I like the title to this one. It has little or nothing to do with the actual content of this installment, which I don't even know yet either.
I'm just winging it.
Let me start by throwing a couple of hearty fuck-you's out to some very special people:
Our Cook Staff- Holy shit, I've never met a bigger group of fucking losers and misfits in my fucking life. We have 5 cooks and NONE of them can drive themselves to work. Only one of them actually owns a car but his wife has to drop him off and pick him up and all of them are well into their twenties if not thirties. Normally a group of mistfits are 'lovable' or 'mischievious'. Ours are 'repugnant' and 'untalented'.
The Bestowers of Bowel Discomfort. The Fathers of Feces ala Frantic. The Lords of the Funky-Trot.
I'll cut Bobby G some slack because he lives within easy walking distance of work. The others? Jesus Christ, become an adult, man. Put down the rap CD's and weed, quit making children you can't afford and fucking man up.
I've had a car since I was 16 because I needed one to get to work. I paid for them, I insured them and, frequently, I wrecked them. But I always got another one because if I didn't, I couldn't work. Yet these guys rely on buses and the sympathy of others to commute.
They are small time criminals who weren't smart enough to get away with it. People with no front teeth and sweet neck tattoos. I have more talent in a puddle of my semen than these guys have in their every fiber.
Every tiny little fiber.
One of them who I'll refer to as Roscoe P. Colontrain, is diminutive. If he weighs 125, I'll eat this computer right now with absolutely no sauce. Yet surprisingly enough he tells me that he and his 'crew' used to beat people up for a local club, the owner of which I happen to be good friends with.
A) The owner of this club has never had anyone 'beat up' in his entire life. And
B) The 'crew' is too small to beat anyone up. Just too little. Like angry meth snorting 11 year olds.
So there was so much wrong with what Roscoe was saying to me that I couldn't even come up with a response. For once, I was flabbergasted. Since that time I have met two other member of BJ's 'crew' and they might, if you tied them together in their winter coats, weigh as much as me. It would probably be riskier to take on 10 five year olds because there are 10 of them.
So unbelievably pathetic....
Enema and Nono: You girls are twats. Seriously. Sure you're all hot and shit, dirtier than a colostomy bag too, but you flout Floor Guy tolerance and HAVE NO CLASS. You make very good money at our club and we look away as you whore and do drugs in our bathroom and what do we get in return? A combined $15 tip off $1700 earned?
And listen to this shit:
I walked these two girls out. They had already proven themselves lousy tippers, but I figured this was a chance to prove once and for all if they could be better. The weather was horrible and it was driving down snow. Their windows were covered in snow and ice and because they are strippers, they didn't have a snow brush.
So I just scraped the snow and ice away with my bare fucking hands, (because I was too cheap and stupid to buy gloves this year), thinking that it might occur to them that it's 10 degrees out and I'm cleaning their car with my god given mitts; give that man some extra dough as a way of saying thanks.
Nope. One of them rolled down the window and said "Thanks!" and then they sat there and waited for their drug dealer for another half an hour.
When will I learn that some souls are beyond redemption?
The Saint: Oh great, you're back. Sweet. I often wonder if you realize that with all of your ink and from any distance greater than 15 feet it looks like a dull witted child scrawled on you with a sharpie. I can't wait for you to generate some more pointless, drunken drama and to cry some more. Your tears are always endearing to me.
I am more or less openly hoping that you and Quim get into a stiletto fight in the girl's bathroom and that I am too late to save either of your lives. The world will mourn with me.
Drunk People: I love it so much when I know everyone and we're all drunk together. But Dear Sweet Baby Jesus I hate drunk people when I'm working. It's a deep, comforting hatred that I wear like an old sweater.
No, I really, really hate them. I can't explain the depths of my hatred, it's like a seething, boiling cauldron of bile and venom that you make human soup in. Butchering them should be legal, in season of course and with proper licensing.
I rely on them for my living yet I despise them. Kinda like how whales feel about plankton.
My Limo Bus: Fuck you, you cantankerous, poorly built piece of engineering feces. Not even 25K miles yet and you've been in the shop more often than a '75 Harley. Nothing works on you for very long. The electronics, the exhaust, the controls, the audio, the wipers, the fuel tank, the seats, the windows, etc etc.
Everything about you is shit. It's like you were designed by Indians, styled by the Russians and built by gourd-wearing Pygmys in forced labor camps. I hate you as much as I hate a drunk person and I hope I'm helping to kill you off by driving you like you're a Ferrari.
The Town: OH HOW I TRULY HATE YOU. It's like this whole town has a neck tattoo that says "Increasingly Shitty And Proud Of It. Come at me bro!" This town dresses in Affliction shirts and rhinestoned jeans that hang around the upper thigh, sporting glasses it doesn't need. Ghetto-nerd chic bullshit.
With beards. Faggot ass beards.
Whee-hoo! I'm back with additional material that will suck just as much if not more than the original shite I scribed for this installment.
I would like to point out right at the onset of this bonus drek that I had 9 shots of free vodka and 4 beers before I even left work tonight. I then took the remaining 10 or so shots of vodka and stopped for a 6 pack on the way home and am proceeding to drink myself fucking special needs. Therefore I pre-exonerate myself for whatever I happen to pen here and am not, under any circumstances, to be held responsible for what it turns out to be.
Because I am an American. We have lawyers.
So St Patty's Day is coming up and I have to work it. I would rather fight an enraged Siberian Tiger while smeared with rodent entrails, but this is my lot in life and I accept it with limited hostility and sullen anger. This Irish holiday is the quite possibly the worst idea a government ever had and frankly, a bad idea on many levels.
God bless the Irish for their drunken history. Being ancestrally half Irish I applaud my genetic alcoholism and think that amongst the peoples of the world, the Irish are truly blessed. Blessed with myriad reasons to get drunk in the first place, and exceptionally well evolved to handle the booze in the second.
But even I think that making St Patrick's Day a holiday was a fucking idiotic idea. It's Irish, therefore any association with it will be soaked in liquor and will give otherwise decent and thoughtful people the opportunity to act like apathetic twatsores for as long as they can stay conscious and keep lurching around.
Wear green and be a goddamn, inconsiderate drunk cunt because that's how you celebrate the life of an extremely learned and compassionate man who in very dark times advocated amazingly advanced*1 humanitarian thinking and is almost solely remembered for banishing some reptiles from Ireland which hadn't actually existed there for millions of years.
That was a really big sentence. I'm prone to the use of both annoyingly short and verbosely enlongated sentences in my so called 'writing style'.
I just wanted to point that out in case you'd missed it.
Anyway, I'm happily drunk right now, yet typing surprisingly good in spite of that.
I'm now going to continue work on 'The Creeper' which is actually Iron Maiden's song The Trooper with lyrics depicting the behavior of a certain Strip Club Ecosystem denizen known as a Creeper.
Your average Mid-American Tit-Shack Creeper*2 tends to frequent clubs from 2 to 7 days a week, but never has any money to spend. It will ogle all available titty and sometimes touch it's naughties in inappropriate ways while staring at exposed nipple and suggested labia. It is classified as a parasite yet is 100% nonsymbiotic. It just feeds and feeds and never gives anything back save the occasional dollar.
It should be neutered and euthanized whenever possible.
Here's the original song in case you're unfamiliar with it. I strongly encourage you to sing along with it using my new and improved lyrics.
Have some fun with it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TY-eWyvFIM
The Creeper
You take my buck and I grab your tit
You want a dance but I'll pass on it
So while I'm waiting for the next stage show
I get asked some more but still say no
Rihanna starts a bitch gyrates
I'll save my money then I'll masturbate
The smell of body gel and chilled patron
As I worry at my turgid bone
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH
The girl sweats out meth, I can't spare a buck
C-section scar? I don't give a fuck
She may have 5 brats but I don't care
She wants some dollars I cannot spare
I buy a water it's what I afford
Staring at free titties I'm never bored
I can't wait til I'm far away
To crank my wang til its fucking gray
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH
I get so close near enough to grope
When a Floor Guy gets me in his scope
He grabs my throat and I feel his paws
Other Floor Guys beat up my in-laws
I'm on my back facing the ceiling
My legs are numb they have no feeling
My jaw is broke and I can't seem to talk
Then I'm tossed like trash onto the sidewalk
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH
Keepin my eye on the prize,
-The StripperHerder
*1 This triple shot of alliteration is on the house. The next one will cost you.
*2 Although native to the lower end of the titty club business, the Mid American Tit-Shack Creeper is not above migrating to new clubs that are even less affordable than the ones it normally haunts. And though this makes no sense, it does it anyway.
