If the Shoe Fits

I've been called a cheap bastard more than once and I'd like to take this opportunity to refute those allegations; they're just not true. Well, they are true, sort of, but it's not like you think.

I'm frugal. Thrifty, even.

Sometimes.

I like to live well. Hell, I can blow money like a drunken sailor. Thankfully, I've never gotten drunk and blown a sailor, but I have seen a few cute Navy chicas that I wouldn't mind setting sail upon. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a girl in uniform, or out of uniform. Hell, I'm just a fan of girls in general. Frankly, it all comes down to this simple little nugget, everything has a maximum value to me and if I don't feel like I'm getting enough bang for my buck, I'm not going to buy. I do like the finer things and I've got a serious addiction to electronics and high-end camera gear. Unfortunately, I have champagne tastes and a Champale budget.

Wtf is Champale, you ask? I'm not Wikipedia, Google that shit yourself.

What a coincidence! I've got a party for your mouth too!

More like cheap HO HO HO.

You know shit's classy when it comes in a can.

In all honesty, I do have to admit that sometimes I can be really cheap. Hell, I can squeeze a nickel so tightly that the buffalo shits. Seriously though, there's just some shit that I don't want to spend any money on. For example, I never, ever want to have to buy shit for work, but when I absolutely have to, I spend the least amount of money that I possibly can and I try to fix and patch things as they start to wear out, thereby extending their life and keeping my money in my pocket just a little while longer. I don't want to have to pay to go to work. I mean, isn't the whole idea of my having a job is so that I can take someone else's money? Why the fuck would I want to spend my own?

I've mentioned before that I supplement my income by moonlighting at a local restaurant and we are required to wear an all black uniform. I was forced to buy a bunch of shirts from them (fuckers), but I had to supply everything else. Thankfully, I already owned everything else, the right pants, socks, shoes and a belt. Hell, I've had most of that stuff for over ten years and it's because I actually spent good money on those clothes that they've lasted so long. The pants are still in excellent shape, the socks have seen better days, belts last forever and we'll talk about the shoes in just a minute, 

Let's start with the socks...

Yeah, I know, socks. Bear with me, I'll get there. Patience is a fucking virtue, you know and I'm totally full of virtue. Well, I'm full of something, anyway.

Out of all of the restaurant clothing that I own, my socks are the newest and the things that I buy most often. It fucking kills me. For me, having to buy clothes for work is basically akin to handing my employer cash. My cash. Fuck that shit. So, I buy the cheapest black socks that I can find. My current batch has lasted me through two years of fairly heavy use, which is good I guess, but they're at the end of their life cycle. Lately, every time that I've put one on, my foot has gone through the heel and I would try to fix them, but I don't know how to sew, much less darn socks, so there's just no fixing them. Into the trash they go. 

I went to Kohl's to look for whatever it was that I forgot to buy and saw that they had socks and underwear on sale. Talk about serendipity. I grabbed a pack of black socks and I even decided to splurge on some underwear and t-shirts. I couldn't find price tags on anything, but that stuff is usually pretty inexpensive, so no big deal. Not being a big fan of shopping, I took my sale booty directly to the register. There was only one cashier open, but I was next in line, so it was cool, The first item to ring up was $36. $36? For fucking underwear? I had just been in Wal-Mart the day before and had the exact same package in my hand but didn't buy it because I was too cheap to spend $12.50 and now that lower price seemed like one hell of a bargain. If I wasn't willing to pay $12.50 for it, I certainly wasn't about to spend $36. I apologized and asked the cashier to put it back. I looked behind me and saw that several people had formed a line, The next item rang up. $24 for three t-shirts. No fucking way. I put those back, too. Yeah, I was that fucking guy. The line grew longer. The $16 socks went back too. In the end, I only bought one thing, a pair of Punisher boxer shorts that came in a really cool tin and were on clearance for 80% off of the already low clearance price. They cost me $4.20 which is ironic, because I mostly bought it to keep my weed in the tin. Serendipity, The line was halfway down the aisle and it was all my fault. I should have felt bad, but I didn't. Fuck those people.

You can put your weed in there.

Well, I still had to buy new socks and I managed to do so, finding a pack of five pairs of black socks and five pairs of white for only $7.50. I needed white socks too, but hadn't wanted to spend the money on them, but it was a great deal, so I bought them, Hell, I got socks, underwear and t-shirts at Wal-Mart for less money than the package of underwear would have cost me at Kohl's.

Now that was fucking exciting, wasn't it?

Let's talk about those shoes.

My work shoes are the one thing that I don't cheap out on. My current pair were very expensive when I bought them, over twelve years ago, but if I'm going to be on my feet as much as I am, I want the most comfortable and durable shoes that money can buy. I used to buy the cheap ones that were made for restaurant work, but they would always fall apart and I would end up going through two to three pairs a year at an average cost of thirty dollars each, until I took a friend's advice and invested in a much more expensive pair of shoes. While they originally set me back $150, I have saved about $90 a year since I acquired them. They are still extremely comfortable and in great shape except for one minor little problem; the soles like to keep peeling off.

I usually start noticing this when I start tripping over things. It's kind of hard to miss and more than a little embarrassing as I go windmilling through the workplace trying to regain my balance. Thankfully, this is something that I can fix and I usually just end up gluing the sole back to the shoe. It's a pretty simple fix and usually, it isn't a problem. Usually.

After occasionally tripping over things for the past few weeks, I decided to break down and fix my shoes. I had used silicone to fix them the last time, but I was looking for a more permanent solution or at least something that would last longer than the silicone did. While at the store, I perused row after row of glues and adhesives. There was super glue, gorilla glue and all kinds of other shit, but the lowest price was three dollars and I just didn't want to shell out that much money. That was when I saw it. It was like the clouds had parted and a shaft of light beamed down upon the packaging. Forever Glue. Four tubes to a pack and only 97¢. Bingo!

All of these deals. It's like a cheap bastard's wet dream.

I paid for my things and juggled them on the way out the door and to the car, hoping that I wouldn't drop anything along the way, because here in Washington state, you're only supposed to use reusable bags and I absolutely refuse to carry one of those things around because any man that carries one of those things around looks gayer than cum on a mustache. Besides, I look retarded enough already, I don't need any extra help.

Sweet, I've managed to be offensive to gays and the mentally disabled in the same paragraph. Sorry, but if you came here looking for political correctness, well, fuck you. I really don't have anything against anyone, I just like being an asshole. Every morning when I wake up, I look at myself in the mirror and I say, "I'm proud to be a cunt and I'm going to piss people off today." And then I smile, because that's how I find my happy place. If I were royalty, I would be the Duke of Douchebag. It's fun, you should try it sometime. It's like a breath of fresh air.

Anyway, plastic bags don't seem to exist at any of the stores in this county (I think there's a law), but for some reason, we give them out at the restaurant, so that leaves only paper bags and God forbid you should take a paper bag, because now you're a fucking tree killer in the land of tree hugging hippies and everyone around you will give you the stink eye and suddenly you're the town pariah. It's fear and loathing in Bellingham. Besides, those bags cost a nickel. Fuck that shit, I'm not using some gay ass man purse, paying for a paper bag that should be free in the first place, or worrying about the wrath of hippies. Fuck it, I'll carry everything myself.

Of course, there is one particular benefit that can be directly attributed to paper bags.

Plus, they're perfect for my selfies.

I'm sexy and I know it.

I arrived home and had to make several trips to carry all of my crap into the house, which pissed me off, because I'm an everything in one trip kind of guy and you can't carry everything in one trip when you don't have any fucking bags. I swear to fucking everything that I hold holy, which is absolutely nothing, that I am going to buy a case of plastic bags and carry those fucking things everywhere, just so I can enjoy the horrified looks on the faces of the locals. Fucking paper bag Nazi bastards.

I put away all of the crap that I had spent my money, took a shower, made dinner, relaxed a little and then it was time to do the deed. I grabbed my work shoes and the Forever Glue and I headed into the kitchen where the light was best.

Forever Glue. So simple, even a moron could use it.

I peeled back the sole of the first shoe and cleaned off the remains of the old silicone, before appling the Forever Glue to the inside of the shoe.

I may have been a bit overzealous in my application of glue. As I squeezed the two pieces of the shoe together, I felt a wetness hit the palm of my hand and my fingers. Fuck. I quickly pulled my hand away from the shoe, but some of my fingers were now stuck together and there was a miniature  glue pond sitting in the palm of my hand. Fuck me.

I wasn't going to worry about the glue just yet, because I still had another shoe to fix and why should I go through the trouble to clean up the glue when I still had another shoe to fix and would only need to clean up the glue again? I decided that using less glue on the other shoe would be a good idea, except that it wasn't a practical idea, as the second shoe was more damaged than the first. I liberally applied the Forever Glue and squeezes the show together. I watched as the glue flooded out of the sides of the shoe and coated me hand and the bottom of the shoe. I tried to pull my hand away from the shoe, but it was too late. My hand was stuck fast to the bottom of the shoe.

While I wasn't exactly happy with my hand being stuck to the shoe, I wasn't really worried, either. While I personally didn't know how to remove super glue, I knew that it could be done and so I used Google to search for a solution to my predicament. While the bond of the glue may be strong and permanent, super glue does have an Achilles heel in the form of acetone, which can be most commonly found in nail polish remover, which every single woman in the United States of America owns and carries with them at all times. Don't try to dispute me on this, it's a known fact.

I let out a sigh of relief and knew that I was in the clear. There just happens to be a woman living under the same roof and so I found Lisa, played show and tell with my hand and the fucking shoe and asked her if I could use her nail polish remover to separate the conjoined twins that my hand and that fucking shoe had become.

"I don't have any," she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I don't have any nail polish remover. What part of that is so hard to understand? she answered. "I don't paint my nails, so I don't need any nail polish remover,"

Heresy! And while I'm at it, WTF? There's like a couple of hundred million chicks in this country and I just happen to live under the same roof as the only woman that doesn't own a fucking bottle of nail polish remover. Great, just fucking great. What the hell was I supposed to do? I certainly didn't want to go out in public looking like a total fucktard (you'd think I'd be used to it by now, but I'm not), but it didn't look as if I had a choice and it was starting to get late, I wanted to get the damn shoe off of my hand and go to work in the morning, I needed to get my ass in gear and get to the store before it closed. Everything closes early around here, except for my night job.

I got in the car and headed for Fred Meyer, which is owned by Kroger and is kind of like Target, but more expensive, Please note that I do not recommend driving a motor vehicle with a shoe glued to your hand. It's a bit challenging. As I pulled into the parking lot of the store, I could see that they were already closed. Damn it! I headed for Wal-Mart. When I got there, I parked the car and made a run for the door, trying to be seen by as few people as possible. As I walked through the automatic door, I heard a voice call to me.

"Sir? I'm sorry, but we're closed."

Noooooooooooooooooooo...

I turned and saw the Wal-Mart employee who had managed to offend me so. I tried to decide if I should kill him or not. In the end, my infinite mercy won out and I spared his life, I explained my situation, pleading with him and I once again played show and tell with that fucking shoe.

He burst out laughing. That motherfucker. And after I spared his fucking life, too. How dare he? I wanted to throat punch that son of a bitch, but I restrained myself.

"I'm sorry, sir," he spit out between bursts og laughter, "but we're closed and ther's nothing that I can do,

I was totally fucked and completely out of options, but then I remembered that there is a 24 hour Walgreen's just down the road and I made a beeline for it. I ran inside the store and headed for the cosmetics section, finding what I needed almost immediately. I grabbed that bottle of nail polish remover and turned around which was when I noticed that there were five or six people staring at me and the shoe glued to my hand. Fer fuck's sake, people, there's no need to be rude. Haven't you ever seen a dumbass with their hand glued to a shoe before?

I walked away without saying a word and went straight to the cash register. It was a bit of a bitch trying to get the money out of my wallet and it didn't help that the cashier kept giggling, but at least she took pity on me  and helped me get some money out to pay for my purchase. She then asked me if I needed a bag. Oh, hell no! I'm not falling into that trap! I grabbed my purchase and left the store, heading for the car. I planned on pouring that magical elixir all over my hand as soon as possible. When I went to open the bottle, there was just one small problem, I needed to use both hands and I couldn't, because one of them was super glued to a fucking shoe! I did the only thing that I could do and I opened the bottle with my teeth, broke the seal and poured that shit all over my hand. I then decided that it would be an opportune time to drop the bottle and spill about half of its contents on the ground. I quickly scooped the bottle back up, but once again it was too late and the damage had been done. The shoe was only about half loosened from my skin.

There was absolutely no way in hell that I was going to humiliate myself yet again by walking into Walgreen's and buying another bottle of nail polish remover. Nope, not gonna' happen. I looked at my hand and I looked at the shoe. I grabbed the shoe with my free hand and pulled it away from my other hand, ripping off about six thousand layers of skin in the process. Holy shit, that shit hurt, but at least I got the damn shoe off of my hand. The remains of the glue, however, were a completely different story. I had patches of glue stuck all over my hand for the next week, as I tried to scratch off the glue. The only bright spot to all of that was that it wasn't my monkey beater, which was still in pristine condition, which was totally lucky for me.

It will probably be a bit before I venture out in public again. I don't want to be recognized.

I wish I could say that I learned some sort of valuable lesson from the experience, other than learning that not all women own nail polish remover and that I should always keep a bottle handy, because I'm a fucking idiot and it's only a matter of time until I glue myself to something else.

Fuck it, at least I saved some money.

And they all lived happily after...

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

Hosed

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.

Yeah.

Sure.

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.

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.

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!

Hosed

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.

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Check Yourself, Wreck Yourself

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