More Co-Worker Chronicles

Have any of you ever been bitten by a Black Widow? What about a Brown Recluse? A rabid rat? What about stung by a Scorpion? Stung by a hornet in the eye?

What about bit or stung by every single one of those creatures? If you said yes then you are probably my co-worker (Cartman).

Yup, he was not only bitten by a Brown Recluse, but bit by a Brown Recluse nine times. He then drove himself halfway unconscious to the hospital and then casually told the doctors what had happened. Then while in the hospital bed he grabbed the dying skin on his leg from the bites and tore it from his bone cause, well, that’s the logical, totally sensical decision to make. He told me the skin was irritating him. So he ripped it off. Makes sense, I mean, what else was he supposed to do? Wait for the doctors to assess his situation and treat him with their extensive resources and intense training and experience? Nah, not Cartman. (He showed me the scars by the way. They weren’t there.)

You know the band Smashing Pumpkins? Well they used to pay Cartman to beat people up. He once got $200 dollars for upper cutting a guy who threw something on stage. (I’m sure the super famous band Smashing Pumpkins didn’t have the means to hire an actually security team so this one is totally believable. Wink, wink.)

One time, Cartman was working as a bouncer (he told me this was back when he used to be fat— he’s 350 pounds at the moment) and he was attacked by six cholos who wanted to get in the club. He pepper sprayed them and was then attacked by their girlfriends who jumped on his back and clawed his bald head. He pepper sprayed them, too. (Imagine a middle-aged 350 pound man resembling Paul Blart, victoriously standing in the street holding a can of pepper spray, surrounded by six cholos writhing around on the ground in pain. Gotta give him props for this one.)

When Cartman was young, he used to hang around a driving range and shoot the golf balls out of the air with his pellet gun. (Yeah, he was this good of a shot apparently. I’m not sure why SEAL Team 6 never called. Or maybe they did? Guess I’ll have to  ask him tomorrow.)

Oh, and Cartman also fell off a cliff, outran a train, got hit by a car, and fell down a well. All in the same day by the way. (No words for this one.)

To sum everything up, after one of his stories I asked him (not) jokingly if he was dropped on his head as baby. His response: Well yeah, a bunch of times. My dad used to play a game he called “Drop the infant on its head” where he’d dangle me by my ankles and drop me on my head.

Things are all finally starting to make sense.

As long as the sun rises this guy has stories so stay tuned.

 

 

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.