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Welcome to my utmost random thoughts on random shit that really doesn't matter much.
Behold the glory of my mind takinga dump.
~ Sticks, Stones and Funnybones ~
Part 41 - The Shit
So… long time, no Scissors. I know. It’s all right. Not too much exciting has happened actually. It’s almost as if the world has been with us in the Cryo-Tanks, and we’re all just waking up together, blinking away that disgusting yellow crust hanging off our eyelashes. I mean, really… What worth mentioning has happened lately?
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The Shit
Well…
I went into my local gas station the other day, realizing that it was the first time in two months I actually went inside – or even filled the car up there. I don’t know what the hell I had been driving on up until that point, but, hey, it worked. Maybe gas-usage is one of those things that need not be worried about, until you actually notice you’re dead low, and try to make it to the gas station in a state of panic – wondering whether it’s better to floor it to get there fast (at the risk of burning more fuel you don’t have), or just easing your way there slowly, so not to alert your car to the fact that you have indeed noticed that you’re low. Because it will fuck with you and shut down in the left lane on the highway, during rush hour, the second you see that yellow light. I guess the key lies in not poking the sleeping bear in the eye. Kinda like how a bumble bee is not supposed to really be able to fly. The very same way my car was not really supposed to have been able to drive for the past months – but we were all just blissfully ignorant about that.
Until the other day, like I said…
I walked into the gas station, and lo and behold; some other dude was there. Where was Moe? Where was friendly old dude Moe, who is really from Pakistan and has some unintelligible name that it would take several college courses in some far away fucked up languages to even begin to pronounce correctly. That’s why he’s just plain “Moe” to most every one. He’s that super-nice guy who works 24 hours a day, always gives you a lighter for free, and lets you buy money orders with a credit card, with no extra fees, to build up your credit rating (just use those money orders to pay off your card balance in a perpetual circle that just keeps giving back). Moe is that guy who has 90 cousins, brothers and sisters back in Pakistan, to whom he is sending all his hard earned money so they don’t have to blow goats for a living. After all, he, himself, lives at the damn gas station and feeds on the expired Twinkies during the wee hours of morning.
So, anyway, this other guy was standing behind the counter instead. Of course, a Pakistani of sorts, but not Moe.
I went, in my subtle manner: “Hey, who the hell are you and what did you do to Moe?”
He continued ringing up his customer for the four day old hot dog everybody else so wisely had ignored, and didn’t even skip a beat when he said: “He died. Boating accident. His head came off. Decapitated. Will that be all, ma’am? OK now, thank you, come again.”
Decapitated? What is he, fucking Marie Antoinette now?
“What do you mean, ‘his head came off’?”
“Off, man. Like this!” He made a dramatic gesture, illustrating a head popping off and flying through the air. It’s kind of disturbing how he was smiling throughout the pantomime. “Just like that. His boat hit sand bar, he flew over front of boat – skipped on water and head fell off.”
How the hell can a head just pop off for bouncing on some water? Jesus, I knew there was a reason I don’t go into the ocean. Never mind the fucking sharks, this shit is getting ridiculous.
Deciding that this guy was of no use to me whatsoever, I left to go find some other gas station from now on. This one had lost its charm. I headed for a new one (ha-ha), in hopes of finding some new friendly un-decapitated illegal alien to give my business to.
Moe obviously decided to go all French-Revolutionary on himself, just to fuck with my credit rating. Hope he rots in hell.
Stupid bastard.
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The “Too Old For This Shit”
We get the emergency call, one late Saturday night (my only night off all week, of course), that old Grandma Bat Shit needs us. Apparently she twisted her 90 year old hip in a way that disabled her from getting off the toilet. Since she wasn’t dressed she didn’t want to press the emergency medallion hanging around her neck (of course – that is only to be pressed when you are dressed for Sunday dinner – sitting on a chair just inside the front door, ready to go), and since it was early Saturday morning when it happened, she didn’t want to “disturb” us. She sat there, like Danny Glover in “Lethal Weapon 2” for a whole bunch of hours, with a crusty ass, until she, late that night, decided to bite the bullet and call us. Of course, by the time we got there, she was cold, hungry and tired. She couldn’t walk worth a damn, but just shuffle a little with her walker, so we decided to take her home to us. Why no hospital, you ask? Because she is 90 fucking years old and what are they going to do for her that we wouldn’t? She is already on enough pain killers to make Anna Nicole Smith foam at the mouth in her coffin, and getting a staff infection at the hospital would definitely kill her anyway.
So, we packed all her shit up and now she is back with us again. Right now, she is sitting here, looking over my shoulder, like some mummified gargoyle, sucking on some “nebulizer device” that makes steam come out the tail end of a rather complex apparatus.
I have gotten used to that being the first thing I see every morning:
Grandma Bat Shit, going to town on her bong.
I need a vacation.
Somewhere else.
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The Diff
Car commercials always bore me, but have you guys noticed the price differences lately, between “model shown” and the advertised price they blow up in huge letters across the screen? I mean, there was always that difference, but $12,995 for the new Mitsubishi Lancer, as opposed to the $22,995 “as shown”, is a big fucking difference. That’s ten fucking grand! That’s half the car! Does the advertised car even come with wheels for 12 G’s? Do you have to paint the fucking thing yourself? Is it some sort of IKEA car that comes in parts in a big box with a fucking manual and an allen key? Does it have seat belts and air-bags, or do you just wear a helmet, say a prayer and hold hands with your passengers if you crash?
Damn…
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The ADHD
Speaking of commercials… I think my favorite is the one for, perhaps Lunesta (I don’t remember – see how the commercial failed?), and it lists all these great benefits from taking the pill, and how you will feel more focused and invigorated during the day after a good night’s sleep. Then it cuts to the side-effects, all speed-read by some Texan auctioneer, while this pretty blue butterfly flutters across the screen to a happy tune. If America popped a Ritalin instead, and we all took our eyes off the pretty butterfly for a moment, we would realize that the damn side-effects are: “Brain hemorrhage, miscarriage, the plague, imminent death and re-animation”.
Nice.
Just like a common side-effect for Tylenol is “headache”. How do they even know to list that? Maybe the fucking pill just didn’t take? Think of that? “Oh, well, see, it did take away your headache, but now you got another one instead. They just seem like they are one and the same. Sorry.”
Dumbasses… Yeah, you too.
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The Fact
The original English word for “Butterfly” was “Flutterby”, but it got lost in translation somewhere.
Makes more sense now, doesn’t it?
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