The Almighty Cyclist

Forewarning, this is road rage Saucebox. I am not liable for anything he says. 

😉 

Imagine if laws were optional.

Imagine if obeying the laws of our society was entirely within your discretion. If at a certain moment in time a law wasn’t exactly convenient for you, you could just not abide by it. Then you could go right back to abiding, but only if you wanted to.

“What do you mean I can’t just walk into this house and live in it?”

“That’s breaking the law.”

“Oh, well you see, that isn’t exactly the most ideal situation for me at this time—you know, the law—so I’m just gonna not obey that one for now, sound good?”

I realize everyone may bend the law or even break it a smidge every once in a while. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the cocky-ass-blatant-as-shit-in-front-of-cops-f$ck-the-law type of behavior. People that truly believe they are above all the other peasants of society.

There are surprisingly (or not so surprisingly) tons of these higher beings our society. Thousands, maybe even millions. Through my studies, I have figured out a pretty easy and foolproof way to identify them, too. Using my method, you might actually uncover the frightening truth that YOU are one of these beings.

So here’s how you find out: If you’re driving along the road in your car, obeying traffic laws and not putting anyone’s life in danger, and you see a guy on a bicycle riding on the road along with you………….. that’s one of the beings!

These omnipotent ones, or as they like to be called, cyclists, are citizen/emperor hybrids. They do as they please, and if you don’t like it, you can suck the fart out of an asshole. Their words, not mine. (Actually not their words at all, but I imagine this is what they say.)

If you couldn’t already tell, I have been scorned by cyclists many times. Yesterday was the straw that broke the camels back however and brought me to the dark place of writing a humorous blog post about their behavior. For the first time in my life, my road rage has actually followed me off of the road.

I was late somewhere and of course was hitting every single red light. (I stopped at them though, even though it was inconvenient—*looking at you cyclists.) All of a sudden, Lance Armstrong veers off of the sidewalk and and cuts in front of me as the left turn light changes green. He gives me a condescending “halt” motion without even looking at my peasant face, and of  course I have to stop and let him in front of me. He then proceeds to leisurely pedal with one hand on the handle bars at about 4.72 mph through the extremely busy intersection in the turn lane. There are about 12 cars stacked behind my car which are now honking at me of course. The cyclist takes about 55 minutes to make the turn and I, along with the other 2 cars that actually made the green light are now stuck behind ol’ Tour de France.

He kicks up his speed to around 5 miles an hour and we are all backed up behind him on the two-lane road. He swerves back and forth between the right side of the road and the wrong side cause, well, it must get boring being so powerful.

I guess the poor guy got a little out of breath or something because he decides to just stop. No, not like off on the side of the road or God forbid the actual sidewalk. Just right in the middle of the road. He then starts flagging us by him. He gives us his almighty permission to steer our vehicles around his supreme existence. He then pulls out his phone and starts checking his GPS. I choose to not go around him because I literally can’t fit and instead just lay on top of my horn. The guy moves a few inches towards the side of the road, enough for us to inch by and lob all kinds of expletives at him. He doesn’t hear us though, because his ears are tuned to a higher frequency of sound than our meager human grunts.

I continue down the road, still in disbelief of what just happened, when suddenly, Lance tears by me. Hauling ass. I look at my speedometer, and I’m going exactly 25 mph. The speed limit for a residential, which I was in.

So now, he’s speeding. I see him narrowly dodge a small kid up the road. I watch in awe as he disappears down the street.

Fast forward and I’m still driving through the residential. To my dismay I find myself back behind Thanos the mad Biker.

He’s going a little faster now, but still slow enough to hold me up. His three speed settings are apparently 4, 7, and 55 mph. We are coming up on a stop sign and what do ya know?! The dude just blows right through it. Doesn’t look, doesn’t yield. Nothing. Just flops his metaphorical penis onto everyone’s forehead and guns it through the intersection.

Two cars had to swerve out of his way.

I get to the end of the road and I’M BACK BEHIND HIM. I’m turning left back onto a bigger, busier street.

The guy does a little condescending motion for “right” and I breathe a sigh of relief. As I start to turn left, he goes right. But, no, wait, he checks his phone and realizes that that’s not the most convenient way for him, so he swerves left, right in front of my car.

So we got texting and biking, speeding, holding up traffic, driving under the speed limit, running stop signs, driving erratically—am I missing anything?

I finally floor it past the guy on the main road, cursing his entire shitty existence and what does he do…

He waves.

I drive down the road in a stupor and look back to see a thick line of cars growing behind him. The cars begin dangerously swerving around him, honking and flipping him the bird.

He doesn’t care though.

Know why?

Cause a cyclist doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of sheep.

 

 

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.

 

 

Co-Worker Chronicles

Not going to go into too much detail here but I have a new temporary job and let’s just say my coworkers are very… interesting.

I have only been working for a week or so and already have endless amounts of comedy material. I’m just going to focus in on one coworker for now though. We’ll call him “Cartman”. That should help you get a good visual of him if you’ve seen the show South Park. 

He’s over 350 pounds and has bright red hair  (so, I guess he can’t really be Cartman). After meeting and talking to him for about two and a half minutes I quickly realized he is a compulsive liar and views himself as falling somewhere between George Clooney and Fonzi. When I met him, it went something like this:

Me: Hey, I’m “Saucebox”.

Cartman: I’m “Cartman”. You know, a few months back when I was fighting a Pitbull, my hand was torn almost clean off. It was almost as bad as the time when I was stabbed while stopping a theft on a construction site.

There was no context for this whatsoever.

Then, I shit you not, this guy points to a trailer 20 yards away from where we are walking (this is an outside job) and says: Yeah, it happened right over there in my front yard.

He wasn’t kidding. He lives in a trailer directly behind where we work. He clocks out and walks ten feet. One day after he had already clocked off  I was walking around the back of our building and ran into him. I was confused and asked him why he was still there after getting off work more than two hours ago. He says: What do you mean? I’m cleaning my yard.  And then points to his trailer behind him.

Cartman drives a thirty-plus year-old van that he claims was given to him after he pulled it back up from the edge of a cliff. He got this van after crashing his old Crown Vic that he had sprayed “Cop Killer” on the back of. The Crown Vic was the car he drove when his uncle was the Chief of Police.

Now, I’ve only covered about a quarter of what he’s told me as I’m lazy and will cover more of it as the days go on and I undoubtedly learn more about his legendary existence.

I’ll just leave you all with my favorite thing he’s said so far:

Cartman: You know, if a car hood shuts on your arm, it will break it like a twig.

Me: Really?

Cartman: Yeah, my arms been smashed by a hood four times.

Me: You’ve broken your arm four times?

Cartman: Nope. 

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”.

F$%k You, Mice

Have you ever had to deal with earth’s disgusting vermin dingleberries, otherwise known as mice? The cowardly little squeaky buttholes that just decide to run across your feet while you’re cooking? Or take little pussy poops in your bed, specifically on your pillow?

 

Well, as you can tell, I have. Many times. Many, many, times. That’s because I’m a college student and I have to have roommates, and roommates make messes. Messes that little scampering fur dildos make a living off of. It’s the same story every year, the temperature drops, messes are made, and in comes Mickey and his dickhead crew.

 

Mice are just such assholes. Barging in and looking for food like it’s my problem they’re starving. It isn’t my fault you’re an incompetent little ball of nut cheese, you stupid mouse. Stop crawling on my counters and go get a job. I’m starving half the time too, but you don’t see me crawling into my neighbors house through their basement and rubbing my furry little balls all over their pillow. Learn some respect.

 

Whenever these shitbags make their way into my place of residence, I turn into a man possessed. I buy every trap the store has to offer and maniacally place them all throughout the house along their food-hunting routes that I have carefully studied. I swear and curse and challenge the freeloaders to try to outsmart me. (You know school’s going bad when this is my strongest display of intellect.) One by one the traps snap shut throughout the night as Mickey and his boys start biting the dust. I find where they are getting into the house and I toss one of their homeboy’s dead bodies at the entrance, a message to all who dare to play the game. I then leave the house to go sleep elsewhere, I don’t sleep near my enemies. It is guerilla warfare, and I can’t be beaten.

 

Things weren’t always like this though, oh, no. It took a hardened group of gang banger mice punking me nearly every day for a month to reach this level of rodent homicide prestige.

 

Back when I lived in my first college house, winter came around and food was left out. You know the drill. My roommates and I started seeing little blurry objects out of the corner of our eyes in the kitchen but didn’t think anything of it. Then, one day I’m cooking and what is for sure a mouse runs across my foot. Now I’m annoyed so I go get some traps and set them up. As I’m squatted down setting one in the kitchen, I can see a mouse watching me from under the oven. Aren’t mice supposed to be timid? Just as I move the trap closer to him (he’s still watching me, as if to say, go ahead and set that trap, pussy) another mouse runs across my foot, causing me to jump and lose my balance, putting my hand in the trap and setting it off. Use your imagination to picture how I reacted. I look back over to the oven, holding my hand, and see two mice staring at me now. Their empty little blank eyes pierce my soul, challenging me to set another. I do, in fact, I set quite a few more.

Later that night, I leave my room to get some water. I turn the light on and see a mouse scurry across the floor. It stops at a trap. I excitedly sit and watch, knowing this will undoubtedly be a checkmate. The mouse just looks at the trap, looks at me, and scurries back under the oven. I can’t believe it, and just as I start heading back to bed, a mouse crawls back out from under the oven and goes straight for the trap.  This is it for sure. I watch intently as he casually proceeds to eat the peanut butter on the trap, not dead at all. I tell myself it’s only a matter of time before it snaps shut and crushes the little scumbag, but he licks it clean. I’m in disbelief as I watch him pimp limp back to the oven. Just as he moves out of sight, another mouse rolls out and goes straight for a different trap. Guess what happens? If you guessed that he casually licked the trap clean and returned to the oven, you guessed right. I go back to bed thoroughly defeated.

 

After this humiliating situation, my roommate buys poison traps and we get a little bastard that night. We watch as he tweaks out on the kitchen floor, cursing us and vowing that his boys will avenge him. I tell him that I hope they try, and he extends his middle finger to me before passing into the abyss while “Hit ‘Em Up” by 2pac plays in the background. (This is how I remember it at least.) I look over to the oven and a little pair of eyes are watching me. Or is that two pairs?

 

The next morning, I wake up to a tickle on my foot. I quickly sit up and look around, swearing I saw something scurrying out of my room. Nah, there’s no way. Mice are nocturnal, right? I go to lay back down, when I notice something on my pillow. I look closely and realize that what I’m looking at is a little microscopic turd. A mouse turd. A tiny little token of defiance from a cunning enemy. An ode to a fallen soldier.

 

There are more stories from that fateful invasion, but I will spare your time. After the turd though, we never saw any mice again that winter. I guess they decided to leave on their own terms. Letting us know what they were capable of was enough for them. Or they had other turfs to conquer. Whatever the case may be, I always check my pillow before bed now, permanently scarred.

 

Stupid dickhead mice.

 

 

 

Do I Know You?

So, at the gym I attend, there was this kid who seemed to be on the same workout schedule as me. I would see him every day at the same time and he’d usually be working the same body part as me. I noticed he would always try to make eye contact with me, but I just tried to ignore it because I’m an anti-social piece of shit. It’s pretty obvious he is attempting to get my attention, but my attention isn’t something I just toss around to people I don’t know.

 

A few weeks after I started to notice him, I’m doing an exercise when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and it’s the kid.

 

“What’s up, man? It’s good to see you.”

 

He reaches out for a handshake and I reciprocate. I’m confused, but I play along and tell him it’s good to see him too. He tells me to have a good workout and walks off.

 

Now, I’m thinking, shit, I must know this kid. But where from?

 

The next day he comes up to me again. “Sup bro? How are things going?” He asks this with a look that could’ve been perceived as concern, or just genuine interest.

 

What did this mean? Is he just making conversation, or is he referring to a specific situation that I apparently don’t remember anything about? Were things not going well for me when I met him? Did I even meet him? I think about asking him where I know him from, but I don’t want to look like an idiot, so I just tell him things are going good and ask him the same question.

 

“Oh, you know how it is man, am I right?” He says this with a smile and slaps my arm, walking off.

 

I’m really confused now. No, dude, you aren’t right. I don’t know how it is. I don’t remember who you are. I don’t know if you’re just a friendly guy, or if we met under some really strange circumstances that I have no recollection of. Apparently, we have an inside joke, and I’m not in on it. I continue my work out and rack my brain in search of “how it is”.

 

As the days go by, these exchanges keep happening. I wasn’t getting any weird vibes from this kid, he genuinely seemed like a nice dude. A nice dude who I was pretty sure I had never met before. But, I had pretty much reached the point of no return. If I asked him who he was now, I would look like an absolute douche monkey.

 

One day, I walk into the gym and he’s standing by the entrance talking with someone he obviously knows. He asks me what’s up as I pass by, and I reciprocate. The guys he’s talking to then asks, “how’s it goin, bro?”

 

DUDE. Do I know this guy too? Was he at this mystery meeting as well? Or is he just being nice to one of his buddy’s friends? Dammit, I guess me and the original mystery guy are friends now. And I don’t even know his name.

 

I turn to mystery guy number two, and say, “ah, you know how it is, bro.”

 

He cracks a smile and excitedly points at me like we’re playing a pick-up basketball game and he just hit a three-pointer off of my assist. “That’s my dude!” he yells.

 

Things continue like this for over a month. I don’t see the second guy as often, but he greets me now as well. The original kid is there every day. People at the gym are probably thinking me and him are the best of pals, and I’m just praying I don’t have to introduce him to someone I know.

 

One day, one fateful day, me and him happen to start working out on machines located right next to one another. Rather than just the simple drive by interaction, I know that this will now be the time we are forced to have an actual conversation. We make eye contact, shake hands, ask each other how things are going, and then, silence. After about eight full seconds of excruciatingly painful off-into-the-distance stares, each of us thinking what to say next, the kid says,

 

“Hey man, where do I know you from?”

 

I breathe a gigantic sigh of relief. I explain to him I have no idea and he cracks up, telling me he’s been trying to figure it out this whole time. We finally learn each other’s names and agree to grab a beer sometime. Just then, the kid’s friend (mystery guy number two) walks by and excitedly greets us and shakes our hands before continuing on to his workout.

 

I turn to my new friend and ask him what the other kids name is.

 

He just looks at me and says,

 

“No idea.”

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.”

The Most Interesting Teacher in the World

Have any of you ever known someone that has a story for absolutely everything? That one person that no matter what subject you bring up, always has some kind of inconceivable anecdote or embellished first-hand experience with said subject? You know, the people who knew George Lucas in high school and gave him the idea for Star Wars, or, once bested Mike Tyson in a street fight that conveniently had no witnesses. Yeah, I know most of you are picturing someone in your head now.

 

I myself had a high school physics teacher who had a story or experience for anything you could possibly imagine, no matter how absolutely crazy or outlandish. It was so painfully obvious that this guy was lying through his teeth, you could practically smell the shit on his breath.

 

“Hey, Mr. Bullshit, (we will call him that for the sake of the story) did you see the game last night?”

 

“Ah yes, I love basketball. You know, back in high school, they would call me ‘Swish’, because I used physics and geometry to perfect the trajectory of my shot. Could make it every time.”

 

Interesting stuff, Mr. Bullshit. And how come he didn’t decide to pursue his amazing talent and inevitably become the greatest basketball player of all time, you ask?

 

“Ah, I injured my toe and lost interest after that.”

 

How convenient Mr. Bullshit, how convenient.

 

He once helped another teacher get their computer to work correctly, (pressed the restart button) and proceeded to tell the entire class about his technological expertise, noting that he “accidentally” hacked his way into the C.I.A. database when he was younger. After a visit from some mysterious men in suits, he was anonymously told to tone down his computer prowess. Yeah, this is the same guy that is teaching a high school physics class and sporting a bad haircut. Totally believable.

 

He got so bad we actually started purposely bringing up ridiculous topics just to hear his inevitable anecdotes.

 

“Hey, Mr. Bullshit, I’m thinking about trying to become an astronaut.”

 

“To be honest, very overrated career choice. Take it from me, most of the guys in NASA are pricks.”

 

Humblebrag much, Mr. Bullshit? Completely fabricate aspects of your life much, Mr. Bullshit? This guy casually implied that he worked for NASA at a point in his life. To his high school physics class. With a straight face. Not to mention, he apparently stopped working for them because he viewed them as idiots. Someone that makes shit up like this so consistently, is a far-fetched concept in itself. Just telling you guys about him makes me seem like I’m the one who’s full of it. It doesn’t stop here though. Oh, no.

 

“Mr. Bullshit, I’m trying to pick up poker, any suggestions?”

 

“If you’re serious about it, my only advice would be to never learn to count cards. As tempting as it is, it’s not worth the consequences.”

 

“What do you mean? You know how to count cards?”

 

“A long time ago, yes. And I had a lot more money back then because of it, too. Let’s just say I’m not welcome in Vegas.”

 

So now you’re a card counter? And you could do it well enough to be some Vegas big shot, illegally raking in the Benjamins and wearing your sunglasses indoors? They should make movies about you.

 

On second thought, your life experiences would actually be too closely parallel to most Hollywood movie scripts. Funny how that works.

 

My only regret is not asking Mr. Bullshit about the capture of Bin Laden, as I no-doubt missed out on some badass first-hand SEAL Team Six stories. Hell, I should’ve asked him for the cure to cancer, I’m sure he’s got it stashed away somewhere. I honestly don’t know if he thought we were mentally equivalent to kindergartners, or if he was the most insane person in the world. Maybe he was even telling the truth about everything, in which case, he needs to contact the Dos Equis beer company immediately. Although, now that I think about it, he’s probably already turned them down. Dammit, this guy is too good.

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?”