Wednesday, August 19, 2015

In a Pickle

Searching for employment has never been any easier than it is today. Jobs are scarce and landing one is harder than ever, but searching and applying for employment all comes down to a web search and applying for a job is as easy as pressing a button. As if that weren't enough, there's Monster, CareerBuilder, LinkedIn and a plethora of others, all clamoring for attention and every single one of them swearing on a stack of Bibles and your children's lives that they are going to help land you the job of your dreams.



Smells like bullshit to me.

Smells like bullshit to him, too.

Believe it or not, searching for a job wasn't always like this; it wasn't always so simple, easy and worry-free. Once upon a time, there were no online job searches. Back in the bad old days, in a world long forgotten, long before the Monsters and their ilk, so far back it was before the modern Internet even and people were still using AOL, long before there were scrolling job searches from your smart phone, email job prospects and recruitment firms, you actually had to get your hands dirty. Literally. You see, you had to physically peruse this thing called a newspaper. I shit you not. The newspaper was a large part of the analog experience, but I think that most people really bought them for the coupons and the TV guide, but it was also useful for the comics, horoscope and the classified ads where you could buy used, broken crap or search the help wanted ads. But the worst thing about newspapers was that they were very cheaply printed and the ink would rub off and get all over your hands, turning them black. The horrors, the horrors...

Newspaper Example

These are actual headlines.

In the bad old days, if you wanted to find a job, you would have to start by searching through the employment section, hoping to find something suitable and circling all of the jobs that you wanted to apply for. Oh, joy of joys; such fun. The ads would usually direct you to physically mail a paper resume and cover letter to a designated address, or you would be directed to apply in person, or you would be directed to call, so that you could be told that you have to apply in person. Apply in person. As in, get up off your ass, make yourself pretty and actually speak to a human. Omigod, the fucking horrors.

If you're really lucky, you just might find your dream job. I found mine once. I'd tell you about it, but I signed a confidentiality agreement.

Well, one fine day, many years ago, I was thumbing through the employment section of the local newspaper, I was in the trenches, man, getting my hands dirty, when I came across an ad for a local factory that needed production workers and they were paying very well. Not having anything better to do at the time and because I really needed a job and money to pay for silly little things like rent, electricity and food. Plus, I was starting to get a little low on a few of life's little luxuries, such as weed, booze and dollar bills for strippers. Money would go a long way towards solving that problem and easing my anxiety.

Anxiety can kill, you know. This was all about taking care of myself and concern for my own well-being.

I picked up the rotary phone and I dialed the number in the ad. Okay, it wasn't really a rotary phone, but it was a house phone, a land line, an honest to God cordless phone with an extending metal antenna and everything, like something you'd see on Friends or in the Smithsonian or something.

Anyway, I dialed the number and the phone was answered by a woman with an incredibly deep-throated, husky and sexy voice. I automatically assumed that she was ugly. That's been my experience, anyway. Consider it a precious pearl of wisdom that I'm imparting to you. Free. No charge. No need to thank me, that's just the kind of guy that I am, such a generous soul am I.

Don't forget, you get what you pay for.

Ms Sexy Voice, whom I was certain was incredibly ugly, informed me that the job placement for the factory was through the temp agency that she worked for, that it was full-time employment and fairly easy work. Plus, it paid a living wage.

I asked her what kind of factory it was and she told me that they manufactured bath tubs and that my job would be to move the tubs from the finishing area to the packing area, for shipment.

It sounded easy enough and like I mentioned, the pay was pretty decent for back then.

Ms Sexy Voice, whom I was certain was incredibly ugly, asked me if I would be interested in coming down to her office in a few hours for an interview and I told her that it wouldn't be a problem. We set a time for the interview and we were just about to hang up when she dropped a bomb on me.

"Do you have a problem with taking and passing a drug test?" she asked me.

Well, fuck me.

The mention of a drug test made it a bit of a sticky wicket and I was now in a bit of a conundrum. I looked at the pile of weed sitting in front of me as I briefly pondered the unfairness of life.

"Absolutely," I totally fucking lied, told her that I would see her in a couple of hours and hung up the phone.

I broke into a cold sweat and I started to panic. A little. Okay, it was a fucking lot. Happy now?

I was well and truly fucked. There was no way in hell that I was going to pass a drug test. I had been doing bong hits while thumbing through the classifieds, fer fuck's sake. My mind raced through possible solutions. I could try to use a coverup or a masking agent, but I already knew that shit was worthless. I had previously tried The Stuff, which advertised itself as The Shit and it certainly was. Shit, I mean. It was definitely shit and I didn't have time for that shit. The clock was ticking and when the bell tolled...

I took a bong hit and a deep breath to help settle my nerves, since I was still in a bit of a tizzy.  I tried to figure out what to do, but I was completely bereft of any logical thoughts.

I needed to think outside of the box. I needed to think illogical thoughts, sort of like a bizarro Mr. Spock on some severely fucked up, bad acid trip version of Star Trek. That was when I had an epiphany. Maybe it was just a mini stroke. Who the fuck knows?

I now had a plan of action. Kind of. Baby steps, people.

I needed to call my friend Chad. Chad would know what to do. You see, good old Chad was a bigger pothead than I was and he changed jobs a lot, always managing to pass his pre-employment drug screenings. I had to call Chad. I needed to know his secrets.

I picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed his number. Thankfully, Chad was awake and somewhat coherent. More importantly, for my purposes, he'd answered his fucking phone.

"Dude," I said.

"Dude," he answered.

High brow conversation has always been my forte.

"Dude, I need your help," I pleaded.

"Dude," he said, "I'm not helping you move shit and no, you can't borrow my truck."

"Dude," I countered, "I'm not moving anything and I don't need your fucking truck. This is about me, so stop trying to make it about you, you selfish fucking asshole. I have to take a drug test in a little bit and I need to know how you always pass them.

"Dude, that's easy," said Chad. "Do you have a jar of pickles?"

Pickles??? WTF???

Clearly, Chad had lost his fucking mind.

"Yeah, dude," I said. "I have a jar of pickles. What the fuck do I need a jar of pickles for?"

"Dude, you need to drink the pickle juice," he told me. "The vinegar in there will skew the results of the drug test and you'll pass.  It's all about like alkalinity and ph levels and shit. That's my method, that's how I pass all of my drug tests. You need to trust me on this one, dude."

Upon reflection, that is the moment that I should have known that I was doomed. It is a proven scientific fact that any time that someone says the words "trust me," they're really just politely saying, "Fuck you." Trust me on this...

"Okay," I said. "Thanks, Chad. I'll give it a try." I hung up the phone.

What did I have to lose?

If I only knew then what I know now...

Well, innocent, pure, naive and trusting soul that I am, I walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door and peered inside. There it was, gleaming in all of its green ghastliness. I stared at that jar of pickles and that jar of pickles stared back at me; taunting me, daring me. I looked into the abyss and it looked into me. It was a Mexican standoff and someone had to flinch first. Deep down, I knew that it was going to be me. Pickle jars are incapable of flinching. I'm insane, I'm not fucking stupid.

My balls dropped. I manned up and I seized the jar, choking the shit out of that mocking little bastard. I opened the jar and I took a whiff.

I shuddered.

"Fuck me," I thought.

I gulped and then I slugged that shit down. It was cold, disgusting and vile. If I had to compare it to something, I'd say it was a lot like kissing my ex-wife.

The pickle juice hit my stomach like a fat guy doing a bad belly flop in a Mr. Turtle pool. My little tummy was not pleased. Nope, not pleased at all.

Meanwhile, the clock was still ticking.

I went upstairs to shower and shave. All through this, my stomach let me know what it thought of the pickle juice, repeatedly threatening to exorcise the demon from within my body. Unknown to me, my stomach was also biding its time and plotting its revenge.

I got dressed, all by myself and I made myself look and smell pretty, just in case Ms. Sexy Voice, whom I automatically assumed was ugly, turned out to be a hot chick. Besides, it pays to be pretty and you just never know, right? Just say right and shut the fuck up. It's all about me, remember?

My stomach rumbled again, louder and more forcefully. It was making noises the likes of which I'd never heard before and which I had previously thought weren't humanly possible. I started to feel a little bit of worry creep into my newfound confidence, but I couldn't dwell on a case of nerves as my time was now up and I had to leave for the interview. I took one last bong hit for luck and I walked out to the car. The employment agency's office was only a fifteen minute drive from my house. I quickly drove through town and I hit the highway. It seemed to me as if the moment that I merged into traffic, my stomach started freaking out like a ninety year old grandmother that just ate an entire bag of magic mushrooms. My colon was doing cartwheels. That was definitely not a good sign. I broke into a cold sweat and my sphincter began to tremble. I hoped and prayed that I could get the car off of the highway before my ass achieved liftoff at eighty miles per hour.

I made it to my exit and floored the gas pedal, leaving rubber behind in my hurry to make it to the office. There was some good news, at least. My pants were still dry; score one for the home team.

I arrived at the office building without further incident, which was a good thing. Trust me on this. I parked my car, hopped out and entered the building. My stomach started up again, much more urgently than before. I looked around for the restrooms and was rewarded with nothing. Seriously? How do you build an office building and not put a fucking bathroom in the fucking lobby for people who are about to shit their fucking pants? WTF? WTF? WTF?

Seriously. What the fuck? Who does that shit? It's fucking cruel is what it is.

I swear, if I had a drink for every time I've said, "What the fuck?" I'd never have a sober moment.

I was starting to feel a little desperate because my gut was beginning to lose its patience with me.

"Fuck it," I thought.

I walked over to the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed, the doors opened and I found myself confronted by an extraordinarily long hallway that stretched to both my left and my right.

"I wonder if there's a bathroom up here," I thought to myself, "and if there is, whichever direction it's in, I'm sure that I'll pick the wrong fucking one."

My poor little tummy once again voiced its displeasure. Loudly. I could feel a lot of pressure starting to build up and it was urgently demanding release. I needed to fart. I was scared. No, I wasn't scared, I was fucking terrified. There was no fucking way in hell that I was going to trust that fart. I started wishing that I had a cork. Don't ask.

I decided to try searching in the direction that the employment agency was in and for once, blind luck paid off. I had found the fucking bathroom! I was saved! I did a little dance in my head. It was like a little pirate jig. Mainly because my ass was saying, "Argh!"

I reached for the doorknob and MOTHERFUCKER! that sonofabitch was locked. What kind of sick, cruel and sadistic joke was this? What kind of sick fucking bastard locks a bathroom door in the middle of Bumfuck, West Virginia? At that moment, right there and then, I could have shanked a bitch.

"Fuck it," I thought.

I sucked it up and unbunched my panties, putting myself back on the path for the employment agency and my interview, which of course had to be all the way at the very end of the longest fucking hallway in the world. Each and every step seemed to be a mile and my stomach was warning me that I was approaching a state of dire peril. The pressure in my bowels was building to a crashing crescendo. I could feel the sweat on my brow. I was frightened, scared, but unfortunately, I wasn't scared shitless.

Things didn't look good...

After what seemed an eternity and the equivalent of being forced to hike to school, uphill, barefoot and in the snow, I finally arrived at my destination. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead, straightened my tie, put on an I'm really not about to shit my pants smile and entered the office, where I was immediately greeted by Ms. Sexy Voice whom I immediately assumed must be ugly.

She wasn't ugly at all. Nope, not ugly at all. She was hot. No, she was beyond hot. Standing before me was one of the most incredibly beautiful women that I have ever seen.

"Hi," Ms. Sexy Voice said in that incredibly sexy voice of hers. "Are you Steve?"

I nodded my head, which was a good thing. I couldn't form words, much less a complete sentence or a coherent response. I mumbled something that hopefully resembled a "Yes," but the sound that came out of my mouth sounded more like something that a stroke victim might say, but I'm sure the stroke victim would have been easier to understand.

I gathered my wits, what little wits I had anyway. It wasn't much.

I introduced myself and we shook hands. I had to remind myself to let go. She asked me to follow her back to her office, which was great because it gave me the opportunity to check out her butt, too. Her ass was so tight, I could have bounced quarters off of it. We entered her office and she closed and locked the door.

And that was when she started to undress, slowly peeling her clothes off. She asked me if I'd ever had sex on an office desk before.

Holy fuck, I was flabbergasted.

Okay, that entire part is complete bullshit, but I know that's the way that it should have played out. Alas, life is a cruel and vicious bitch, because the reality of the situation was that it was taking all of my concentration and muscle control to keep my ass reigned in so that I wouldn't shit myself and I was unbelievably uncomfortable. I just wanted to barrel my way through this interview so that I could find a bathroom, bush or even a tree that I could hide behind.

I started off the interview by apologizing to Ms. Sexy Voiced Super Hot Chick and explaining that I was feeling very much under the weather and that I had been sick all morning, somehow managing to gather my strength and crawl out from my deathbed because this interview was just so gosh darned important to me. Ms. Sexy Voice seemed very understanding of my 'illness' and showed a great deal of empathy as she started the interview.

My stomach chose that moment to remind me that it was displeased with me and the unnatural sound that it produced was embarrassingly loud. I noticed that Ms. Sexy Voice's eyebrows had shot upwards a little bit. just a little. Like the distance form the earth to the moon, just a little. Oh fuck, why did I have to humiliate myself in front of the hot chick? Please, please, please, please, PLEASE do not let me shit myself in front of this woman.

After about twenty minutes of questions and answers, a line had been crossed and the dam was ready to breach. I had to go and Right Fucking Now! Literally. My ass wasn't going to wait for shit. Again, literally.

I apologized again, profusely and I informed Ms. Sexy Voice that I was about to be very sick and asked for directions to the restroom. I don't think that she was very surprised. Nope, I don't think that she was very surprised at all.

"I understand," she said, "and it's no problem." She then proceeded to tell me where I'd find the bathroom (all the way back down the fucking hall, of course) and she held up a gleaming metal object.

The Key! The fucking Key! I felt as if I had found the Holy Grail, even if I was only headed for a porcelain chalice. Still, I had the fucking key and my salvation was close at hand. I wanted to marry this woman, who had suddenly become both my savior and my soulmate, but that would have to wait for the nonce as I had some very pressing business that I needed to attend to quite urgently. Happily though, I had the key and you can praise whoever the fuck you feel like praising. The only thing that mattered to me right then and there was that key. Well, maybe the key and not shitting my pants. Not shitting my pants was pretty high on my list of priorities and I was now safe, because I had the key.

I did another little dance in my head.

Fuck yeah!

I calmly excused myself and left the office, gently closing the door behind me. I casually took two steps and then I broke into a sprint. At that moment, I could have shamed an Olympic runner, I was running so fast. I ran down that hallway faster than Kim Kardashian can figure out new ways to whore herself for money. Yep, it was that fucking fast. My stomach was churning and burning. I was beyond frantic. I felt as if I were on a countdown timer; I had mere moments at best, before that hallway would experience a shit tsunami of truly epic proportions.

I made it to the restroom, grabbed the door and inserted the key. No, I didn't. Do you really think that I could possibly ever be that lucky or that I could manage to accomplish such a simple task? Not fucking likely. I dropped the fucking key. Of course, I dropped the fucking key. What else would you fucking expect?

I picked up the key and I tried again.

Why is it that my inability to insert the key directly into the lock is always magnified tenfold by how badly I have to use the restroom? That's some serious shit to ponder, right there. No pun intended, I take that shit way too seriously.

After only like three or four zillion tries, I finally managed to unlock the door and I rushed inside, locking the door behind me. I frantically yanked down my pants while attempting to sit on the toilet in one fluid motion. I'd like to say that it worked, but alas, it just wasn't meant to be. I didn't make it. The seal shattered. The dam broke. That poor toilet was the Pompeii to my Mount Vesuvius. It was like watching an oil well make a strike in one of those old movies. It was a fountain of foaming feces, a crap frappe, a fecal fondue, a bountiful bonanza of bubbling filth as the pureed contents of my internal organs shot out of my ass like a flaming barrel of monkeys and I released a pent up scream of pain, mixed with relief. There was nothing that I could do except ride the storm out.

My ass hit the seat. No wetness. That was a good sign, it meant that I wasn't sitting in shit, which was a good thing, because that pickle juice wasn't done with me just yet. The entire bathroom smelled like pickles and shit. Yum. Pickled shit. Coming soon, to a convenience store near you.

The thing about tsunamis is that there's always more than just the initial wave. There can be several waves, one right after the other and there were. I held on to the handicap rail as if my life depended on it.

The next wave was so brutal that it actually lifted my ass off of the toilet seat. No shit! Well, yes shit, actually and plenty of it. I pictured my spleen floating out to sea on a froth of filth. I can't even begin to describe the sound effects that accompanied my moments of bliss, but they must have really been something, because my performance did not go unnoticed.

There was a knock at the door.

I froze.


The knock came again, louder this time.

Are you fucking kidding me? Doesn't anyone have any fucking decency?

And then I heard a voice. Oh, fuck me. I was mortified. Fuck me a thousand times. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. I was now trapped in the bathroom and afraid to leave. I was too afraid of being seen by anyone and later recognized; to be pointed out for public ridicule. Hey, I lived in a very small town.

"Sir, are you okay in there?" came the stranger's voice.

I mumbled something and he left. At least I hoped he'd left. I finished burying the remains of my stomach at sea and cleaned myself up. I washed my hands and prepared to make my escape from the room of doom, hoping that no one was around to see whom had unleashed an unholy horror from Hell within the building. Still wanting to avoid that whole public ridicule thing, I stealthily cracked open the door and peeked out, half expecting to see a small crowd, but I the coast was clear and I was safe. Talk about lucky. I'm truly grateful that I'm able to lead such a charmed fucking life. I'm just going to go ahead and count my lucky fucking stars and smoke some of those four leaf clovers. Yippee!

While I'm busy patting myself on the back for being able to exit a bathroom, let me bring us all back to the reality block party with the reminder that my interview was not finished and I had to make the ten million mile march of death back to the temp agency's office.

I trudged and I staggered my way back down the hallway from hell, bouncing from wall to wall as if I were trapped in a pinball machine. Visualize this as a low tech version of Tron. We'll call my version Tard and we'll just leave it at that. I tried my best to walk normally, but that's next to impossible when everything under your skin has been liquified and shat out of your body. I dreaded returning to the interview because I was so embarrassed by what had happened, but my embarrassment took a back seat to my empty wallet, so I swallowed my pride and shit it right back out as I reentered the office. I needn't have worried about my dignity, because I left my dignity at the bottom of a jar of pickles.

When I got back to Ms. Sexy Voice's office, it was with my tail between my legs, but she acted as if nothing had happened and I followed her lead. She offered me the job and I realized that to her, I was just a number and she was only interested in making the numbers. Any monkey would have been hired for that position. I idly wondered if I were still eligible for sex on her desk as some sort of bizarro signing bonus or maybe a little beej action. I should have asked.

Ms. Sexy Voice had me fill out some paperwork. I authorized a background check, credit report, drug test and proved that I had the right to work in these here United States. I signed this and I signed that, set up direct deposit, health insurance and an anal probe. Just kidding. I wanted a paper check.

As we finished up, Ms. Sexy Voice asked me if I had any questions, so I asked her to show me her tits. Okay, I didn't but I really wish that I had. I'm not ashamed to say that I like tits. Is that so wrong?

I had a real question, though. An incredibly important question.

"Just one," I said. "When do I take the drug test? Do I take that now?"

"Oh, no," she answered. "We'll schedule you to take that at another time."

Fuck. Me.

All of that struggle and effort, all of that pain and suffering; the humiliation, all of it, had been for naught. I had literally paid my pounds of flesh (so to speak) and it was all for nothing. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kill Chad. I'm not ashamed to say that I imagined his pain, suffering and ultimate death dozens of times that day. You'd be amazed at just how creative you can get with a jar of pickles. I kid, I kid. Chad's a lot bigger than me, he'd totally kick my ass.

Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, FUCK YOU, CHAD! That's his real name, by the way. That was some pretty shitty advice that you gave me. I'm not hiding your ass behind a fake identity; this isn't the fucking Witless Protection Program.

So, take this painful and humiliating little lesson to heart, DON'T trust your friends, they're full of shit and their bright ideas will be your downfall. Trust me on this.

One last thing...

Fuck you, Chad!

Friday, July 17, 2015


Dogs have been known throughout history as being man's best friend and this is mostly true, but sometimes, for no particular reason at all, they do some crazy ass shit, Yes indeed, dogs are fucking lunatics. Even worse though, are those dogs that are just straight up assholes.

Back when I lived in West Virginia and not long after I married me now ex-wide Medusa (I did catch my typo on ex-wife and know that it reads as ex-wide. I corrected it, but since she has become noticeably wider since our divorce, I decided to keep it the way it was), we bought a male dalmatian puppy that we named Caesar.

Not Caesar, but pretty much spot on in the brains department.

Caesar was a beautiful dog with an amazing spot pattern. When that dog stalked (Caesar didn't simply walk, he stalked everywhere), you could watch his muscles ripple along the length of his body. Unfortunately, those were his only good attributes. That dog was just a hot mess. Other than being a complete asshole of a dog, Caesar's biggest problem was that he was almost completely deaf. Oh, he could hear you just fine, sometimes, on a good day, if the wind was blowing just right, and if his head was turned just the right way and if you were screaming at the top of your lungs. Yeah, he could hear you alright. Almost on par with Caesar's lack of hearing was his incredible stupidity. Good Lord, that dog was as dumb as he was pretty. Caesar also liked to pee everywhere.

Caesar was also insane, he would chase bugs up the walls, attack shadows and bark incessantly, just because.

 Caesar was also very aggressive and could turn mean without warning. We kept him away from small children. Contrary to what the people at Disney would have you think, for the most part, dalmatians make terrible pets and are not always good with children. More than anything else though, Caesar was just a flaming asshole and a hell hound, but we loved him.

Devil Dog: Hound of Hell. The completely true story of my dog, Caesar, the sweetest dog ever.

One day, my friend Tommy came over to the house to hang out for a bit and he, Medusa and I went upstairs to my office to smoke a little weed, drink a little beer and to shoot a little shit. Tommy was a really nice guy, a bit of a hippy and he was about as laid back as a person can get without being comatose. Nothing and I mean nothing ever troubled Tommy. He had the ability to make you feel at ease and keep you laughing. Great guy.

The three of us were just hanging out, passing a joint around and engaging in true intellectual conversation by telling the filthiest of jokes. Hell, even old stone face cracked a smile or two. We were having a good time and laughing it up when Caesar made his into the room, looked at everyone as if he were sizing them up for a meal or a chew toy and then he made his way over to me and nudged me with his head. He wanted attention, so I gave him a little and then he moved on to Medusa to scam a little attention from her as well. Caesar sat down at Medusa's feet and he stared at Tommy.

Without warning, Caesar suddenly got up and padded over to Tommy, looked him up and down and started sniffing the poor guy. Suddenly, Caesar lifted his leg and pissed all over Tommy and let me tell you, that poor man got hosed. 

You could see the pee dripping down his legs and flooding his sandals. It was horrible. I was so embarrassed. No, I was beyond embarrassed, I was absolutely, positively mortified. 

I did the only sane and rational thing that I could do at the moment and I burst out laughing, loudly and maniacally and then Medusa joined in as well. I'm pretty sure that the dog was laughing at him too. Everyone was laughing it seemed, except for Tommy. I really didn't want to laugh at Tommy's misfortune, but I just couldn't help myself and there was no way that I could stop anytime soon. I kept trying to apologize to Tommy for what had happened, but every time that I tried to say something, more laughter erupted. I was laughing so hard that I literally couldn't breathe, I was coughing and choking; I had tears streaming down my face. I could barely make an articulate grunt, forget about trying to utter a word, a sentence or an apology.

When I could almost breathe normally again and I felt as if I might be able to form words, I tried to apologize to Tommy once more but that only served to commission a fresh round of laughter. I tried and I tried, but I just couldn't stop laughing. It was brutal.

While I'm sure that Tommy wasn't exactly jumping for joy after what had transpired, he was handling it very well. He wasn't mad, he didn't raise his voice, nothing. He just wanted to get cleaned up and I can't say that I can blame him seeing as I'm not a fan of golden showers either. Like I said, the guy's a champ.

We let Tommy use the shower to get himself cleaned up. I loaned him some clothes and Medusa took his soiled clothing down to the basement and tossed them in the washing machine. After Tommy got himself cleaned up, he hung out for a while longer and we drank and smoked a little bit more. Medusa and I couldn't stop giggling the entire time that he was there. We invited Tommy to stay and join us for dinner, which he did and afterward, we sent him home with his clean clothes and more apologies. 

After Tommy left and I closed the door, Medusa and I looked at each other and started laughing all over again.

Poor guy.

Just a random memory that popped into my head.

Thanks for stopping by and reading my stories. I really do appreciate your time and I hope that you enjoy reading them. Please feel free to leave a comment or a criticism below, because writers are very insecure people and we crave feedback so that we know how well we are doing. Thanks!

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Thursday, July 16, 2015

Did You Really Just Say That?

I once had a roommate who walked up to me one day, quite out of the blue, and he suddenly blurted out, "Do you know that if you fuck a chicken, it drives the chicken insane and they have to kill it?"

And then he just walked away.

I've always wondered how he knew that and I was always too scared to ask.

Some questions are better left unanswered.

That's not the only chicken fucker that I know about. If you need a good laugh, check this story out:

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

I'm Challenged

A few months back, I was having a conversation with my middle son; a conversation where he urged me to add Oompa Loompas to one of my stories, as if it were something that would happen in real life. Could you imagine? Holy shit, I can picture it now, Those funny little orange fuckers would come rolling out and be all like:

"Oompa Loompa doom-pa-dee-do 
Nobody's as fucking stupid as you."

It's an Oompa Loompa sing-a-long!

Just what I need to narrate my life, How about saddling me with Jiminy Fucking Cricket for a conscience while you're at it? Because great fucking jumpin' jiminies, that'd be just swell.

Challenge accepted.

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Fondue You

When I was a child, there weren't as many restaurants around as there are today. Casual dining was unheard of; going out to dinner was always a special occasion and you were always treated sumthin' fancy. You'd get all gussied up in your Sunday best and hit the town. The choices were pretty limited when it came to dinner and it usually came down to the steak house, the Italian restaurant or the Chinese place. The US in the 1970's was pretty lame when it came to food. It was a lot like television before cable came along.

These days we have every type of theme restaurant that you can imagine and it seems as if every ethnicity is represented. Casual dining and chain restaurants dot every strip mall and fast food franchises churn out their swill on virtually every corner. Competition for your dollar is fierce and many corporate restaurants will go to absurd extremes in the name of guest service while other, smaller mom and pop places can be known for having a fuck you attitude. Good service runs somewhere in between the two.

I have worked in the restaurant industry for entirely too many years. Long years, brutal years, and yes, painful years of suffering, hustling and kissing ass for cash. I have worked high end and low brow, mom and pop, corporate and fine dining. I have mixed cocktails and concoctions for the fancy pants crowd and tossed beers down the bar in smoke filled dives. I've loved it and I've hated it. There have been moments where... Well, best not to say anything that might or might not one day be used as evidence against me. I have always been happy to escape the clutches of the business and yet, I keep getting sucked back in, like an aging lot lizard that can't live without the glory hole and the limelight. It's a crazy, fast-paced and stressful business that takes a special kind of special to not only endure it, but to thrive. Seriously, you just can't even begin to imagine the shit and shenanigans that go on behind the scenes in an industry where most of the employees are just a quick diagnosis away from being institutionalized.

I'm not kidding.

I've seen it all in this business, or at least I think I have, but it seems as if every time that I say that, I then see something even more fucked up than the last most fucked up thing that I saw and you know what? That's really fucked up. I say the same thing about the Internet all of the time and yet I still get surprised. Horribly surprised. The things I've seen that can never be unseen. I live my life a haunted man.

Hold on, I need a tissue. And meds. Oh yes, meds. Yes, lots and lots of meds.

And then some more.

Let me tell you a little story...

Many, many years ago, I worked at a small fondue restaurant in Florida that is a locally owned franchise of a small national chain and it is known as the ultimate romantic restaurant. There is just something about this place that gets a woman primed. It is intimate, romantic, discreet and expensive. If you can't get laid after a dinner at this place, there is something seriously wrong with you, like you have visible signs of leprosy something wrong with you, or maybe you're a Little Richard (for my foreign readers, Richard is a euphemism for dick which is a euphemism for penis, but let's just say cock, because Tourette's) with a tiny, two inch penis, or perhaps you're a chicken fucker or something else that is way the fuck out there in left field, because we both know you're a freak. What I'm trying to say is that it's just about impossible not to get laid after a romantic dinner like that and you would have to go to extraordinary lengths to screw it up.  And yet screw it up they did; I saw so many guys go down in flames. No chutes. No survivors.

Sealing the deal; it's not for everyone.

Flinging fondue was a great job, the restaurant was conveniently close to my apartment, the owners were awesome, it was staffed by lunatics, the clientele was super cool and somewhat strange, but most importantly, the money was great, as in cocaine and strippers great. That's not what I really spent my money on, it's just a comparison. I'm way too cheap to spend money on strippers. If I wanted to pay a woman money to pay attention to me, I'd get married.

I really loved working there and to this day, it remains one of my favorite jobs.

One of the few drawbacks about working there (other than the fact that my apartment had the aroma of a fondue restaurant, which is to say that it smelled like burnt peanut oil) was that every time that I met a girl and she found out where I worked, she always wanted to go there for dinner on our first date, so I ended up eating a lot of fondue, but at least it ensured a sure thing and nothing beats a sure thing except for maybe two sure things, but since I know I'll never get two sure things, I'll settle for one. I can't tell you how many times I have had the exact same date; dinner at the fondue restaurant with the same first date conversations, flirting and copious amounts of wine, followed by a short trip to my "special spot", the stone jetty at Haulover Beach and a romantic walk in the moonlight where I'd pull one of my signature moves and then finish it up with a quick drive back to my apartment to seal the deal. It was nice and it was a little something special for both of us; a nice romantic evening for her and another hash mark in the win column for me. Too much of the same thing though, even a good thing and I hate to say it, even too much of a sure thing can start to get a little boring, which it did and after a while it became my own personal Groundhog Day.

Click on the link above to watch the full movie on YouTube.

Fondue is a very time consuming meal where you actually have to cook your own food and pay for the privilege of doing so.

 To be honest, the only thing that you actually end up cooking yourself are the entrees.

I can make an amazing cheddar cheese fondue. If you'd like me to post the recipe, leave a comment below.
The cheese fondue is actually made tableside by your Waiter/Waitress.
Most of our customers would order the standard three course Combination Dinner for two which consisted of a cheese fondue appetizer, salads, and an entree platter that was a mixed bag of meats and seafood (chicken, steak, salmon and shrimp). Chocolate fondue for dessert was an a la carte item that was a must have and everyone ordered the chocolate fondue.

An intimate setting, lots of wine and some sweet, warm chocolate will get her motor running, even if you can't.

Romantic, isn't it? Meet my next ex.
The length of time spent on dinner in the restaurant would usually range from two to three hours, limiting the amount of tables that you could work in an evening and having an impact upon the tips you could earn and while the food was fairly expensive, we also pushed wine and that's where the real money was. Selling wine would pump up your check average and more importantly, your tips. If you could sell two or three bottles of wine to the majority of your tables, you were sure to go home with pockets full of cash (actually, you would make it to the bar with pockets full of cash, how much you'd still have left when you got home would be a different story and staying drunk can get pretty expensive). The only other way to make money there was by relying on your personality and by engaging with your customers, meaning that you had to be personable and, well, a little weird. You were a part of the experience, part of the entertainment, like your own little one man Off-Broadway Show. Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me fucking sing and dance for you. A little shuffle and fucking jive. Yeah, I can just picture myself getting all jiggy with it. I'll get started on choreographing a routine right now.

I got moves, mothafuckaz! I got mad fuckin' skillz.

And personable? Me? Whatthefuckever. Hell, I took a personality test once and the results came back negative. I think That I'm more of a curmudgeon than a personable person and I'm also pretty much convinced that I'm just a fucking asshole more than anything else. Have I ever mentioned that I also have the honor and the privilege of being the most well adjusted person that I know? And I could never be considered weird, right?

Shut the fuck up, it was just a rhetorical question.

So, while I might not have much in the way of a personality, I've certainly got bullshit in abundance. Bucket loads of bullshit, that is. Yes, yes indeed. Shit Slingin' Steve, that's me. It has a certain je ne sais quoi to it, don't you think?

One late afternoon, it was my turn to come in early to help open the restaurant up and get it ready for dinner service (we only served dinner). Coming in early was good, because it meant that you would be the first person to start making money and it also meant that theoretically you would be the first person out the door and headed home. I say theoretically because the reality of the situation was such that you could theoretically be the last person out the door and headed home as well. It would all depend upon when your last table chose to leave and if they decided to camp out, well, you were screwed. That's just the hazards of the business, life isn't fair and all of that shit, but if I'm making money, I'll stay until the end of time.

As an aside and in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that the term "headed home" was really just a euphemism for going out and drinking all night.

As I was clocking in and getting ready to start setting up the restaurant, there were a rapid series of loud knocks at the front door, which was quickly answered by the owner, Dan (not his real name). He spoke to someone at the door for a few minutes and then he walked over to me and asked me if I felt like taking an early table, further explaining that they only wanted to order the chocolate fondue. Dan said that that the decision was completely up to me, he didn't care and that I didn't have to take care of them if I didn't want to. It didn't take me very long to set up the restaurant and I could certainly wait on a dessert table while taking care of everything else. Besides, it was extra money in my pocket with very little effort on my part and it was good customer service. I told Dan that it wouldn't be a problem. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

Dan walked back to the front door and returned with a party of five in tow. Strutting like preening peacocks through the empty restaurant were three generations of the same family; an older couple, a younger couple and their cute little three year old son who was literally bouncing down the aisle howling chants of, "Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!" over and over again and he definitely wasn't using his inside voice. His father began chanting along with him.


A three year old doing that is obnoxious enough, but a thirty-something year old grown man jumping up and down and screaming, "Chocolate!" at the top of his lungs belongs in the theater of the absurd.

Don't get me wrong, I've always done silly, stupid, funny and cheesy stuff with my kids, but this...


Twenty years later and I still don't have words.

My waiter early warning system began to twitch. Bad. Really bad. Like when your balls really itch something fierce and you're with a bunch of people and you just can't scratch your fucking nuts and that makes the itch even worse type bad. Glory be.

It was pretty obvious that they were going to be a bit difficult.

I began to question the life choices that led me to this moment as my ever present and delightful smile began to crack and crumble.

It was also pretty obvious that they were rich. You could just smell the money on them, they absolutely, positively reeked of it. I hoped that because we were going out of our way to accommodate them that I had a pretty good chance of getting a nice fat tip. So far it looked like mostly shaft.

I'm not exactly sure whom they were showing off for in an empty restaurant, but after the spectacle of their grand entrance, Dave tried to seat them in one of the booths on the main aisle but they would have none of it, complaining that the table might be good enough for the common riffraff, but it certainly wouldn't do for them. Y'know, because they were exalted royalty and shit. After flitting from seat to seat like Goldie Locks looking for the perfect chair that felt just right for her big, fat ass and after a few extra minutes spent fondling different tables, they finally found one that was deemed worthy of their greatness and just as they started to settle themselves in they realized that the little one was missing.

The mother freaked out.

"Where's my baby?" she shrieked. "Has anyone seen my baby?"

Well... maybe the dingo ate your baby...


Great. Nothing like having to wait on arrogant, rich, entitled assholes who can't be bothered to take care of their children. This was going to be fun. Lots of fun. Lots of fucking fun. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. Fuck me.

We split up into search parties and everyone fanned out through the restaurant searching for the kid. After a few minutes, his mother found him hiding underneath one of the tables in the back and she actually bribed him to come back with her. This just kept getting better and better.

The elder gentleman, obviously the patriarch of the family, barked at me and ordered me to bring a booster seat for his grandson. I think he said something along the lines of, "Hey you, we need a booster seat over here."

Yeah. Sure. Fuck you, buddy.

I went to go fetch the booster seat like a good little bitch and then returned to the table, handing it to the child's father. Nobody bothered to thank me. Pretty fucking rude, if you ask me. Assholes.

I started to introduce myself, but the older guy quickly interrupted me. Dick move, buddy.

The older guy then proceeded to explain to me that they were on their way to the airport to drop off their son, daughter-in-law and grandson and that they were in a rush. He told me that he and his wife were regulars and that I must be new because I didn't recognize them (I had been there a year and I had never seen them before and Dan hadn't recognized them either). He and his wife had told the younger couple about how wonderful the fondue was and had promised to take them to dinner but had then never bothered, but figured they were at least entitled to have some chocolate fondue on their way out of town. Oh, and they were in a hurry, so could I, you know, hurry things along?

Okay, you're in a hurry, I get that, so shut the fuck up and order and stop wasting everyone's time by running your fucking mouth.

While he's droning on to me and I'm mentally picturing myself choking the living shit out of him, I look at the table and notice that his darling little grandson has dumped the contents of the salt and pepper shakers onto the table and he now has two little piles sitting directly in front of him. The little bastard looked at me, smiled smugly and shoved the piles of salt and pepper all over the table. That little shit. No one corrected him or said a word.

That's total bullshit. 

I bit my tongue. What the fuck did I get myself into this time?

I assured them that I can get them out of the restaurant quickly and believe me, all I want to do is get them the fuck out of the restaurant. I ask them if I can get them started with something to drink and they all ask for water with lemon and they want one for the kid, too, because of course, five glasses of free. Free work that I won't get tipped on. Plus the old guy, who also asked for coffee, because of course he needs a drink for both hands and because of course I haven't had a chance to make any coffee yet and when I informed His Majesty that I would be making a fresh pot and that it would take a few minutes he mentioned something about my being incompetent under his breath.

Fuck that motherfucker. I wanted to punch that arrogant sonofabitch in his arrogant pompous fucking pie hole but I kept my cool, did an about face and went off to get their drinks. I wanted to poison them and I would have, but that's a lot of bodies to hide and I drove a motorcycle. The logistics weren't looking good.

Oh, and we didn't have any fucking kids cups, either, but that was just too bad now, wasn't it? We just weren't that kind of restaurant. Contrary to popular belief, children and large pots of boiling liquids aren't always a very good mix.

I returned to the table with their drinks, passed them out, took their order and turned it into the kitchen. By this time the coffee was ready and I poured a cup and brought it out to the table where I noticed that the little bastard had gotten his filthy little hands on the sugar caddie and had torn open all of the sugar and Sweet & Low packets, dumped them out and scattered them all over the table. It was like he was playing in a sandbox of sugar. That shit was everywhere. Again, no one corrected him or said a word.

That's some great fucking parenting skills right there, folks.

I was perilously close to the edge. No amount of money could make up for this shit.

The old guy asked me if I had any straws for the baby to play with.

Oh shit... Oh no, you din't...

All rational thought went out the window. I fucking lost it. I snapped. Before I even realized what I was saying, I had blurted out, "What's the matter? You can't afford any toys?" 

I thought this guy's fucking head was going to explode; like he was going to have an aneurysm or something, His face turned beet red, veins popped out all over his forehead, his mouth fell open and then he freaked the fuck out. I mean he really freaked the fuck out.

"You sonofabitch," he spat at me, "You motherfucker. I demand to speak to the owner. I demand to speak to the owner right fucking now!"

"Yes, sir. I'll be more than happy to get him for you," I said with an evil smirk. Dude should have been thankful that I hadn't stabbed him through the eye with one of the fondue forks. Not only am I Italian, but I know people that know people who know other people that have some friends who might or might not know someone who may or may not be in the mob. but his cousin has a neighbor who knows someone that says he probably might be but he's not certain. 

I went to Dan's office in the back and I explained the situation to him. I think he may have been a little pissed off at me and I wasn't completely sure if he had believed my side of the story, but he had to at least half believe me because he already knew they were assholes. I started to worry about losing my job. I liked my job. I liked my job a lot. Not only did I like my job, but I made an obscene amount of money at my job and I really wanted to continue making that money which enabled me to not only ay for my basic necessities, but enabled me to live a fairly lavish lifestyle of expensive booze and cheap women. I decided that I did not want to lose my job.

Dan stormed out of the office and into the dining room. As he approached the family I could see that he was starting to get angry as he took in the full extent of the mess that covered the table. Better yet, the people had now switched tables, because the little bastard had managed to spill his glass of water, leaving a nasty, sticky paste of a mess, so they had changed tables and given the nasty little shit another sugar caddie full of "toys" to play with and which said little shit was currently in the process of tearing open and dumping upon the table.

Dan was so angry I thought his hair plugs were going to pop out. I swear I saw them bulging and ready to fly off like mini mortars on the Fourth of July. I'd never seen him this angry. 

I felt a tingle in my mangina. I wish I'd had some popcorn.

The rude, pompous and arrogant old fucker started to yell at my boss, but Dan cut him right off.

"Shut up and get out," Dan said. 

The old guy looked confused and then angry. His face wasn't red anymore, it was positively purple. He started to open his mouth to say something, but Dan cut him off before he could utter a word.

"Get out," Dan repeated. "Get out now. Take your things and take your brat and get the hell out of my restaurant. Now!"

I swooned. Dave was my hero. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to make his babies.

All of them started to shout at once but Dan would have none of it.

"Get out. Get out now, or I'll call the police and have you arrested." Dan was pissed. Go Dan! You sexy motherfucker.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyer!" screamed the cranky old fuck.

The old man threatened to sue Dan and Dan laughed in his face. The old man threatened to ruin him, the restaurant and little ol' me. 

I did a double take.

Who? Me? Huh? What the hell did I do? 

They mumbled and muttered and acted indignant and violated all the way to the door, but they got out. We never heard from their lawyer and we never heard from them again, either. Dan's business didn't get ruined either. As for me, I'd been ruined long before and frankly, I had no fucks left to give.

Bye, bye motherfuckers.

After they left, Dan and I looked at each other and we just shook our heads and laughed. He helped me clean up the mess that they had left and we were able to get the restaurant open on time.

The point that I'm trying to make here is that if someone bends over backwards to accommodate your ass, be gracious, thankful, well-mannered and appreciative instead of being rude, demanding, ill-bred and a complete douchebag. Make sure your children behave. If not, karma is going to turn around and bite you right in the dick and I'll be the one laughing about it.

If you liked this story, please give this one a chance:

Or, if you'd like to read something a bit more serious and with no foul language, check this out:

Thanks for stopping by!

One last thing, please leave a comment on the post, here on the blog, Stroke me ego or I swear I will find where you live, get naked and stand outside of your house.

Btw, what happens when you inject human DNA into a goat?
I got kicked out of the petting zoo...

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

The Tale of the White Whale and the Stinky Cheese Man


"Call me Ishmael." - Herman Melville

“There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own.” 
― Herman Melville

     Selling a car is a relatively simple process. The buyer shows up, inspects the vehicle, reaches a decision and makes an offer. The seller can accept or reject the offer, alternatively, the seller can make a counter-offer. If there is mutual agreement, a financial transaction takes place and the vehicle goes home with its new owner. It's not exactly rocket science. It's not a life or death situation. Not usually. However, once you add me to the equation things can go from mundane to absolute chaos in the blink of an eye. In other words, shit happens.

     I've always been a Jeep kind of guy and by that I mean the image and not the reality. Maybe it's that whole manly man doing manly things, wind in my stubble, suave and debonair delusional image that I have of myself, but I'm far too modest to mention any of that. And well, because I'm so butch. To be honest, I've never owned a real Jeep, but I have ridden in them. The Jeeps that I have owned have been Grand Cherokees and don't exactly fit the whole manly man doing manly things, wind in my stubble , suave and debonair delusional image that I have of myself, which I'm far too modest to mention.

     But I digress.

     Ya'll wanna see something really cool, don'tcha?

     I've owned many vehicles over the years, two of which were Jeep Grand Cherokees, One Jeep was great; sturdy, reliable and it played host to many an adventure. If you've read Unsinkable, you're already familiar with one of those adventures. To call the other Jeep a piece of shit would be a far greater act of compassion than I am capable of. Of course, this is a story about the piece of shit Jeep. A Jeep that was not quite affectionately known as "The White Whale." And when I say "not quite affectionately known as," I mean it quite literally. Well, at least I mean the part about "not known as," because that's all bullshit, we didn't call it anything, but I needed a name for the story and there it was. Why? Because fuck you, that's why.

     Anyway, the White Whale had a few minor issues. Little things like the four wheel drive was out, the transmission was shot, it needed a new clutch, new rings; you know, just a few cosmetic details here and there. Now might also be a good time to mention that it wasn't in what I would quite call running condition, hell, that thing couldn't run if it had legs, but it looked great. I mean, other than the few minor flaws that I mentioned, it was a perfectly good vehicle. I'd certainly trust my ex-wife in it, alone, on a steep mountain, going downhill, in the winter, with black ice and no guardrail. Perchance to dream...

     Again, I digress and I used bad paraphrasing, too. My apologies.

     I'm sure that you can understand why I might be considered a very motivated seller of such a fine example of American crapsmanship and why I would shed a tear at the fond memory of many breakdowns spent sitting beside the road, waiting for AAA to come and save my sorry ass.

     But then the Lord shined His light upon me. Fucking Hallelujah!

     You see, sometimes I wonder if there is a God and if I'm just one of those people that He likes to fuck with. Intentionally. Like, for His own amusement. I think He looks over the world, watching it slowly spin around the Sun, mumbling crazy shit to Himself like an old homeless man. You know, He's just enjoying Himself, checking out the beauty of His creation and shit until he notices me and thinks, "Hey, isn't that the asshole that I like to fuck with?"

     Jonah? Yeah... he ain't got shit on me.

     This is how it all went down...

     One day, out of the blue, there was a knock upon my door. I opened the door and... holy shit!

     I heard fucking banjos.

     I smelled cheese. And... shit?


      Standing on my front porch was the complete stereotypical West Virginia example of Pa Kettle, an old, tall, skinny, redneck, farmer looking dude. He had it all. The scraggly grey beard, the beaten John Deere trucker hat, the denim jacket with the sheepskin collar, flannel shirt and overalls that were so old and filthy, they looked as if they'd been rolled in cow shit and dried to a fine crust. His dirty work boots looked as if they'd just won a shit kickin' contest. I could feel my nose wrinkle in offense. The stranger's stench rolled over me like a dust storm across the desert; vast and frightening.  He was creepy; he had a really weird vibe. I looked at his hands, expecting to find an axe, probably because I've seen way too many horror movies, which kind of does make me an authority on this kind of shit, but there were no sharp objects or small farm animals in his hands which was strange because I had this guy pegged as either an animal fucker (farmer), child molester, serial killer, or even worse, a Jehovah's witness. He was one or the other, of this I was certain. NOTE - Don't even try to fuck with my math here, people. I hate math. Math sucks giant pickled anaconda balls. There are three kinds of people in this world; those who are good at math and those who aren't. I'm in that third category.

     As if this all wasn't weird enough and stranger still, I also smelled cheese. Not just any kind of cheese, mind you. This was the scent of a finely cave aged Limburger that was stuffed inside of a dirty sock and wrapped with shit stained tightey whiteys prior to aging. He smelled like cheese. And shit. Shit cheese. String shit cheese. Not a pleasant thought, is it?

     I'll get back to all of that in just a second. The cheese, I mean. Okay, the shit too, don't worry.

     For brevity's sake, I'll refer to him as the Cheese Man. Parked behind the Cheese Man was his own Jeep Cherokee. Fucking great, we could be besties...

     Cheese Man inquired if I might be interested in selling the White Whale.

     I did a little fucking dance in my head.

     Sell it? Would I?

     Show me the fucking money; the moolah, the dough, the cash, the motherfucking Benjamins.

     Let's say that I was easily persuaded. Like I said, I was motivated. Superfuckingmotivated, come to think of it.

     Cheese Man made me an offer and I made him a counter-offer. We negotiated a price and reached an agreement and he counted out the cash and handed it to me. The money felt greasy and smelled foul, but I counted it and stuffed the money into my pocket faster than shit through a goose, which judging by the smell, is where Cheese Man kept his cash.

     Now, I just needed to find the title and Cheese Man could be on his way, so of course I couldn't find the title. I looked and I looked and I looked. No bueno. I finally found the damn thing in the filing cabinet, right where it was supposed to be. I had already looked in there several times, file by file and paper by paper and found nothing. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada. And suddenly it magically appears? Right where it's supposed to be? I call bullshit. Magical witchcraft fuckery is what it was.

     With a flourish, I signed the title over to Cheese Man and he pockets it faster than his dick through a sheep and then Cheese Man sticks out his grime covered hand. A handshake? Really? You expect me to shake that filthy shit stained hand? I shook his hand, it felt greasy and foul. "Fuck it," I thought, "I'll just saw off my hand and incinerate it later."

     Cheese Man walked back to his Jeep, started it up and drove over to the White Whale. He emerged from his Jeep carrying a large chain and starts chaining the two Jeeps together, opting to tow the White Whale backwards out of my driveway. Good luck, with that. After a very short run, my driveway was nearly vertical, with an extremely sharp right or left turn at the top, as it met the road. Misjudge that turn and there's a good chance that you'll make a very quick trip down the mountain. I couldn't wait to see this, I'd watched many people fail at trying to escape from my driveway. This was going to be good. Even I had managed to turn a vehicle sideways and almost over the edge of the mountain in  my driveway. Don't ask. Don't even fucking ask.

     After Cheese Man got the vehicles chained together, he inspected his work, gave himself a porcine snort of approval and walked back over to me.

     "Please don't shake my hand again," I thought.

     My worry was quite needless as Cheese Man had one simple question.

     "Do you think you could steer the white Jeep out of the driveway for me, while I pull it up?" he asked me.

     "Sure, no problem," I replied.

     What could possibly go wrong?

     Have you ever looked back and identified that singular moment where everything started to unravel? You know, that moment where you lose all control and you realize that you're completely screwed. This was that moment, although I was too clueless to realize it at the time.

     This was the moment that God decided to fuck with me. The moment when he looked at all of his little angel buddies and said, "Hey, ya'll wanna' see something really cool?"

     I carefully explained how to get out of my driveway to the Cheese Man before climbing into the White Whale and buckling myself in. I was pretty sure that he had listened to my instructions.

     Cheese Man gunned the engine on his Jeep. I felt my sphincter contract. Pucker factor. He gunned the engine again, I felt a quick jerk and we took off up the driveway.

     We came back down just as quickly, which is when I discovered that the White Whale had no breaks. The Jeep came to a sudden stop as it pulled against the chain, throwing me against the seat belt. I loudly informed the Cheese Man that I had no brakes. In response, he gunned his engine again. I'm really not sure what part of "Hey, I have no fucking brakes," is so fucking hard to understand. Fuck me.

     We tried again with the same result. And again. And again. Six fucking times. I was a little over that shit by this point and I had much better things to do with my time, like spending Cheese Man's money.

     Nobody ever fucking listens.

     After the sixth attempt, I got out of the White Whale and I carefully explained to Cheese Man, once again, how to get out of my driveway and reminded him that I had no brakes. I'm fairly sure that he was half-listening to me.

     Cheese Man said that he was good to go and I climbed back into the Whale. He gunned his engine again, another quick jerk on the chain and we were off. Another fail. Cheese Man tried again and I could just imagine the grim determination that furrowed and cracked the crap caked into his brow. He gunned the engine into a deep throated growl as we launched down the driveway once again. Cheese Man made it to the very top of the driveway, gunned the engine again and made a sharp left, adding more power and I felt the Whale pull out of the driveway and onto the road. We made it! It was magical witchcraft fuckery, alright.

     Well, sort of...

     I had no brakes, remember?

     Cheese Man had stopped on the road facing uphill and the Whale was about to smash into his Jeep.

     No bueno.

     I quickly hit the brakes and nothing. Nada, zilch, zip; no fucking brakes. I had forgotten that I had no brakes. That's some serious fucking no bueno shit, right there. The Whale slammed into the back of Cheese man's Jeep and bounced off. Now, this wouldn't have been such a big deal if Cheese Man hadn't stopped his Jeep on an uphill portion of the road, fucking genius that he was and if the Whale had functioning brakes, which it didn't.

     The Whale started rolling downhill. I kept hitting the brakes, somehow hoping that some sort of magical witchcraft fuckery would happen and the brakes would suddenly start working. They didn't.

     The Whale rolled down to the edge of the mountain and before I could so much as shit my pants, the behemoth rolled straight over the edge, quickly picking up speed.

     Things are way the fuck beyond no bueno at this point. My shit was about to get seriously fucked up. I still hadn't soiled myself. Hey, it's a minor point of pride.

     The Whale was speeding down the mountain and headed straight for a copse of very large trees. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as the trunk of the largest tree grew larger and larger in the windshield. Suddenly, I felt like Captain Ahab, strapped to the side of Moby Dick, about to take that final, fateful plunge.

Yeah, just like that.
     Strangely, I wasn't scared; I don't think there was time for that because everything happened so quickly. My life didn't flash before my eyes and I didn't break out some dusty, old, forgotten prayer to the Invisible Sky Man that loves to torment me. All that I could think about was that I would have to give Cheese Man his money back and that really pissed me off. "Fuck that guy," I suddenly thought, I totally deserved the money after experiencing Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

     I had just braced myself for the impact with the tree when I felt the chain jerk again and the Whale came to a sudden, violent stop, bare inches from hitting the tree. I was thrown hard against the seat belt, but that was the worst of it. The best part? I still hadn't shit myself.

     Suddenly, there was another violent tug on the chain and Cheese Man was able to pull the Whale out of the gully and back onto the road. Thankfully, he kept going until the road leveled out and, you guessed it, the whale slammed into him again, but I was saved! My money was safe!

     Cheese Man jumped out of his Jeep and asked me if I wouldn't mind steering the Whale while he towed it back to his house. I agreed, because I'm an idiot and lack any sort of common sense, yet lead an obviously charmed life. Fabufuckinglous.

     We made it safely over the river and through the woods to the Cheese Man plantation, until the very last moment, where of course the whale had to give me one last beating, by once again slamming itself violently into the back of Cheese Man's Jeep.

     I hopped out of the Whale and hit the ground, taking a good look around. I made the horrible mistake of taking a deep breath and I was staggered by the stench.

     You see, Cheese man lived on a pig farm. There were pigs everywhere, so many that it was like roving herds of bacon. The smell of the offal hit me like a physical wave and I swallowed my nausea. There were piles of pig shit everywhere, you couldn't avoid them. That was one mystery solved; I now knew why Cheese Man smelled like shit, still, another mystery remained. Why did the Cheese Man smell like cheese? I noticed that there was something else strewn all over the ground, little clear plastic wrappers that upon closer inspection appeared to be Kraft Singles wrappers. Aha! Another mystery solved. One thing still puzzled me though. This guy didn't smell like processed cheese, he smelled like ÉpoissesÉpoisses, for those of you who don't know, is one of the smelliest cheeses in the world. Indeed, Époisses has been banned from public transportation vehicles all over France. It is made from raw cow's milk and its rind is washed with pomace brandy. Just a little fromage knowledge for you.

This little piggy went to market.
     I think I might have even thrown up in my mouth a little.

     I walked around to the front of the Whale, wanting to leave this madness behind me as quickly as possible.

     And that was when things started to get a little weird...

     Stay tuned for Part Two.

     If you enjoyed reading this story, please give this one a shot. Thanks!