It's All About The Journey

Life is supposed to be all about the journey.

That's some serious bullshit, right there.

I had a rare day off recently and I made plans with a friend to grab some grub at a great little local place that's owned by the friend of another friend from back East and if you ever come out to Bellingham, no visit would be complete without a stop at Homeskillet. Best fucking brunch in Bellingham. Be sure to bring an appetite, because the portions are huge and make sure that you tell them I sent you, because they won't have a clue as to who the fuck you're talking about and will make you look stupid. More importantly, chow down, have fun and tip well, you cheap fucking bastards.

Anyway, the day started out normally enough; it was fucking raining, as usual. Washington state is a great place to live; it's beautiful, has great, friendly folks and a vibrant economy, but it never, and I mean never, fucking stops raining. Seriously. My balls are bluer than the sky around here. It's so bad that I've been looking at DIY Ark plans on Wikipedia, but I'm not hanging around and waiting for the fucking penguins to get here. I'm stocking that fucker with whores and booze. If you want a ride, you'd better be a bottle or have tits.

Tumbleweeds were blowing through the folds of my wallet and I needed to grab some cash out of the bank, so I drove over to my local branch and waited in my car while the lady in front of me was using the ATM. I was waiting in the car because I didn't want to get wet; I had no desire to die the way that my sister had, all melted and shit, because of that little bitch, Dorothy and her little fucking dog, too.

The lady in front of me finishes up and I hop out of the car and over to the ATM, insert my card and out pops a receipt from the previous transaction. I took the receipt, placed it to my left and started to enter my PIN, when I was stopped by the sound of a woman's voice behind me.

"Excuse me, but did you happen to see an iPhone 6s sitting there?" the voice said.

I looked to my left, before I turned around saw that the voice belonged to the lady that had used the ATM before me.

"No, ma'am," I said, polite as you please. I'm such a nice guy; a right little ray of fucking sunshine, I am.

I'm always polite. Super fucking polite, as a matter of fact. I might be a dick, but I'm a very polite dick, usually. Sometimes. Okay, almost never.

"That's funny," iPhone 6s lady said. "It was sitting right there, just a minute ago, when I left it there."

Holy Jumping Fucking Jesus, this fucking bitch just accused me of stealing her, as she put it, "iPhone 6s", because she's so self-important and label conscious that even in the act of accusing me of stealing her iPhone 6s, she just had to mention the brand and fucking model as the latest and greatest. For those of you who know me, you know that I hate Apple products, think that they are ginormous pieces of shit and would never be caught dead using one. I'd rather ride a fucking moped, in public, in front of my friends. The bitch couldn't have said the word phone, either. Oh no, she had to announce her importance to me and the status granted to her by her ownership of an overpriced iPhone 6s. And why the fuck would I want to steal a phone that could be immediately shut down and traced right back to me? If I'm going to steal something, it's going to be worth the jail time I'd be risking and it sure as shit wouldn't be some piece of crap iPhone.

"Ma'am," I said as I pulled out my phone, " I haven't seen your phone and all that I have is my piece of crap Samsung Galaxy s6."

I can name drop too, motherfucker.

She started to say something else when she looked down at her hand. My gaze followed hers and what do you think we saw? If you guessed an iPhone 6s, you win the fucking prize. Here's a fucking sticker. Enjoy.

I watched as she realized what a complete fucking dumbass she was and as her face reddened, she stammered out, "I owe you an apology, I'm a complete idiot."

I looked at her and gave her my best arrogant and snotty smirk.

"Yes, you do and yes, you are," I replied; abruptly dismissing her and turning back to my business at the ATM. I really do hate people, unless you're my friend and then I only hate you part of the time.

My buddy Mark and I had agreed to meet at a local shopping center, since he was driving down from as close to the Canadian border as you can get and it made more sense for us to meet here in town, since we would be heading South. As he was getting his shit together, I noticed that a leather clad "biker" had pulled up next to us on his yuppie Harley. I laughed as I realized that he was wearing chaps and pointed this out to Mark, who told me that this was pretty normal for the West Coast and not to be so judgemental. I very slowly and very patiently explained to him, because I didn't have any crayons with me, that back on the east coast, the only people who wear chaps are the kinds of fellas that hang out in gay leather bars. Not that I'm judging, mind you; if that's your thing, let your freak flag fly, baby.

I turned my head back to the left again and this guy is now bent over his bike and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, he's not wearing any pants and his bare ass is waving in the wind. Get. The. Fuck. Out.

"Is that normal fucking behavior?" I asked, elbowing Mark in the ribs as hard as I could.

"Holy shit!" Mark exclaimed. "I need to get a pic of this."

"Get the fuck out of here," I said. "The guy is wiggling his ass in the air; he's fucking ass dancing. If you want to use the back door, you go right ahead, but I'm getting the fuck out of here."

And with that, I put the car in gear and peeled out of the parking lot. From now on, I'm avoiding K-Mart. Not really my kind of blue light special.

It was starting to get a bit late in the day, around two o'clock and I mentioned that it would start getting dark in a couple of hours and maybe we were better off heading to the movies to see the new James Bond flick.

"Nah, dude," Mark said, "We'll be fine, let's go for it. We'll have a few drinks and meet some chicas."

It's almost like I've heard that story before. I really, really need to stop listening to other people.

Against my better judgement, we headed south for Anacortes and the San Juan Islands ferry. We got there with plenty of time to spare, so much fucking time to spare that we sat there and waited for an hour and a half. The only fun part of that was sneaking off to hit the flask that I had smuggled along. There's nothing like a fine whiskey to warm your ass on a cold day.

We finally get on the ferry and we find a place to sit for the hour or so that it will take us to get to Friday Harbor, plus whatever time it takes us to find the first bar that we plan on drinking in and I planned on doing some serious drinking and perhaps checking out some of the local wildlife, which we all know would never happen, because not that many women are dumb enough to have sex with me. Still, one can hope and perchance, to dream.

We get settled in and pretty much ignored each other while we fucked with our phones, but then I noticed a slight commotion as an old hippie couple came clattering along, carrying their backpacks, a paper bag and a green, five gallon bucket. They settled in across from us and they were such an odd pair, that they held my attention for longer than a heartbeat. They were captivating; mesmerizing. He was tall and gaunt, with dreadlocks and a long, crazy ass beard. She was thin to the point of emaciation, with long ragged and unkempt hair that swirled about her face. They were going on about all kinds of shit, tree hugging hippie crap and other crazy stuff. My attention began to wane, but they were just getting started. I heard the crunch of their paper bag and I turned my head to see what was going on and I saw hippie chick pull a long carrot out of her paper bag; it still had the green leafy shit attached and you could see that it was covered in dirt. She took a big, loud, crunchy bite, chewing her cud as loudly as she could; chewing with her mouth open and smacking her lips. It was pretty fucking gross. Old hippie dude asked her for a bite and she shot him a look of death, but she grudgingly shared her carrot with him. She started going on about how wholesome and great organic food was and how that carrot had just come out of the ground. This pronouncement didn't surprise me at all, because I was convinced that I could smell the shit that was used to fertilize that fucking thing. For the hippies, it might have been harvest day, but for the carrots, it was armageddon.

It was about this time that there was a shipwide announcement, telling the passengers what to do in case of an emergency and blah, blah, blah, the next thing that I paid attention to was when the recorded announcement mentioned that packages, backpacks and other belongings were not to be left unattended and if you did that, your ass would be in a sling. Got it. Don't leave your shit alone.

That was when old hippie dude told old hippie chick that they should go for a walk around the ferry, but she told him that they couldn't leave their hippy shit unatteneded. Old hippy dude did not like this answer and he started ranting about the man and all that shit. Next thing you know, he's going on about how people need to be put to death for being anti-environment and consumerist. They start talking about bombs and planes and trains and where the fuck are those life rafts again? Great, I'm stuck on a boat with two old, tree hugging eco-terrorists that are hell bent on my destruction. Just fucking great.

A few minutes later, a hapless ferry employee came wandering through and the duo of dirt stopped her and started pestering her with questions about why they couldn't leave their shit and take a walk around the boat. The hapless employee got out her crayons and explained to them why they couldn't leave their things unattended, but maybe they could get someone to watch their things for them. Mark and I were the only other people on the upper deck. The hippies turned their heads in our direction. Fuck. They picked up their things and headed over to us. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Old hippie dude sidles up to me and asks me if I'd keep an eye on their stuff. I was too scared to say no, the fucker might stab me in the eye with a fucking carrot. I'm afraid of sharp weapons and veggies scare me. They only proper use for a vegetable is to feed the shit that I'm going to eat for dinner, but I couldn't tell old hippie dude that; motherfucker was probably a vegan and a stone cold killer, you could see it in his eyes. He probably sang "Kumbaya" while on his killing sprees.

The hippies walked off and I realized Mark had fallen asleep and had missed all of this. How the fuck could someone have slept through that? I kicked Mark in the shin, hard. Surprisingly, he woke right up. I acted all innocent and shit while he rubbed his shin and glared at me. Fuck him, didn't he realize that these two old, tree hugging eco-terrorist hippies were hell bent on our destruction and they had just left their backpack bombs at our feet? Wasn't he the least bit concerned? We were all going to fucking die! Wake up, man! There's danger afoot!

Mark looked at me as if I'd lost my fucking mind.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Mark asked me.

Jedi mind tricks. I had no tinfoil hat to save myself, I was doomed.

"Don't you understand? They're going to kill us. Didn't your mother ever teach you about stranger danger, or did she just teach you everything she knows about turning tricks at the truck stop?"

"I'm going for a walk," Mark said. "You stay here and guard the backpack bombs."

"That's fine, you bastard, but you'll be sorry when the bombs explode, the ferry sinks and the killer whales eat your ass. You'll be some sure, sorry as shit then. You'll see."

Mark headed for the exit at a fairly brisk pace, leaving me alone with the certified organic backpack bombs of death. Fucker.

Well, we made it safely to the first stop and the hippies grabbed their shit and took off. I let out a sigh of relief, knowing that these demented disciples of Ted Kaczynski wouldn't be killing me today.

The ferry took off and made a course for Friday Harbor as the sky began to darken and then turned as black as pitch. I hoped the captain could see well enough and that we wouldn't accidentally run aground or have to worry about a sneak attack from the Canadian navy. Those Canadians are some tricky bastards.

We arrived at Friday Harbor and disembarked, searching the darkened streets for food and alcoholic sustenance. Now, I'm sure that Friday Harbor is a wicked cool place, but on a rainy and windswept Sunday night, after dark, in the middle of November, well, there isn't shit to see or do. We walked hither and yon, scanning the few places that were open and found nothing that was to our liking. Starving, we settled for a place called Kung Fu Pizza. Don't ever settle for a place called Kung Fu Pizza, it's going to be a very bad life choice.

The prices on the menu were beyond ridiculous, but we were famished and we had an hour and a half to kill before we could take the ferry back. I ordered wonton soup and pan fried dumplings and I don't know what the fuck they brought me, but it sure as shit wasn't wonton soup. I don't even know what kind of fucking broth it was in, but there were two things that slightly resembled wontons, but weren't and there were all sorts of unrecognizable things in there, as well as a couple of carrots. Carrots... This was part of that eco-terror plot; fuckers were trying to kill me with carrots. The pan fried dumplings were more like deep fried dumplings. That seems to be a thing on the west coast, these deep fried dumpling things and it's just wrong. Stop it. Just stop it, right now and cook that shit the right way; you fuckers have ruined everything.

Two spoons out of the wonton soup and I pushed it aside; it was that nasty. I told the waiter that I didn't really care for it and asked him to please take it away. He asked me if I wanted a box for it and I asked him which part of I don't care for it that he didn't understand. Why the fuck would I want to take something home with me if I didn't want to eat the fucking thing in the first place? The asshole left the bowl on the table and walked away. Dick. He brought the check, charged me for the soup and I deducted it from his tip. No worries and fuck you too, buddy.

We headed back to the ferry and the mainland. I felt tired, pissy and pretty much disgusted. It had been a shit of a day and all I wanted to do was go home and go to sleep, racing for the car once the ferry docked.

I was trying to make it back home in record time, so of course I missed every turn and exit. Fuck my life. I finally made it back to Bellingham, dropped Mark off at his car and headed for home, crawled into bed and hid under the covers.

I never got my fucking drink, either.

So much for a relaxing day off...

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

All Along the Watchtower

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Get Thee Behind Me, Satan

“Be careful, lest in casting out your demons you exorcise the best things in you.”

― Friedrich Nietzsche

Many years ago, I worked for a very small restaurant chain in Florida that was known for offering half-price appetizers during their happy hour. This promotion was loathed by all of the employees and it would attract all of the really cheap and completely broke assholes for miles around and it would basically result in the front of the house staff working twice as hard, for half the money. These entitled motherfuckers would come in, spend their five or ten dollars and they would then proceed to treat you rudely, run your ass off, complain about everything and leave you a shitty tip, if they bothered to tip you at all. It was complete bullshit.

There were always a few gems hidden amongst the throngs of losers that came in for their half-price food; a few decent people that made all of the bullshit worthwhile. On certain nights, we would get a large church crowd in addition to everyone else that would show up for the late night appetizer trough; large and small groups of pleasant and polite folks that were members of a local church; a somewhat strange Christian sect that no one seemed to know much about. All in all, the adults were pretty decent folks who treated you with genuine courtesy, tipped well and were relatively easy to take care of; they just had a few small peculiararities, that's all. Well...

I did make a few observations about those people. I'm not judging mind you, even though we all know damn well that I am, so let's just pretend that I'm not, okay?

There seemed to be some question as to the nature of the religious identity and belief system of these people. Many of my co-workers believed them to be Mennonites, but being familiar with Mennonites and their beliefs and having lived in areas with large Mennonite populations, I can tell you that this just wasn't the case. The men from this church had no facial hair and the women wore no bonnets, whereas Mennonite men grow beards and the women wear a head covering. Mennonites are basically Amish people that choose to live in the modern world.

I never learned the name of the church that they attended, but they would always come in after services, which were always on odd days and at strange times, but it seemed as if their main services would end fairly late in the evening. I guess that everyone worked up quite an appetite, dancing with snakes and speaking in tongues and after the expense of tithing, all they could afford to eat was the shit that we served. They would arrive after ten o'clock and entire families of them would start queuing up at the front door, all wearing their Sunday best; the men and boys dressed in suits, while the girls and women all wore dresses and sported matching beehive hairdos. These were some seriously super stylish dresses. Imagine the Sound of Music seriously super stylish dresses, homespun and everything. It really did look as if the women's clothing was cut from curtains and it sometimes made me wonder if the carpet matched the drapes. Either that, or the damn things were cut from the upholstery of some hideously ugly couch; some castoff relic from a bad 60's acid trip art session,. These were some seriously ugly fucking dresses, let me fucking tell you. Gaudy floral dresses are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. It was quite a contrast to see the men in their store bought suits compared to the ladies that were stuck wearing curtains and sheets. It seemed as if the men got to ride up in first class, while the women had to travel coach.

Apparently, their church had some mighty strange rules when it came to the respective roles of each sex and to the mixing thereof. I've always thought of those people as being a part of the  Quiverfull movement, where the men rule the roost and the women are completely subservient to their husbands. Stepford women whose assigned roles were evidently that of dutiful wives, nurturing mothers and baby making machines, as the families were all quite large.

All unmarried females over a certain age were completely segregated from the main groups. These spinsters would usually sit together, because an unmarried woman was not allowed to speak to a man unless the man spoke to her first. To me, this seemed more about power and control, rather than traditional gender roles, but what the fuck do I know? I think that any religion that keeps a woman subservient to a man and under his control should cause someone to re-examine their values and beliefs and yet it just doesn't happen. It's amazing how quickly some people will abdicate all responsibility for themselves in order to not have to deal with the more difficult aspects of life, or any part of life, for that matter. People are such willing slaves and happiness is slavery, I guess.

As for the children, the girls were sweet, meek and polite, if dumb, while the boys had to have been among the most obnoxious, ill bred and entitled little shits that I have ever come across. The words "please" and "thank you" never seemed to figure into their vocabularies and the little tyrants would just make demand after demand, trying to run your ass off. Those boys were sadly lacking in social skills, treating everyone that was not a member of their tribe with a smug sense of superiority and moral disdain. Those horrible little heathens certainly could have used a lesson in manners and civility, a lesson involving a belt and an awful lot of humility. Speaking of lessons, the children were all home schooled and it was quite evident that religious indoctrination took precedence over any form of secular education. Basically, these kids were the most ignorant litttle fuckers that I've ever come across. Hell, they made my little bastards seem downright angelic and articulate.

One particularly busy Friday night, we were getting our asses handed to us and I guess that services had ended and church had emptied out; each family making their way over to the restaurant and that half-price food. Thankfully, with the section that I was in that night, I didn't have any tables that could accomodate large parties, so I was saved from having to run my ass off and from having to make nine hundred and forty-three freaking Strawberry Mountain Dews and Mango Fucking Pepsi's. Seriously. Who the fuck drinks shit like that? Worse, what kind of fucking parent lets their kids drink shit like that at eleven o'clock at night? With multiple refills, no less. Even worse, I used to throw in extra shots of sugary syrup just to make the kids even more hyper and to punish the parents, because fuck that and those little bastards drank it up, becoming more and more hyper as time went on. Fuck, even I can't ingest that kind of caffeine and sugar and I live on that shit. It's no wonder that they would spend hours in the parking lot after we closed, letting the kids run around like little maniacs, all hopped up on soda and Jesus.

I only had one table open in my section and the host dropped off a single, older lady in her bright and gaudy finest. She wasn't really older, being somewhat around my age, but her dress, hair and demeanor made her seem about ten years older than she probably was. Plus, I'm old as fuck, so you get what I mean.

I idly admired the print of the curtains that she was wearing and wondered how long ago that particular floral pattern had been hanging in the window of some abandoned home somewhere. As I was about to make my way over to the table and get her drink order (I don't always introduce myself, you don't have a right to know my name and I mostly all of the time wear a fucking name tag, so if you can't fucking read, it's on you, bitch), my manager walked up to me and told me that the woman seated at my table was a regular customer, that she came in by herself every Friday night and always ordered the salmon and that I was to make sure that she was well taken care of and that I needed to make her feel special. I assured my boss that I was up to the task and that I'd take care of it. No worries.

"Steve," she said in a warning tone, "Be nice."

"No worries," I said. "I can pretend to be anything."

I smiled. My boss had a panic stricken expression on her face that I found amusing. I laughed as I turned around and walked off, realized that I was headed the wrong way, turned around again and acted like I knew where I was going.

As I approached the table, I turned on the charm, such as it was, The only thing that this meant was that I was able to hide my normal, "Why don't you go fuck yourself" attitude while I pretended to be a normal and pleasant human being. People actually fall for that shit. People are fucking stupid and easily fooled.

"What the fuck is this?" I remember thinking.

The woman had shielded her face with her hand and averted her gaze, looking away from the rest of the restaurant and staring intently at the menu. I'm shooting in the dark here, but I'm guessing that she did this in order not to inflame the passions in the loins of any nearby men, which is a totally good thing, but she really didn't need to worry about inflaming anything. Trust me. Oh, dear Jesus, trust me.

I actually introduced myself, pretending to be all nice and shit. She fell for it. The moment that I spoke to her, the hand dropped and she turned her face to me. Her master's voice, She introduced herself to me and told me that she came in all of the time. I told her that I noticed that she came in every Friday night (I'd never seen her before) and mentioned that she always got the salmon. She blushed.

"I didn't think that anyone ever noticed me," she said. She was beaming.

Oh, shit. Was she flirting with me? I briefly wondered if there was a possibility of turning her into a pot smoking, alcohol guzzling, gutter slut and stifled an evil cackle that others might have interpreted as a giggle or a laugh. I dialed back the charm a little and got down to business, asking what she'd like to drink. She ordered a "sample" of peach iced tea and a glass of water. I smiled and made my escape.

A sample of peach tea? I call bullshit. She wasn't going to sample the tea and buy one, she just wanted a free drink and this was all about getting something for free, but whatthefuckever and I went off to get the drinks. Every motherfucker wants shit for free.

I returned to the table with her drinks and she spoke to me some more, craving conversation and flirting awkwardly. Most of what she had to say centered around how much she loved our salmon and the artichoke spread that it was prepared with, but then she complained that the salmon was too dry on her last visit and asked me to make sure that it was prepared properly. I apologized for the poor quality of our food and joked about having been fishing that morning and that the salmon was nice and fresh, which it certainly never was. Surprisingly, she ordered the salmon.

I excused myself and headed over to the computer to place her order and I saw that my boss was standing there, waiting for me. I quickly wondered what I was in trouble for and how I was going to spin it, but I needn't have worried.

"You sure were there a long time," boss lady said. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to convert. What the hell were you talking to her about?"

"She was complaining about the salmon that she had last week. She said the fish was drier than her snatch, but she sure does love that artichoke spread. I was thinking about recreating the sex scene from Hot Shots with her."

It's kind of hard to describe the look on my manager's face at that moment. Her face had turned kind of reddish purple, she seemed to be having difficulty speaking and she also seemed to be on the verge of having a stroke or a seizure or something.

"Calm down," I said, "I'm just fucking with you, but she did say it was too dry. The salmon, I mean, not her snatch, although I'm sure it's like Death Valley in there."

The look of relief on her face was palpable, but then she laughed.

"There's really something wrong with you," she said.

"Yeah, no shit. There's really something wrong with you if you've just now figured that out," I replied. I smiled.

She let out a nervous little laugh, turned and quickly walked away. People do that a lot when I smile; I've never understood why.

I finished placing the order and I went off to do some waiter shit, prostituting myself for a few measly dollars here and there, when I noticed that my boss was visiting the chuch lady at her table and she was trapped in conversation. I smirked and kept on waitering.

When the salmon was ready, I brought it to the table, where the church lady was busily carving up a very large Portabella mushromm cap that was overflowing with artichoke spread. It looked disgusting.

"That looks good," I lied. "Where did that come from?"

"Your manager brought it to me," the church lady said. She was smiling from ear to ear. She suddenly picked up the plate and fast as a whip, she thrust it at me. I involuntarily took a step back, nearly jumping out of my skin.

"It's too much for me," she said. "Share it with me."

Awkward...

Where's Sexual Harassment Panda when you really need him?

I thanked her for her kind offer, but went on to explain that I couldn't, that I had Celiac Disease and that I couldn't eat anything with wheat or gluten and that I avoided eating in the restaurant, because it always made me sick.

And that's when it happened, In a flash, she dropped the plate with the mushroom cap and it clattered on the table and her hand shot out, palm first and stopped in front of my stomach and and in a clear, shrill voice, she shouted to the heavens.

"Dear Lord Jesus, cast those demons out of this poor man and heal him in your name, Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior."

Wait. What? What the fuck just happened?

Holy fucking shit, did she really just try to cast out my demons? Get. The. Fuck. Out. This couldn't be fucking happening. Didn't this crazy bitch know who she was dealing with? Satan studied under ME, fer fuck's sake.

I was completely taken aback; stunned. I didn't know what to say. Had she really cast out my demons? Would the voices stop? I hoped not, they had some really cool fucking ideas. If my demons were gone, I wouldn't have any friends. What the fuck? Who was I supposed to snuggle with? I wanted to fucking cry. I might have. Who knows? I'm a sensitive motherfucker.

As an atheist, I was very offended. Who did this woman think she was, to presume that she could just force her religion upon me and pray over me? I felt preyed upon.

A silence had descended over my part of the dining room; people were staring. They were staring at me. I was fucking mortified, let me tell you. I had just been "faith healed" in front of an entire restaurant. In my mind, I stabbed the bitch in the eye with a fork, but in reality, I smiled at that fucking lunatic and I graciously thanked her for her efforts. And here you fuckers thought that I didn't have any class. I don't, really, but I can fake it when necessary. Kind of like what women do to me when we have sex and we both pretend that she had a good time.

She looked up at me and she said, "What you really need is to come home to a good woman and a home cooked meal every night."

The fuck I did. Make me a sandwich and get the fuck out, maybe, but this was almost like a fucking marriage proposal.

I made my escape from the table and avoided her until it was time to clear the table and present the check. Unfortunately, she decided to stay and have dessert. I casually mentioned that there was a very nice Baskin & Robins down the street, but I don't think that she got that ever so subtle hint. Shame.

The final blow came when I dropped off the check; that was when she invited me to go to church with her, that brazen hussy. Like on a date, but to church. And then what? Half-price appetizers and a hummer in the back seat? Let me think about that for a second. Nightmarish visions of gaudy floral print, homespun lingerie floated through my head. I shivered. I thought about that whole gutter slut thing again and dismissed it as a thoroughy bad idea, which was pretty surprising, because I'm usually all about bad decisions, but no. Hell no. No fucking way. I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a fork.

I politely declined, explaining that I worked two jobs and seven days a week. She looked as if I'd just crushed all of her hopes and dreams and that, at least really brightened my spirits.

I didn't say another word, I just ran like hell, only coming back to pick up payment. I was strictly business, saying as little as possible.

Later on, my manager asked me how things went and I told her what happened. She got that panicked and I'm about to have a fucking stroke look on her face again and she asked me what I did. I told her that I was totally cool about it and I think her blood pressure went down several hundred points. I didn't mention that whole eye stabbing thing with the fork. Some things are best left unspoken.

If you believe, that's fine with me, I respect that and you're welcome to believe as you like, but your rights end where mine begin and I expect you to have the same respect for my beliefs and rights as I do for yours. While prayer might make you feel better, it really doesn't do anything for me and it's unfair of anyone, not to mention unseemly, to force their belief system upon someone else, no matter how good their intentions may be. I'm proud of my penis, but I don't show it off and try to shove it down everyone else's throat, even if I do think the whole world can suck my dick. Think about that.

If you enjoyed this rant, give this one a chance:

It's Not Delivery, It's A Porno

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All Along the Watchtower

When I was a teenager, I ran with a pretty rough crowd; I was a rocker and a stoner who loved to chase girls and mastermind mischief. Our group never had anything in the way of a leader, but some of us could always be counted on to come up with brilliant ideas to occupy our time. At least they seemed like brilliant ideas at the time, but that's probably because we were young and stupid. Seriously stupid. Most of these brilliant ideas seemed to center around a common theme like, "Hey, let's go find some pussy," or "Hey, let's get fucked up," both of which are, of course, absolutely brilliant ideas, but my personal favorite one was, "Hey, let's get fucked up and find some pussy!"  Unfortunately, the reality of it was that we would rarely find any girls or only some of us did and if you didn't get a girl, you were stuck going Han Solo, but even if we did or we didn't get a girl, you could always count on getting wasted. Some things are just reliable like that and just as reliably, I still can't get a girl...

Occasionally, I would put forth some sort of minimal thought and effort into my critical thinking and come up with some brilliant ideas of my own; a master plan, if you will. Let me give you a tiny tidbit of advice here. If you ever hear me say the words, "I have a plan," run. Just fucking run. Don't look back, just keep running. Trust me, it's for the best, not to mention your own safety. More importantly, if my mention of said plan is followed by the words, "What could possibly go wrong?" forget running, you should probably Duck and Cover.

On second thought, you should probably just go ahead and bend over, stick your head between your legs and kiss your sweet fucking ass goodbye. Yeah, it's that bad.

It was late one Halloween night, when I was a wee lad of just sixteen, or so. We'd been busy scaring trick or treaters, punting pumpkins and festively decorating homes with eggs and toilet paper tinsel ('twas the season and all that shit). The hour had grown late, the streets were deserted and the town was dark, One of us had a brilliant idea which had something to do with getting wasted (it was a pretty popular theme). We had managed to accumulate mass quantities of beer, several bottles of Jack Daniels and a large bag of some very low quality weed. We were drunk, stoned, bored and stupid; a recipe for disaster if ever there was one. Idle hands and minds being the devil's playground and all that shit. We had the will and the means, what we didn't have was common sense and a place to chill. We were trying to figure out where we could go to guzzle down our favorite alcoholic beverages and smoke our wacky weed unmolested. 

There were eight of us, my car and a trunkful of party favors.

That was when it happened; like a bolt out of the blue, I had a sudden epiphany. It seemed as if the heavens opened up and a solitary moonbeam shone upon me like a halo. It was like a lightbulb turning on over my head' Unfortunately, the lightbulb popped and no one noticed.

"Let's go to the water tower," I blurted out.

"And do what?" my friend Dave asked.

"Climb it, dipshit," I responded. "Climb that bitch and get fucked up."

Heads nodded and glory was imagined in the alcoholic fog of our underperforming brains. Everyone agreed that it was indeed a brilliant idea. I honestly believe that we were so messed up that if I had suggested playing tag in traffic, everyone would have agreed that it was a brilliant idea too. Morons. They had the power, they could have stopped the insanity at any time, but nooooo... they just had to listen to me. Who in their right mind listens to me? Sweet jumping baby Jesus.

Dave called shotgun, I closed the trunk and we all piled into my car. I miss that car, it was such a sweet ride. A 1972 LeMans with a big ass 350 and it was cherry as shit.

Dave, Doug and I were in the front seat and when I turned my head, I saw the other five guys were crammed into the back seat like some sort of sausage factory. If that last sentence didn't contain any overtly homoerotic overtones, I don't know what the hell would, but it just wasn't like that, okay? Fuck. I'll tell you when to put your mind in the gutter and it's not going to be in this story.

I cranked up the stereo and we peeled out of the parking lot; nitwits on wheels. It took maybe three minutes of breaking various traffic laws and possibly a misdemeanor or two as we weaved our way to our destination. Miraculously, we arrived at our destination unscathed and without harming anyone else. Property damage was pretty minimal, depending upon your definition of minimal. Your definition, mine and that of law enforcement may tend to differ somewhat. Remember kids, it's only illegal if you get caught.

I hopped out of the car and I watched as the sausage unlinked itself from the back seat and exited the vehicle. Yeah, I know that was a really bad pun. They can't be fucking zingers every fucking time. Work with me here, people.

I walked around to the back of the car and I popped the trunk. I turned around to see all of my friends staring up at the water tower with their mouths hanging open. Idiots. This is why I'm the evil genius.

"Are we really going to climb that?" Doug asked.

"Of course we are,"  I answered.

"B-but what if someone falls or gets hurt?" he stammered.

I looked at Doug as if he were a particularly slow member of Congress and I said, "D-don't be such a pussy. We're going to climb it, we're going to hang out and we're going to get wasted. Grab some beer and get going."

"How are we supposed to get the beer up there?" Dave asked me.

Fucking assholes and their obvious asshole questions get obvious answers from other fucking assholes. Now say that shit three times fast.

"We're going to carry it. How the fuck did you think we we're going to get it up there? It's not like your mom's here and we could use her pussy. Hell, we'd even have room to spare."

"Fuck you, dickhead," Dave shot back.

A witty retort if ever I've heard one. The sting of butthurt was strong in his tone.

"What I meant was," he contined, "How are we supposed to carry everything up there? I know we have to carry it up there, I'm not fucking stupid."

"Yes, you are," I told him. "You're just in denial about it."

Sometimes, it's tough being an evil genius. Like a demented fucking Einstein on meth or crack, or meth and crack, or crack, meth and just a little bit of heroin thrown into the mix for fun (whatthefuckever, you get the picture), I laid out my carefully crafted plan.

"I have a backpack and a gym bag in my car. We can fill them both up with beer. We can stuff more bottles in our pockets, along with the booze and we can just climb on up."

Everyone agreed that it was a brilliant idea and it was. That's why I'm the fucking mastermind, bitches.

We packed up the beer and I went to lift the backpack. Holy shit, it was heavy, but I didn't dare look like a wuss; the pack would atack any weakness. I picked up the backpack and put it on my shoulders, adjusting the straps. The bottles of beer clinked together, making a cheerful little sound. I liked that sound, but I'm a very easily amused idiot.

I was just about to start climbing the ladder when Dave's voice stopped me.

"Wait," he said, "How am I supposed to carry this gym bag up there? I can't climb the ladder with just one hand."

I turned around and I looked at Dave as if he were something that I had just scraped off of the bottom of my shoe.

"Do I have to think of everything for you?" I asked him. "Take off your belt and loop it through the handles of the gym bag, Buckle it up and wrap it around your neck while you're climbing up. That should solve everything."

"I can't do that." Dave squealed like a little girl. "I'll break my neck."

"I know," I said and then I smiled.

I'm such a dick.

"Look, dude. Throw the belt over your shoulder and climb up. The weight will be fine and you shouldn't have any problems."

And there you have it, yet another brilliant idea from yours truly. It's not always easy being an evil genius. It's sort of like a curse, really, You know, like the kind of curse that a really pissed off, batshit crazy Gypsy lady would put on you. I did that once, you know. I actually pissed off and I mean really pissed off, a batshit crazy old Gypsy woman. She actually cursed me, too. I laughed at her. I thought she was going to have a stroke. She was wild-eyed and the spittle was flying. Her voice grew louder and more shrill as she continued to curse me and all my future generations (sorry, boys). Or, maybe she was just asking me if I liked pizza. I don't know, I couldn't understand a single fucking word she said. I'll tell you this, though, I'm still here and she's long dead. Who's the one that's laughing now, bitch? And I'll still be laughing, all the way to Hell.

Gypsies...

Gypsies, tramps and thieves, At least that's what all the people in the town would call them.

Look, this was a fairly simple and easy to accomplish plan. It only had two steps.

Step 1 - Climb the water tower.

Step 2- Get wasted.

How fucking hard could it be? Why did these knuckleheads have to keep trying to screw up the execution of my painstakingly crafted master plan?

I looked up at the water tower. The top of it seemed to be a long, long way off. I took a deep breath, released a long sigh and I started to climb the ladder. The backpack full of beer pulled at my shoulders, weighing me down and making my climb an arduous one, but I was determined to reach the top and I was damn sure going to do it. I can be one stubborn son of a bitch when the mood strikes me.

We were all strangely quiet as we started our ascent, but we were soon back to our normal rapport of insults and stories about the dubious virtue of our mothers. I was about halfway up when I heard a shouted, "Oh, fuck!" followed by a loud crash. The sound of breaking glass shattered the stillness of the night.

"I dropped the beer," Dave yelled.

Well, no shit, Sherlock. Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious.

"It slipped. It wasn't my fault."

The fuck it wasn't. Everyone yelled obscenities at Dave, but we continued our climb. By my reckoning, we still had well over a case of beer with us, plus the whiskey and the weed, It would have to do. I told everyone to be quiet and to stop making so much noise. I hoped that no one had heard us and called the cops. We'd be shit out of luck and trapped if they showed up.

After what seemed like forever, I made it to the top, which was a good thing because my arms felt so numb, I thought I was going to fall off. I pushed open the grate and I climbed onto the catwalk, with the other guys following shortly thereafter. It had been a hell of a climb and my arms hurt like a bitch, but I acted as is it had been nothing. I cracked open a beer and chugged it down. Nectar of the gods. I think it was Bud, or Mickey's, or some other nasty shit like that. It's not my fault; I didn't know better, I was young and stupid. Now, I'm older and just as stupid, if not more, but at least I know what good beer is and it sure as shit wasn't the swill that we drank that night or any other, to be honest. You know what, though? It worked; it did the trick, it brought the buzz and in the end, that was all that really mattered. Besides, without any girls around, there was no need to go all out and spend our beer money on fancy pants high-brow crap like wine coolers or Boone's Farm Berry Hill. Sometimes, quantity has a quality all its own.

We looked out over the town and beyond, to the bay; it was a beautiful sight and then it was over and done. Time to party.

We had just finished our first round of beer when one of the guys lost his fucking mind and chucked his empty bottle over the railing, where it then followed the laws of gravity by landing below in an explosion of glass. This was quickly followed by several more bottles and subsequent explosions before I was able to put a halt to this particular brand of madness.

"Stop that shit, you fucking imbeciles!" I hissed "People will hear it, if they haven't already, get pissed off, if they aren't already and call the fucking cops, if they haven't already. I really don't feel like getting busted right now, so please stop throwing the bottles and calling attention to us, you stupid fucks,"

Sometimes, it's like I'm The Brain and everyone else around me is a fucking Pinky.

It seems that in the land of the fuckheads, any imbecile can be king. You know what? It's good to be king.

We drank and we smoked, we laughed and we joked; trading gossip and insults and telling stories about all of the girls that we weren't having sex with. We had a really great time for all of about the next twenty minutes, or so.

That's when the first cop showed up. We watched as he got out of his car and looked up at us. He shook his head, walked back to his car, turned his spotlight on and shined the light at us. The light was blinding.

Personally, I thought it was pretty rude. Fucking inconsiderate, if you ask me.

The cop looked back up at us and then he yelled, "What in the hell are you boys doing up there? Get your asses down here, right now!"

Crickets. We didn't say a word.

"I ain't fuckin' wit' you boys," the cop yelled. "I said to get down here right now and I meant every goddamn word."

"No! Fuck you!" my buddy Mike yelled back. "I ain't coming down until I finish my beer."

You know, that might not have been the best thing for him to say, you know, given our current situation and all.

The cop yelled again, "I'm gonna' kick yer ass when I get my hands on you, boy,"

The cop then picked up his radio and called in the situation just as a second squad car pulled up. About a minute later, they were joined by a supervisor,

We were pretty fucked.

Whose brilliant fucking idea was this, anyway? It really wasn't my idea that was at fault, though, it was the  fault of the idiots who botched the execution of my perfect plan that were at fault. So.... not it.

We quietly discussed our options and we didn't have too many. Okay, we only had one. We were trapped and we knew it, but we didnt think that the cops would climb the water tower to come after us. In for a penny, in for a pound, we decide to stay up there and party until we finished off all of our consumables. Since we were getting busted, we might as well go out with a bang and Fuck The Police! Damn, I'm so fucking gangsta.

Two more spotlights were now trained on us, joining the first. More squad cars arrived. The shit that we were in was getting deeper by the moment.

The police continued to order us to come down and we continued to ignore them. We kept our eyes on the prize, which was becoming incoherently intoxicated and we were winning. Burnouts 1, Cops 0. We kept drinking our beer and passing the bottle of Jack Daniels back and forth, while snoking bowl after bowl of whatever that nasty shit was that was trying to pass itself off as marijuana.

I should have expected it, but I wasn't all that long before empty bottles started sailing over the railing again. For some reason, that seemed to really get the cops all agitated and shit. We heard the squelch of a PA.

"You boys probably think that you're pretty funny right about now and y'all probably think that you're pretty screwed. Let's all be reasonable here. You'd best do the smart thing. the wise thing and climb on down, right now. We'll get this all sorted out and talk it over some. Y'all be home before the night is over. Do the right thing, fellas and come on down." said the artificially amplified Voice of Reason and Authority.

This completely reasonable offer was met with a ragged chorus of, "Fuck yous." I must confess that the harmonizing wasn't all that it could have been, but we were a tad tipsy, so I blame the alcohol for our lackluster acapella performance.

Doug suddenly stood up, said, "I have to pee," walked over to the railing, whipped it out and just let it fly. Literally. Doug was treating the cops to a golden shower. 

I really hoped that the police appreciated a little kink. I mean, they're cops, after all and what cop doesn't appreciate a little kink? Pleas, pleas and please, do not leave any stories about kinky cops in the comments section. On second thought, if you have kinky cop stories, go ahead and leave them in the comments section. I really want to read that shit. Btw, I didn't misspell please, it's pleas, as in pleading or begging, so who's smirking now, you smug motherfucker?

Doug was pissing on the cops. Holy fuck! We were doomed. We were fucked. We were doomfucked. I couldn't go to jail, I was way too pretty for prison. It was weird, but a strange sort of calm descended over us and one by one we all stood up and walked over to the railing, where we all joined Doug in showing our appreciation for the boys in blue. Our eight gun salute did not go unnoticed. We watched and laughed as the cops scattered like cockroaches, panicking and running about. You'd have thought we were hitting them with mortars, for fuck's sake.

We didn't actually hit any of the cops, but we did clean the dust off of a couple of their cruisers. Needless to say, they weren't very appreciative of our efforts. Honestly, common courtesy just seems to have gone by the wayside. We then hunkered back down, ignoring the police and their blah, blah, blah chatter over the PA. We finished off the alcohol and the pot, talking about what we were going to do once we got out of jail and wondering if we would be able to escape from the country before our parents could catch us and kill us. Our prospects weren't looking very good. We knew we'd have to come down eventually and as soon as we sobered up enough, we would make the long climb down to face the axeman. Do be careful with that axe, Eugene.

After we had sobered up some, we did manage to climb back down without losing anyone; I wasn't able to get close enough to my target, which is a good thing. I guess. Que sera, sera.

When we hit the ground, the cops roughed us up a little bit, before tossing us into squad cars and taking us down to the police station. We weren't handcuffed or anything, just thrown into the back of the police cars with a 'thump'. 

"Ouch!"

"Watch your head."

When we arrived at the police station, we were bitched at, yelled at, screamed at (spittle flying from the mouth and everything) and alternately, we were pushed, shoved, tripped, slapped and smacked upside our respective heads. I remember a couple of those hits had me seeing stars. Talk about a fucking buzzkill.

In the end, nothing serious happened to us. The police called our parents and allowed them to decide our fate, They did this with a particular relish in my case, as most of the police officers involved knew my father personally and they knew exactly what he would do to me, once I was released. I would have been safer in jail. The police knew as well as I did that my father would be angry that I had embarassed my family and pissed off the cops. He thanked the officers for their discretion and shook hands with each of them, assuring them that I would get what was coming to me. The cops laughed and told me to have a good time when I got home. Fuckers.

And it really sucked when I got home. My father kicked my ass ten ways from Sunday and my mother cheered him on, wading in every now and then to smack me with her wooden spoon. If you're Italian, you know exactly what I'm talking about. They're a staple in every Italian household except mine, I hate the fucking things. I got to play with one of those more than any other toy during my childhood. The fun factor really sucks.

At the end of the day, I considered it a learning experience; indeed, I learned a valuable lesson, that night.

Always have an escape route.

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