Category Archives: fun at work

The Needle And The Damage Done, or, “Objects In The Rear View Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear”

The first person that I ever watched shoot drugs was actually my boss at the time. My mother and a friend of hers had helped me get a part-time gig, working in a small print shop in a really shitty part of Phoenix.

Actually — when I think about it now, this was also when I was going to night school. I had been removed from the regular high school I was going to, because I was skipping classes and being nothing more than a hurricane of disruption for my teachers. Not fully my fault — they were boring me to tears. I was banished to the “alternative” high school.

Basically, this guy, who I will call Don, ran this print shop that my mother’s friend used to print programs and stuff for her baton twirling competitions and newsletters and such. My sister was a baton twirler — a damn fine one, too. World Champion.

Anyway — they hooked me up with this Don guy and hoped I would “learn a trade,” since the betting pool on whether or not I was going to actually finish high school was growing daily. I was just this kid who felt like he was too fucking smart to play the games that schools wanted me to play, and by doing the whole learning of a trade thing they hoped to cut me off at the pass so that I wouldn’t spiral down into some weird world of working construction, pounding beers, and living in a trailer on the West Side of town by the time I was nineteen.

I often wonder how they would have felt about the trade I really learned.

Because my classes at school didn’t start until three in the afternoon, the plan was that I would work for Don from around half-past seven in the morning, until around two. My father would drop me off on his way to work, since his office was only a couple of miles away. My mother would pick me up in the afternoon, and then drop me off at school. The routine wasn’t so bad, actually.

For the first week or so, Don was definitely on his best behavior. He was very patient and kind as he taught me about all of my responsibilities at his shop. The way old school printing used to work, an image would be photographed with a really huge camera that was inside of a dark room [they used to call this “line photography“]. You would use certain chemicals and solvents to burn that image to a printing plate, which would then have to cure before being able to be used to print whatever it was that needed printing. Negatives were also used in a very mechanical cut and paste fashion, which used to be called “stripping.”

Don told me it would be a long time before he taught me how to do the stripping part. I had regular old grunt work like running to the greasy burger stand to get lunch, folding brochures, taking those line shots, cleaning the shop and other things to master first.

Part of me was really excited to learn all of this shit, because this was the industry my father worked in — I felt like maybe we would finally have something to talk about other than him being disappointed in my grades, or him being sick of me pulling the ball when I should have been raking it to every part of the field. I found myself, in those first few days, growing to like this odd little man who was teaching me all about his business. The first day I showed up I was wearing a shirt and a tie, and he mocked me, saying “You some sorta rich kid, Sean? You might wanna just wear jeans and a t-shirt working here — you’re gonna get dirty.”

After that, I would just show up wearing whatever fucked up punk rock t-shirts I had.

*****

I arrived to work one morning in the middle of my second week to find the doors locked. My father had just driven off. I stood around by the front door of the shop, pacing back and forth, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Every now and then I would rap on the door, thinking that maybe Don was inside and working already — the last thing in the world I wanted to do was be late for work. Whatever little money I was making at this gig was paying for my smokes, weed, guitar strings, and pitching in on half-racks of cheap beer on the weekends with the guys in my band.

Obviously, this liquid income was very important to me.

I thought about going around to the back door of the shop and breaking into the place, but then my weed-addled brain remembered that Don had a Doberman he kept in the back room. One of my other responsibilities at this gig was to take the dog out into the parking lot twice per day and let him go to the bathroom. The dog, Alejandro, was really sweet-natured, but kind of dumb. No sense in me trying to break in and get my hand or face chewed off.

I didn’t wear a watch, so I really had no idea how much time had passed — it could have been an hour or it could have been ten minutes. All I knew was that I really wanted to be inside and not out on the street where some Cholo could up and rob my monkey ass [I was in South Phoenix — Cholos kind of ran things around that part of town at this point in history]. Every time a car slowed down and looked like it was going to turn into the tiny lot/driveway in front of the shop, I felt nervous and kind of ducked into the recessed part of the doorway.

Then a really beat-up looking conversion van pulled up right in front of me. I could see Don sitting in the passenger seat, looking like he had just risen from the dead. There was a much older woman driving the van, and as she parked I could hear her admonishing Don for something in a very stern and mothering way. Don slowly worked himself out of the van and stepped toward the front door, muttering something to himself while shaking his head. The old woman followed, looked me up and down slowly and then said “You must be my Donny’s little helper. I’m Dot — Donny’s mother.”

Great.

*****

After following “Donny” and his mother inside, I proceeded to go about my regular routine — I checked through the outstanding work orders to see what I had to do that day, and got myself organized. Normally, I would have had my little cassette Walkman blaring some Black Flag into my ears, but I could tell from the tension in the room that I would miss out on something. I tried very hard not to make my eavesdropping obvious, and went to work in the camera room taking shots of shit to burn to plates.

I could hear Don and his mother arguing. She kept on saying things like “you have to stay clean,” and “I can’t afford to keep bailing you out,” while Don would mumble something incoherent and then shout things at her that made no sense. After about twenty minutes or so of this, Don’s mother told him she was leaving, and that she would pick him up in the morning to take him “to the clinic.”

Right as the door closed behind her, Don flipped the fuck on out — he threw his coffee mug against the wall, screaming at the top of his lungs. He kicked over his light table. Alejandro started to bark. Don went into the back room and started rough-housing with the dog — possibly trying to release some frustration and lighten up a bit.

“Goddamn it, kid! You get your ass back here and clean up this fucking dog shit, will you? I’M NOT PAYING YOU TO FUCK AROUND!”

As weird as Don was, this was the first time I had ever heard him yell. I felt awkward and a little scared, what with his explosion of emotions and everything. I took my time getting back there, making sure to snap on some rubber gloves.

As I worked my way around the corner into the back room, I saw Don standing on top of a step-ladder, his arm craned up and into some of the ceiling tiles. Alejandro was wagging his little stumpy tail at me as I reached down and picked up huge chunks of his waste and put them into a plastic bag. Don didn’t even pay attention or notice that I was there — he just kept on grunting and moving his arm back and forth, popping up ceiling tiles to try and find something.

I didn’t really give it another thought as I went outside to dispose of the dog shit.

*****

Later on that day, I was folding boxes of brochures with my headphones on when a very large Mexican biker came through the front door. Not only did he not acknowledge my presence, he just walked his way on in to the back of the shop where Don was working. I lowered the volume on my Walkman, and could hear Don and this dude bantering back and forth, making small talk. I heard Don mention something about his mother, and then something about him being “good for it.”

The Mexican biker left five minutes later, and as he walked by me on his way out he gave me a little head nod.

“Kid — you got a lighter? All I got are matches — come on back here and gimme your lighter, can you?”

As I walked into the room, I could see that Don was up to something I had only read about before. On the light table in front of him was an unfolded foil wrap that had two twist-tied baggies in the middle of it. Next to that was a spoon, a torn-off filter from a cigarette, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Clamped between Don’s teeth was a hypodermic needle.

Fuck me.

Now everything that had happened throughout the course of the morning made sense to me. Hell — everything that had happened since I started working there made sense to me — the weirded-out Doberman watch dog, the telephone calls where people would hang up, the multiple chains on the doors, his mother talking about “the clinic,” and “staying clean” — everything just fell right in line.

This motherfucker was a goddamn junkie.

I tried not to act too freaked out when I slid my lighter across the table to Don. He just sort of grunted at me, and started playing with the instruments of his addiction right there in front of me. I acted as if this was no big deal to me — like I had seen all of this before.

“You gotta get just the right mix of coca and chiva, otherwise you’re wasting good shit.”

Don was now cooking up his little mixture in the spoon, holding my lighter underneath to boil and bubble his drugs the way he liked them. There was a smell in the air that I couldn’t identify — it blurred out the ever-present scents of cigarette smoke, solvents, dog shit and mold that were in the shop. I watched Don take the cotton from the cigarette filter and stick it in his still-bubbling spoon, drawing the hot fluids into the syringe, which he then set on the light table in front of him.

I could not believe I was witnessing this — at this point in my fledgling little life, I had already read everything I could get my hands on by Burroughs, and was slowly working my way into Selby — but seeing Don’s face as he sunk that rig into the top of his hand was one of the most intense things I would ever see in my life. His face, which up until that moment had looked like he was in agony with every movement, suddenly filled with warmth, all of the hard and angular lines smoothing out. His eyes went from beady to glazed in half a second. Even his posture changed immediately as he slid down into himself in his chair, every muscle gone slack.

“You want some of this, kid? I can cook you up your own shot if you want.”

“No, Don. I’m cool. Thank you, though.”

*****

Almost every morning was a repeat of that day — me showing up to find the place locked-down, and Don’s mother dropping him off around a half an hour later. His mother started feeling sorry for me, and would make sure she had coffee and donuts for us — kind of her way of apologizing for her son, I think. I also realized that it was her I was really working for. She really owned the shop, and this was her way of making sure her son had something to do with his time other than shooting dope into dead veins every day.

Don started to get very comfortable with shooting dope in front of me. I soon learned that the big Mexican biker’s name was Ruben, and that Ruben had given Don the dog as a gift for not ratting him out to the police when he got arrested for holding a bunch of dope that belonged to Ruben a couple of years earlier.

Don and Ruben would sometimes ask me to come into the room where they were, and would start asking me about my friends’ drug habits — trying to get me to sell stuff for them in my neighborhood. They knew that the neighborhood I lived in was full of kids with disposable income at the ready, and would often make jokes about how “white” I was. I would always be respectful and decline, even when Ruben would tell me that he would give me a fair split on the money.

After they would make more jokes at my expense, I would usually just put my headphones back on and get back to work. As much as I was fascinated to see these aspects of the drug trade right in front of me, it made me nervous as hell. I was just a kid who liked smoking pot — I’d tried cocaine a few times and found it to be a little crazy for me, and I had already had my battles eating diet pills being sold as speed. I certainly wasn’t about to start selling heroin and cocaine to the kids I ran with. The thought of that was far too much for my adolescent brain to handle. I had no idea what they meant when they were talking about “weight,” or when they would rattle off dollar amounts.

I just knew they were part of a world that I did not belong to.

*****

As my father drove away one morning, I noticed the front door to the shop was open a crack. Instead of just walking right in, I walked around to the back door — something about the way the front door looked didn’t feel right to me.

Coming around the side of the building to head toward the back door, I saw a car idling near the dumpster that I used to throw Alejandro’s shit into. There was nobody in the car, and the driver’s side door was wide open. Looking toward the back door, I could see that it was open as well. I took my time walking toward the door, keeping my eye on the idling car as I crept slowly along the wall.

That’s when I saw the blood.

There was a streak of red on the wall next to the door to the shop, and a trail of it that went all the way across the lot to the idling car. On the ground in front of the doorway there was a massive puddle of it, and a pair of bolt-cutters laying in it. I tried to angle myself so I could see inside the open door, but I wouldn’t be able to do so without exposing myself if someone was still inside.

The sweat running down my back felt like ice water.

Looking back over toward the car and the dumpster, I could see two legs and a torso sticking out from behind the car. I tried not to make a sound but I must have gasped loud enough, because a very bloodied Don came stumbling out the back door. He was holding on to his side with one hand, and in the other was a very bloody pair of industrial scissors.

“Motherfuckers killed my dog! They killed Alejandro, those motherfuckers!”

Don was screaming, wild-eyed and obviously in shock. I had no idea what the fuck to do. I asked him if he wanted me to call him an ambulance, and he shot me a glare that would have melted steel.

“Ambulance? An ambulance will bring the fucking cops, you fucking moron. I’m waiting for Ruben to get here to help us get rid of that fucking dead motherfucker over behind that goddamn car.”

“Us?”

“Yes, us! Go the fuck over there and turn off that goddamn car — if there is a gun in there, bring it back over here to me.”

I just stood there staring at Don. Us? Me? What the fuck did any of this have to do with me — I was just some kid who was working for him part-time, not some fucking dope lackey hanger-on.

“Goddamn it, kid — GO TURN OFF THAT FUCKING CAR, NOW!”

As soon as he yelled at me my fight or flight response kicked into gear. I didn’t even think — I just acted. I marched right over to the idling car and yanked the keys out of the ignition, putting them into my back pocket. There was nothing in the car other than a pack of cigarettes on the passenger seat and some empty coffee cups on the floorboard. No guns to be found.

Stepping back out of the door of the car and closing it, I looked down at the blood trail that led to the body laying in the parking lot. I gingerly took a few steps toward the body, looking back toward the shop to see Don staring at me intently.

“Is that motherfucker dead?”

I looked down at the body — there were huge chunks of flesh missing from his forearms and bloody holes in his pants, obviously from Alejandro. The man was Mexican. There were large cuts in his throat and face, probably from where Don attacked him with the scissors. Three feet away from him, nearest the dumpster, was a small revolver. I pretended not to notice it. I did not want to touch it. I did not want to touch anything.

I turned back to Don and shook my head to indicate that the man was dead.

I am seventeen years old.

*****

The inside of the shop looks like Beirut. Boxes and paperwork littered all over the place. File cabinets overturned. There is even more blood inside the back doorway than there is outside — I quickly realize most of it is Alejandro’s. The dog is dead in the middle of the room in a puddle of his blood, three gunshot wounds that I can clearly see from a distance.

Don was in the bathroom, pouring rubbing alcohol into his open wounds — apparently he managed to stab the attacker after getting shot in the side, but his hands were all cut up from the struggle with the scissors. It was a fucking horrorshow. I felt so nauseated. I had never seen so much blood before in my life.

“Don? I’m going to go over to that 7-11 over on the corner and get a cup of coffee — you want one?”

Don stopped what he was doing and put his hands on the sides of the sink, locking his elbows as his shoulders try to slump in on themselves. Head bowed with chin to chest, he takes a deep breath.

“Yeah, kid. If they’ll sell you a beer, get me a tallboy, too.”

*****

At first I started walking at a regular pace, but with each passing car I felt a sense of dread building inside of me. What if more people were coming to get Don? What if they had been watching the shop for a while, and because I worked there decided that I had to go, too? I could feel my heart beating inside of my brain as I picked up the pace — first walking briskly, and then breaking into a dead run.

I was ten blocks away out of breath at a bus stop when I realized I still had the keys to the dead man’s car in my back pocket.

I didn’t panic as much as I wanted to just throw those keys out into the middle of the street. When the bus pulled up, I knew it was going to take me a long time to get home — but home was where I was headed. About an hour into my ride, I took the keys out of my pocket and shoved them into an air-conditioning vent next to my seat. I got off at the next stop and walked for a while, using my transfer to get on a different bus.

I called my mother at work when I got home, and told her that Don had closed the shop for the day, and that I took the bus all the way home.

*****

I never went back to work for Don.

I told my mother that Don was using heroin in front of me, but I didn’t go into all of the crazy details. At first she didn’t believe me and thought it was just another one of my stories to get out of working. She stopped thinking I was up to no good when I quickly found another job, working at an Arby’s near the mall.

I kept on poring over the newspaper for a few days after the incident, looking for a report about a burglary/murder on McDowell Road — but there never was one.

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Filed under drugs are bad, fun at work, i used to be stupid

Opening Al Capone’s Vault.

I was about to write yet another long-winded ramblethon about my job, and stopped myself in the middle of the fifth paragraph.

I stopped myself, because in the middle of typing, I realized that I have become so much more like my father than I ever thought was possible. Not the unfortunate and inherently bad parts of my father – the guy I used to refer to as The Sperm Donor – but the hard-headed & dedicated parts of him. The parts that made him someone that was loved/revered/respected/feared/hated by the people who worked with him throughout his life.

I remember being a little kid and waiting for him to get home from work, just so he could pick me up and wrestle with me. Sometimes he would bring home work with him, and we would sit at the kitchen table together – me with my crayons and butcher paper, and him with his yellow legal pads filled with his handwriting that seemed like it was all some kind of alien hieroglyphics – the men of the house, getting shit done. Every now and then, he’d toss aside his work and snatch up a handful of crayons and start drawing stuff with me. These are honestly some of my favorite memories from my childhood.

I think the first time he took me to work with him, I was around four or five years old. He was working for a printing company in Manhattan, and had some work to take care of on a Saturday. I remember driving into Manhattan with him, and seeing those old-school cigarette billboards, the ones with the smoking cowboys blowing perfect smoke rings out of their fifty-foot tall mouths. I also remember my father carrying me around his facility on his shoulders, and that all the people that worked with him were very excited that I was there. One guy had an eye patch, and I asked my father is he was a pirate – that cracked everyone up.

My father was showing me all of the crazy machines they used: presses, folders, pneumatic blades that cut through hundreds of sheets of paper at once. I noticed that the gentleman who was using the cutter was missing parts of three of his fingers, and asked my father what had happened, and the semi-fingerless fella answered right away – “No matter what you do in life, Sean – ALWAYS PAY ATTENTION!”

Advice I still adhere to, to this very day.

That first trip was so amazing to me, that I found myself always asking my father to take me to work with him on Saturdays. Sometimes he would comply, but I think it was mainly to just get me to shut up. I didn’t realize until much later on, that he was taking me there with him and leaving me with the Pirates of The Bindery (where the fingerless and one-eyed fellas worked with their dangerous machines), all so that he could sneak back out of the building to ball women other than my mother.

When we moved to Arizona, he landed a job at another printing place. I was in my teens at that point, so my summer jobs were always there at the facility. One summer in particular, I worked the swing shift as a press feeder – basically the guy who keeps the machine loaded with paper, and also the guy who uses nasty solvents to clean all of the excess ink off of the rollers. The press operator I was working with hated my father, because my father was the type of guy who would break your balls if you weren’t giving 150%.

Needless to say, Paul (the press operator) hated me as well. He would go way out of his way to fuck with me every day, to see how far he could push me. I never said anything to my father, because our relationship at home was pretty strained at that point, what with me getting caught with an entire dresser full of reefer by my mother. All of my pay that summer was going toward paying for my own therapy, since my father had decided he wasn’t going to pay for it anymore.

ANYWAYS…

Paul had been pushing and pushing, and one day when he was at lunch I had decided that I’d had enough of his shit, and it was time to teach him a lesson.

Paul always kept extra packs of cigarettes underneath the light table where we checked the proofs of whatever we were printing. I took one of his packs of Winstons, opened it up, and took some of his smokes with me to the gardening supply store up the block. I bought the smallest possible amount of fresh fertilizer one could buy, and set about packing the tips of his smokes. For those who do not know what that means, “packing the tips” means taking out some of the tobacco from the end of the cigarette, and the refilling it with whatever you want. I got pretty prodigious at this skill, since this was how I was smoking reefer in the back yard and not getting caught.

When Paul came back from his lunch, I made it my mission to snake his current pack of smokes, so that he would go for the loaded ones. It worked like a charm, until my father came in and asked Paul if he could bum a smoke off of him.

All three of us were out on the loading dock smoking, when my father started giving me The Eye. Paul, the fat fucking slob he was, just kept on sucking down his shit-filled stick, not even noticing the difference. He was probably coked up out of his mind anyway, and couldn’t taste anything. My father, on the other hand, sidled up next to me and asked me “What the fuck are you up to, Sean? You trying to kill him? If this is opium or something, I’m going to fucking murder you.”

At least my father never sold me out on that one.

In my current life, the one in which I am a Hebrew Slave, continually pushing mud bricks up a sandy incline for a thankless and cruel Pharaoh, I find myself thinking back to how stupidly hard-headed my old man was. He never stayed home from work, no matter how sick he was. We stopped taking family vacations once I started high school, because he was too busy to take time off from work – he always ended up selling his vacation days back to the company. He went in early. He stayed late. He worked weekends. He brought work home with him.

All of which, are the same fucking things that I do. Hell – to a degree, I even work in the same fucking industry.

I need to really re-evaluate the things that matter to me, and I really need to do it quickly. I don’t want to be so much like him that I end up working myself to death before I’m sixty. The fact that I have been working like this since I was 13 or 14 is not lost on me, either. I know this is going to be a hard thing to change, but I have no choice.

I spent a lot of my time as a young adult being angry at my father for the stupid shit he did in regards to me and my family. And now, because I myself am a workaholic, I realize I spent far too much time focusing on certain aspects of him that I didn’t want to have happen in me. When I was focused on not being an adulterous alcohol-fueled overgrown teenager, the workaholic asshole who puts working before living crept in and took hold.

Time to kick that motherfucker in the nuts.

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Filed under dumbassery, fun at work, i used to be stupid, nuggets of infinite wisdom, who is sean?

ARE YOU AN ASSASSIN, PEPTO?

Let me tell you this one thing before I cough up this lump stuck in my gullet:

I hate losing my temper, and I’ve worked really hard to eradicate the entire concept of “having a temper” from my mental hard drive.

Today at work, I found it, buried somewhere in the code.

It actually started brewing and stewing on Monday, but I was able to hold it down for a while. One of the chimps that works for me in the jungle I get paid to run decided he was somehow SMARTER THAN ME, and attempted to download some bullshit streaming radio/magic playlist bullshit – ONTO A COMPUTER THAT IS PART OF A COMPANY-WIDE INTRANET, NO LESS. Of course, since he is so much SMARTER THAN ME, he thought it was okay to click some little box that popped onto his screen mentioning that part of the deal involved allowing some web junk from an outfit with the genius name of OUTERINFO to EMBED ITSELF INTO THE OPERATING SYSTEM*.

It was brought to my attention by the chimp that is actually supposed to be responsible for that computer – he of the bottomless well of spelling and/or grammatical errors and his never-ending run of “TUPAC WAS FROM THE BX, JUST LIKE ME, NIGGA!!!” shout outs(I constantly try to remind him that he’s a Puerto Rican, and his use of the N word is gratuitous and silly – but then he says shit like “YOU GOT JOKES, KID? YOU’S A FUNNY NIGGA!”). This, is how he broke he news to me:

“YO, THAT NIGGA DIDN’T LISTEN TO YOU, AND NOW I GOTS ALL THESE FUCKIN’ POP-UPS, B. I CAN’T EVEN CHECK MY E-MAILS WITHOUT POP-UPS AND SHIT. WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL THESE FUCKIN’ POP-UPS?”

I just kind of stood there for a good long minute, marveling at his public speaking skills(another of his many gems that come rolling off his tongue when the mood strikes him – “IF JESUS WAS SO FUCKING SPECIAL, WHY AM I STUCK HERE IN HELL, B? I’M A FUCKIN’ CATHOLIC!”) before I responded with the very off-the-cuff “Just call IT and tell them to fix it, and stop fucking around on these work computers before I piss in your mouths”.

I’M FUCKIN’ CLASSY LIKE THAT, B.

So…

Yesterday, the shit started popping up on my computer, too. And then the female chimp that is supposedly my “assistant”(such an over-rated word, assistant – she’s about as much help as having a herpes outbreak at a nude beach) called me over to her computer to show me the ridiculous pair of silicon-enhanced cancer bags that had popped up on HER screen.

That’s when I really started to lose it a bit.

When the chimp responsible for this situation sauntered into work (10 minutes late, mind you), I asked him to close my office door and sit down. He somehow thought we were about to have a friendly conversation, because he immediately started to make small-talk with me. I let him talk for about 25 seconds before I lit him the fuck on up.

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU FUCKING THINKING, MAN? DIDN’T I TELL YOU NOT TO FUCK AROUND WITH THESE COMPUTERS, EINSTEIN? NOW THERE’S SOME BULLSHIT POP-UP CRAP HAPPENING ON MY COMPUTER, WHICH IS KEEPING ME FROM BEING ABLE TO DO MY JOB. DO YOU THINK THAT MAKES MY BOSSES HAPPY? DO YOU? I DON’T KNOW WHEN IT WAS THAT YOU TOOK YOUR ‘I’M SMARTER THAN SEAN’ PILL, BUT I HAVE TO TELL YOU – THAT SHIT DIDN’T WORK. NOW GO CALL THE IT DEPARTMENT, AND UN-ASS THAT SHIT BEFORE I ACTUALLY GET PISSED OFF AND TELL YOU HOW I REALLY FEEL. I HOPE YOU’RE HAVING A GOOD FUCKING TIME, ARE YOU?”

(That’s kind of close to what his face looked like, other than the race and all that)

After he scurried out of my office, I kind of sat there in a daze, staring at my screen and the wall of windows that were opening up all on their own – dating sites, used car sites, jugs, lost classmate search engines, credit report sites, wallpapers, free ring tones, more boobs, an ad for an ab-roller(even the pop-ups were mocking me at this point) – and I realized that there was no way I could win. The bug was embedded into the OS, and I was going to have to call my IT guys down in Memphis myself. Which I then did, and they told me to ship my geekbox down to them for rehabilitation(which I did tonight before I left work).

NOW COMES THE FUN PART…

Anyone who doesn’t live in a mud hut in the middle of a rain forest knows what happened here in The City yesterday – a steam pipe dating back to 1924 decided to burst, sending all kinds of people running for their lives out of fear that THE TERRORISTS had made a return engagement. This happened right in the middle of rush hour, and right next to Grand Central Station – a major commuter hub. A commuter hub that happens to get used daily by(as if you couldn’t guess already!) – PEPTO.

Pepto called me at 5:12AM, to let me know that he wasn’t going to make it in today, because there was supposedly ASBESTOS being released into the air.

ASBESTOS?

Look – anyone who grew up here in the Northeast, let alone in The City or any of the suburbs surrounding it, has already been plenty exposed to asbestos. It’s in all the schools, libraries, apartment buildings, train stations, and breakfast cereals in the area. Not to mention the fact that the environment in which Pepto works is filled with paper and toner dust from the Reprographic machines.

GENIUS.

It never ceases to amaze me how easily the general population will take advantage of something semi-tragic and/or cataclysmic so that they can malinger.

Pepto, of course, is in his own motherfucking league.

I’ll spare you all the play-by-play, but I’ll tell you this much – his retardery today certainly didn’t do anything to make my overall mood any better. I no longer have a geekbox to use at work, which renders me useless. My employees are all escapees from Planet Mongo.

And I’m fucking sleepy.

Good night, and good luck.

*I know nothing about computers – I just know mine is broken.

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Filed under dumbassery, fun at work, Pepto, racism, tomfoolery

I AM A MASTER OF SINANJU, HEAR ME ROAR.

You did not ask to be white. So perhaps that is not your fault. You did not ask to be here. Perhaps that is not your fault, either.

BUT THIS IS HOW I FEEL ON THE INSIDE, CHIUN.

Women should stay home and make babies. Preferably, manchild.

HE IS THE ONLY MANCHILD I’VE SEEN LATELY.

PART OF ME REALLY WANTS TO EAT THIS…

It would be better for you to eat this can than what is inside of it. Why must everything in this country be coated with monositi-… monosoti…

MONOSODIUM GLUTAMATE. YOU CAN’T EVEN SAY IT!

I can say “rat droppings.” That does not mean I want to eat them.

WORD.

YOU KNOW, CHIUN, YOU’RE A REAL PAIN IN THE ASS.

That is because it is the fastest way to your brain.

WHATCHYOOTALKIN’BOUT, LITTLE MAN? I’LL WHOOP YOUR CHINESE ASS!

Chinese! KOREAN is the most perfect creature ever to sanctify the earth with the imprint of its foot.

YEAH BRAH. I CAN SEE THAT VERY CLEARLY. FOR REALS, MAN UP – I’M ‘BOUT TO KICK YOU IN THE BALLS.

Breathe out… slowly… do not gulp. If you do not breathe correctly, you do not move correctly. Pitiful. I can see the deadly hamburger has done its evil work. This is your future:

SWEET FANCY MOSES, CHIUN! WHY DO YOU HAVE TO SHOW ME SHIT LIKE THAT, SON?

Is this more to your liking, slow-footed yak?

YOU KNOW, CHIUN, THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I REALLY LIKE YOU.

Of course. I am Chiun.

FUCK IT – LET’S GO TO CONEY ISLAND, CHIUN.

BONUS ROUND:

SEPARATED AT BIRTH?

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THE BALLAD OF THE MAN THEY CALL PEPTO

I’m in a storytellin’-type of mood today, you warm and fuzzy little nogoodniks, and I’m having a hard time keeping the lid on this one:

That’s my most loyal and dedicated employee right there. Most of the time, I call him Buford – but he recently called me up at five o’thirty in the motherfucking morning to tell me he had consumed two full cans of baked beans, and was subsequently unable to come to work because he was shitting his brains out – so now I call that motherfucker Pepto.

Now – as I stated already – Pepto is my MOST LOYAL AND DEDICATED employee. That’s not to say he’s the sharpest chimp in this jungle I get paid to run – he’s kind of like a 50 watt bulb in a 100 watt world – but he does his job well, and he cares about his job. Of course, he has to care about his job, because he lives in his sister’s basement. The other chimps that work here like to pick on Pepto, making fun of him for living all the way up in Mt. Kisco (in the aforementioned basement). Mt. Kisco is in Westchester County, which is where people like M-M-M-Martha Stewart have set up camp. The other chimps are basically jealous, because they all live in rat-infested basement apartments in the dirty Bronx (which means that they should look forward to coming to Midtown to come to work, ungrateful little fuckstains).

Pepto is one of those cats, that no matter how bad your day is going, as soon as he opens up his mouth and speaks – the madness of his logic will cure whateverthefuck ails you.

Some of Pepto’s greatest diamonds and pearls:

1) One afternoon, one of the other chimps was talking about how much he loved the smell of rain or some other bullshit like that (actually – it was probably the smell of reefer, knowing my staff). Pepto, out of nowhere, coughs up this one:

“YOU KNOW WHAT SMELLS BETTER THAN ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD? LITTLE GIRLS! NOTHING SMELLS BETTER THAN LITTLE GIRLS. I LOVE THE SMELL OF LITTLE GIRLS!”


(Yes – everyone’s jaws were hanging with Mr. Cooper)

Needless to say, there is hardly a day that passes where I don’t find myself looking at Pepto and wondering if he is a victim of Shaken Baby Syndrome and/or if I’ll end up seeing him on one of those Dateline stings exchanging IMs with a cop with a handlebar ‘stache and a coffee-stained tie.

2) Another afternoon, the other chimps were making fun of Pepto because he’s always yammering on about hookers (and METAL – PEPTO LOOOOOOOVES HIM SOME MOTHERFUCKING METAL). One of the other chimps decided it would be fun to allude to the fact that Pepto seems to have a predilection for transsexual Ladies O’ The Night. Pepto responded with this nugget:

“WHATEVER – ALL OF THE TRANNY HOOKERS ARE BLACK OR LATINO! THEY DEAL DRUGS OUT OF THEIR ASSHOLES. EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT, YOU DUMBASSES!”

Need I say a word about that one? I didn’t think so…

3) Pepto cares a lot about ROCK AND MOTHERFUCKING ROLL. On multiple occasions, he has found himself in the middle of heated discussions in the workplace about Hip Hop and the assimilation of ROCK AND MOTHERFUCKING ROLL into the lexicon of BEATS. More nugs:

“THEY ALWAYS TAKE OUR FUCKING BEST MUSIC! WHY DID RUN-DMC HAVE TO STEAL FROM AEROSMITH? WE NEED TO TAKE OUR METAL BACK! THIS IS BULLSHIT! FUCKING RAP MUSIC, YOU PEOPLE THINK YOU’RE FUCKING SMART STEALING GOOD RIFFS! OZZY WOULD KICK YOUR ASS FOR STEALING HIS STUFF, YOU MORONS!”


When it was brought to Pepto’s attention that ROCK AND MOTHERFUCKING ROLL actually originated in Afrika (just like all of us, motherfuckers), he was beside himself. And when it was also brought to his attention that Ozzy himself had allowed plenty of Hip Hop artists to sample his work – we hid the razor blades.

Needless to say, I love me some Pepto. He’s kind of like an albino version of Sammy Davis Jr., albeit with both eyes and an inability to croon. Always entertaining, always dedicated to doing his job.


I just hope he never breeds.

And ladies?

Pepto is single and looking*.

*Obviously, his requirements might be out of the realm of my supposed readership – I highly doubt the audience is made up of drug-dealing underage trannies. Oh my fucking god I just threw up in my mouth.

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Filed under fun at work, nuggets of infinite wisdom, Pepto, rock and motherfucking roll, tomfoolery