. He says, “Nah man, he said facing the garage from the inside, to the left.”

I can’t believe this is how my day is unfolding. I’m about to teach a grown man left from right.

But, before I can do so, the man has a moment of enlightenment when he sees the pile of stuff on the other side and shouts, “Well, THIS must be what he’s talking about! My boss can be such an idiot sometimes. You’ll see what I mean when you’re old enough to get a job.”

I’m 22.

I have no further words or feelings for this exchange. Moving on.

The next thing this guy does is fix our broken disposal. Long story short, when he pulls the disgusting broken fork tangled in hair and slime that was causing the blockage out of the pipes, he walks down the hall and into my room with it. I look up from my computer and he says, “Well, here was the problem,” and tries to hand it to me. I jump away from him in fear, telling him throw it away. He shrugs and walks off, leaving me in a variation of the fetal position up against the wall.

When he’s finally done and ready to leave, he tells me again how bad his fingers in his neck are bothering him, and then proceeds to stumble off and say, “Have a good night, man.”

It was 11:00 a.m.

Drugs are bad.

Public Germ Rooms

I don’t know how many of you consider yourselves germophobes, but let’s just say that when I have nightmares, they usually take place in a public restroom. Trying to hold my breath so as to not inhale any of the floating shit particles, tip-toeing around the puddles of piss on the ground to avoid soaking my shoes in urine, and closing my eyes in prayer while doing my business out of hope that my stream won’t create any dreaded back splash. I can hear the sound sounds of someone grunting one out in a nearby stall. It is truly a horrific scene. After I’m done I sprint towards the exit, the sinks are covered in loogies and hair, therefore I’m better off not washing my hands. I start wrapping my hand in my shirt so that it won’t come into contact with the disgusting door handle when suddenly, I slip on the pee and lose my balance. My heart stops as I realize I’m falling directly towards one of the giant piss puddles. I reach for something, anything, and my hands find a urinal. I scream in agony and despair, letting go immediately. This causes me to continue to fall directly into the giant piss puddle and then everything goes black.

That’s when I wake up. My heart is racing and I have to go take a shower just to get rid of the germ demons swirling around in my head. I would consider that a germophobe, right?

Anyway, there’s one other place that frightens me just about as much as a public restroom. And that place is the waiting room at the doctor’s office.

I was recently in one and it was the usual terror scene. People blowing their noses, old men sneezing and scratching their balls, loud breathing, and the worst of all: Little kids coughing without covering their mouths. Even though I go to an adult doctor now, there are always little kids coughing there. It’s like all doctor’s offices have a coughing kid quota that they need to meet.

My phone was dead and I was bored out of my mind. There was absolutely no way I was touching the germ-infested magazines they always have lying around. I just keep my hands in my pockets and try to breathe as little as possible. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the little kids is licking his toy truck. Snot is pouring out of his nose. Sick little bastard. I shudder and start to pray when a putrid smell arises. Yup, the old man next to me had just farted. As I plug my nose the lady across from me (who had been reading one of the germazines) starts to eat an apple, touching it with her bare hands. I am really starting to think I’m in hell now. Besides, aren’t apples supposed to keep you away from the doctor?

I am startled when I feel an object hit my foot. I look down and see it is the little kid’s saliva truck. I move my body away from it in the same way that a vampire does when he is exposed to a crucifix.

The kid runs over and picks the toy up. His mom yells to him,

“Trevor! Apologize!”

The kid looks at me blankly and without warning, sneezes on me, spraying his repulsive snot/spit onto my arm.

“Sorry,” the little rat says.

I scream out, holding my arm out in front of me like it had been dipped in a chemical vat. I desperately look around for a towel or anything to wipe my arm with, but can’t find anything. I scramble up to the front desk and ask the lady if they have a towel I can use. She looks at me with a fake smile, points, and goes,

“Yes, sir. Right over there in our public restrooms.”

Drunk Babies

I once heard from somebody that babies are really kind of just drunk middle-aged men when you think about it. I find this to be extremely accurate. They waddle around with their bellies hanging out, milk (beer) bottles in hand, yelling incomprehensible words at people and chasing the nearest thing with boobs. They have an extremely hard time keeping their balance and will just point at things and mumble, expecting you to understand. They will whip it out and pee without hesitation, and shat in their pants if needed. If they drink too much milk (beer), they throw it up. However, they are experts of the “puke and rally” technique, and soon will be back at their shenanigans as if nothing happened. They will laugh, cry, dance, and fall asleep— all in a thirty minute span. If that doesn’t describe someone who is completely hammered, I don’t know what does.

 

I guess you start your life acting that way and you end it in the same manner.

 

I am no exception to this apparently, as my parents have told me that when I was a baby, I loved to stumble around in my diaper, holding my bottle and dancing around with my milk (beer) belly. They also said that I absolutely loved the movie Toy Story, and I would rarely be seen without my Buzz Lightyear and Woody dolls. (For those of you that don’t know what Toy Story is, let me know in the comment section what planet you’re from.)

At that point in my life, my language skills obviously weren’t fully developed, yet I still loved showing people my Buzz Lightyear and Woody dolls. According to my parents, when I would meet someone, I would say the most drunken old man thing possible.

“Hello, this is my Bud Light, wanna see my Woody?”

Al-Cat-raz

Sometimes, I forget that the house pets we have casually strolling around our houses, are still primal creatures at heart. No matter how much we want to spoil them and dress them up in goofy clothes and feed them delicious treats, they will always have those primal instincts. And those primal instincts can make for some hilarious encounters.

In my household, I like to compare my two cats to two prison inmates. My older cat, let’s call her the Black Panther, is the old, wise, hardened inmate who is serving life without parole. My other cat, let’s call her Fat Cat, is akin to the chubby twenty-five year old who still lives in his mom’s basement, got busted for distributing porn, and is now serving time in federal prison.

Black Panther is your typical badass hunter cat. She spends most of her time outside killing rodents, snakes, and lizards. She was ambushed by two dogs once, and let’s just say it ended with both dogs whimpering off and bleeding from their noses.

Fat Cat spends most of her time begging for food. The time that she isn’t begging for food, she is sprawled out on the couch like a blob, or hiding under a bed because she heard the wind blowing too hard outside. I’m sure if she ever came into contact with a rat, she would get the butt mud brutally beaten out of her.

Black Panther is the alpha and Fat Cat is the beta. It’s been this way since day one. When Fat Cat first trembled her way into our house from PetsMart, she was swiftly smacked into a wall by Black Panther. (If you’re thinking ohhhh, poor Fat Cat, don’t. Because this cat is a spoiled dingleberry.)

Black Panther is a very honorable animal and if you show her respect, she shows you respect. I’m sure all she wants is for Fat Cat to stand up for herself, and she would accept her. But over the years, Fat Cat has just taken the beatings, silently plotting behind the scenes. She knows she can’t stand toe to toe with Black Panther, so she has begun to resort to other means.

The change in behavior started a year or so ago. Black Panther was sleeping gracefully on the couch while my family and I were watching TV. Fat Cat had just finished her fourth or fifth meal and was meandering (or waddling) over to us. Although, she stops in her tracks once she sees Black Panther. Figuring she would just slink off to beg for more food or hide under a bed, we thought nothing of it. But suddenly, she jumps up, right next to Black Panther, and stares at her intently. Black Panther senses the movement, opens her eyes, and sees Fat Cat. She hisses, and like always, Fat Cat moves away to the other side of the couch. But Fat Cat keeps her eyes on Black Panther. She waits until Black Panther is asleep again, and creeps expertly over to her. We have the TV paused now and are watching to see where this goes.

Fat Cat walks right up to Black Panther until she is standing directly over her. Then, extending her fat little paw over Black Panther’s head, she swipes down and smacks Black Panther as hard as her grotesquely overweight body can manage. It was a textbook prison attack, with Fat Cat’s claws serving as the makeshift shank. Black Panther screams in anger and jumps into attack position as fast as she can manage. Although, she is a step slow from being engaged in such a deep sleep just seconds earlier, and Fat Cat is nowhere to be seen.

That little bastard had darted out of the room faster than I had ever seen her move. I couldn’t believe what I had just watched. A premeditated cheap shot from a cat. This creature had the thought process to become angry from being beaten on by Black Panther, realize she can’t beat her in a fair fight, and decide to wait until she’s asleep to attack her. And then ran away to avoid the repercussions. Just that realization of how intricately planned the attack was, and by such a simple little overweight cat, is hilarious.

Now that I think about it, I should probably stop calling her Fat Cat. And I should probably sleep with my door closed…

Free Samples

Now, I know most children are innocent, pure, and uncorrupted, unlike the rest of us, but let’s just be honest here for a second.

Some of those little bastards are as rotten as milk left in the sun.

I mean, some of them might as well have chest hair, a beer in their hand, and a cigarette in their mouth. The amount of hostility and calculation they can display at such a young age is extremely alarming. For example, the concept of blackmail is not something I would expect a small child to understand, let alone execute with optimum effectiveness. Yet, there I was the other day at the store, watching it unfold before my eyes.

Two little kids, who I assumed were brothers, were on the same aisle I was on. Their mom was at the end of it on the phone with somebody. They couldn’t have been much older than kindergartners.

One of the brothers looks to make sure his mom isn’t going to interfere with his master plan before turning to his brother and telling him to open one of the chip bags. The other brother refuses. The first brother, let’s just call him Turdsniff McGee, goes on to explain how the store allows free samples of the food so you can see if you want to buy it or not.

I forget about the Pringles I’m examining and start paying closer attention to Turdsniff, curious as to where he’s going with this. (Yeah, I could’ve told them not to do it but what would be the fun in that?)

So, the other brother is apparently persuaded pretty easily, which is pretty in line with normal kid behavior, unlike his brother, and tears open a Lay’s bag and starts munching.

Turdsniff McGee immediately points and goes, “Ooooh, you’re stealingggg!”

A look of fear comes across the other brother’s face as he realizes he has been deceived. Meanwhile, the mom is still way down at the other end of the aisle, talking on the phone, and hasn’t even looked to see if her kids are still around. It’s starting to make sense now why Turdsniff is such a P.O.S.

I’m not even holding the Pringles anymore, I’m just watching intently, thinking in my head: Oooooooh, you’re in troubleeee.

Turdsniff cracks a smile, knowing he’s got the checkmate. He doesn’t even care that I’m watching. The other brother is nearing tears as he stuffs the bag back onto the shelf.

“Please don’t tell mom!” he pleads.

Turdsniff smiles even brighter now.

“I won’t tell mom if you give me all the money in your piggy bank.”

The other brother is crushed, you can see it in his little miniature body language. He’s been defeated.

“Fine,” he pouts.

Damn, I think. This little Turdsniff is one smooth operator.

Then, like some kind of untouchable mob boss who’s got the whole city on his payroll, he looks at me and says,

“You know they let you try samples here?”