The Bank Job

Relationships are complicated things; they can either evolve and grow over time or they can fall apart in an instant. People can see things differently, change direction, or want something different from what is currently on offer. Unlike a contractual obligation, a relationship can be ended by either party at any time. One moment, everything seems to be chugging along just fine and it’s pure bliss, but the next thing you know, you’ve been kicked to the curb and you’re out on your ass. Welcome to apartment hunting, homeless-style. In this game, you try to win by tracking down the best appliance boxes to live in and remember, location, location, location. Location is everything.  Steam grates and fast food restaurants with an accessible dumpster are prime pieces of real estate in the homeless community, as well as an indicator of social status. Still, it’s a cold, cruel world out there and in the long run, it’s probably best to keep that miserable fucking bitch or bastard happy. I say that because having shit like electricity, running water, food, toilet paper, pornography and all of that other civilized crap are good things. At the very least, it sure as shit beats waking up covered in cat piss and pigeon shit, wondering where your next hit of Robitussin is going to come from.

As an aside, Walgreen’s is open twenty-four hours a day. Aisle 5.

Yeah, breakups are hard. Breakups are brutal, soul-killing and savage; a betrayal, a dagger through the heart. And while there’s no such thing as a good breakup, a truly bad breakup is devastating, leaving you adrift, lost and alone.

My bank broke up with me today.

That bitch.

I’ve been crying for hours, binge watching movies about bank robberies and eating Ben & Jerry’s. I even went through an entire box of tissues watching one movie. That one wasn’t about robbing banks.

Not really, but I was pretty pissed off. I’m not pissed off anymore, though. Nope, now I’m just humiliated.

It all started with a letter and it wasn’t the letter ‘P’ from Sesame Street.

I couldn’t believe the words as I read them, my bank was breaking up with me. I was stunned and heartbroken as I read the impersonal words contained on that single page of fine, vellum paper. No explanation, just a cold and brief note in the mail, informing me that the bank was closing my accounts and terminating our relationship. I couldn’t understand the reasoning behind their decision, I’d been a good customer, I’d never had an overdraft or bounced a check. Hell, I don’t even own a check, I do all of my banking online. I’d even been faithful, sort of. I had been seeing another bank. I had accounts elsewhere, but my bank already knew all about that. I thought we had an open relationship. As far as I knew, I had never done anything to incur their wrath. Could this be as simple as jealousy? A bad case of asset envy, perhaps?

Still, the questions nagged at me. Why? What the hell had I done? Deep down, I didn’t really give a shit about what I may or may not have done. I do all kinds of fucked up shit, so one more accusation of fuckery doesn’t really surprise me. Honestly, all I really cared about was my money. And that begs the question, what about my fucking money?

The letter from the bank informed me that Chase was closing my accounts because continuing their relationship with me created a possible reputational risk for them. In other words, Chase was politely saying the equivalent of, “It’s not us, it’s you,” and “We need some space.” I must admit that the form letter went to great lengths to show empathy for me, further informing me that Chase knew that this was not a decision that they made lightly and that the account closures might cause difficulties for me.

Difficulties. Yeah, no shit. Fuckers.

Chase also wanted to let me know how magnanimous they were and that they were willing to help me through this difficult time.

It would “help” me, if I would destroy the debit and credit cards for all of my accounts.

Any checks that were written on the account would be returned as unpaid, because the account was closed.

Direct deposits and recurring payments would be rejected.

Hey Fuckers, what about my money?

Oh, there it was, hidden in the middle of the fucking Dear John letter.

Funds may not be withdrawn from this account at this time.

Fuck me.

You dirty cocksuckers…

So, when do I get my fucking money?

After those motherfuckers verified all deposits and payments, I’d get a check in the mail for any remaining funds and that it would be ten days, before I’d get my coin, which is no problem, of course, because I’m independently wealthy and live a life of such fucking leisure that I was absolutely certain that the $4.37 that I had in my change jar would carry me through the next week. Oh, and sorry kitty, but that can of Fancy Feast belongs to me now, so back off, bitch.

Chase also let me know that they valued me as a customer and I’ll tell you, nothing could make me feel more like a valued customer than that letter did. Truly, it filled my heart with sunshine, happiness and joy. Assholes.

Once again, Chase informed me that they were reaching out to let me know that they were there to help in this difficult time and that if I needed to talk, if I had any questions or concerns, I should give them a call and we could hug it out.

Maybe sit in a big circle, holding hands and singing fucking “Kumbaya”.

Yeah, fuck that.

I had lots of fucking questions and concerns and I was just about to call those motherfuckers when I noticed a sentence that I hadn’t read, buried near the bottom of the letter. The sentence read, “If you are calling from outside of the U.S., please call us collect.”

You’ll never guess what I did.

I walked right out to the car and I drove off, in search of a pay phone. I didn’t have to search very long, as I came across one almost immediately, at a 7-11 that’s just a few blocks from my house. You bet your ass I called them collect.

Fuck that, let those bitches pay for my call. They were going to pay alright.

But pay they didn’t. Those motherfuckers didn’t accept the charges for the call. Wtf? Lying fucking liars.

And now I had to pee.

More than a little pissed off, I returned home, walked passed the bathroom and called the bank from my mobile phone.

Fuck. I forgot to pee. No worries, how long could the call take? I could wait it out.

The phone was answered with a chipper, “Good morning,” by an equally chipper gentleman and I feel the need to point out that I am nowhere near chipper, nor am I a gentleman in the morning and I most certainly do not say motherfucking chipper things, no matter what the time of day. Okay, that’s kind of a lie. I happily tell people to go fuck themselves all of the time, so I guess you could call that chipper. Anyway, more often than not, I’m just a heartbeat away from assaulting and killing chipper people who say chipper things and I want to kill them even more, when they do their chipper shit first thing in the morning. I smiled as I pictured disemboweling that chipper fucking bastard with my righteous anger.

And I really had to pee.

Anyway, the guy droned on…

“Thank you for calling Chase…” and whatever other scripted bullshit he was forced to say and that I didn’t pay attention to. He droned on, “My name is Richard. How may I be of service to you today.”

Gremlins were jumping on my bladder and I felt like I was about to explode. All I wanted to do was hang up the phone and run for the bathroom, but instead, I introduced myself and told Richard about the letter, telling him that I didn’t understand what was going on and asked for an explanation.

A very quick explanation. My kidneys were about to burst.

“I’ll be happy to be of service to you in that matter today. If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll look into that,” Richard said. “I just need to verify your identity and access your accounts.”

My back teeth were floating. I started fidgeting like a spastic monkey, all whacked out on crack.

We went through the whole rigmarole and Richard accessed my account. Richard had kept a running banter of small talk going up until this point, but suddenly, he was silent.

“Oh…” he said. “You’re that guy. One moment, please.”

Well, that sure sounded ominous. What the hell had he meant by ‘that guy’?

I found myself on hold, trapped listening to what I’m sure was supposed to be soothing music, but I’ve always found the strains of “Afternoon Delight” to be somewhat enraging. Like, shank a bitch, enraging, but I digress.

I couldn’t hold it any longer, I was about to wet my pants.

It only got worse when Debbie Boone started singing, “You Light Up My Life.”

I was losing my fucking mind. I ran for the bathroom and made it just in time. No one’s calling my Pauley Pissy Pants. I let out a sigh of relief, and then Debbie Boone cut out in mid-caterwaul just as Richard came back on the line, which saved me from going apeshit and strangling someone with the telephone cord. Just kidding, no one has a landline anymore.

“Mr. Marandola, are you using the restroom?” Richard asked.

I had forgotten that the phone was on speaker. Oops.

I stopped peeing and held that shit. I was really dying now. Do you know how hard it is to stop peeing and hold it in midstream?

“Um… no?” I answered. “What? No, I’m not. Who does that? That’s disgusting.”

I couldn’t believe it; I’d just been caught with my dick in my hands. Again. This was the entire situation that I’d been trying to avoid in the first place and instead, I’d grabbed the bull by the horn, so to speak, not once, but twice.

Not that it’s any consolation, really, but at least my bad decisions are epic.

“Sir…,” Richard began.

Uh, oh. That sounded even more ominous than the last thing he’d said, which had been as ominous as fuck.

Maybe I had done something wrong, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it could have been. I mean, I do a lot of shit. I made a mental list of all of my recent wrongdoings and while there were a shit ton of fuck ups, there wasn’t anything that involved the bank, or that would cause them to terminate their relationship with me. Not in recent memory, anyway. I use the term recent memory very loosely. As I mentioned, I do a lot of shit, so recent memory only encompasses about a week; anything longer than that counts as the remote past, because ain’t nobody got time for all that. Life with me is like living in dog years.

Meanwhile, I’m still holding my pee. Not cool. So totally not cool.

“The bank has closed your account based upon your personal behavior at one of our branches,” Richard continued.

What? What kind of fuckery was this? Personal behavior? While I’d never doubt that my behavior might cause a ruckus, I hadn’t even been inside of a branch for months. Something to do with my general loathing for humanity.

“Have to pee. Have to pee. Have to pee.” I thought. It had become my mantra.

“I’m not sure that I understand,” I said. “What exactly do you mean by personal behavior?”

“Mr. Marandola,” Richard replied, “Do we really need to get into all of that?”

Well, since only one of us seemed to know what the fuck ‘all of that’ encompassed, we sure as shit did. So clue me in, motherfucker.

Agitated, I responded, “Richard, I’m not sure what you mean. Dick. I haven’t been inside of a branch in months. Dick. I can’t think of any type of misbehavior or faux pas that I may have committed that would cause the bank to terminate its relationship with me. So, Dick, perhaps you could explain it all to me. Oh, and do you mind if I call you Dick?

I think I might have rubbed Dick the wrong way. So to speak. I thought I sensed a little anger in what he had to say next. Poor guy, maybe he has anxiety, or something.

“Sir, I would have preferred that you saved yourself the embarrassment, but on Tuesday night of last week…” Richard started.

Tuesday night? Wtf?

Oh, shit…

And in a flash, it all came back to me. Fuck me, but I was fucked and I knew I was fucked, because I was guilty as charged and I was pretty sure that there would be no way for me to talk my way out of this one.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Last Tuesday night.

Of all the fucking things…

Last Tuesday night, I had worked until after midnight. It had been a long day, I was tired and I was trying to bust out the door as quickly as possible, because I still had shit to do before I could go home and all I really wanted to do was get my ass home and into bed as soon as possible. I ran out the door and into a downpour, jumped in my car and peeled out of the parking lot. That was when I remembered that I had to pee and it wasn’t just a memory, either. In my haste to get out the door, I had forgotten that I really needed to use the restroom before leaving and now my bladder was reminding me quite forcefully. I thought about going back inside, but dismissed the thought, thinking, “No worries.” I only had to stop at the convenience store and the ATM and then I was home free. It was only 25 minutes, or so. Surely, I could hold it that long.

Except, I couldn’t.

I wasn’t even a mile down the road before I started squirming in my seat, sort of bouncing in place, not to the music, mind you, but to the beating of my bladder. I thought about pulling over, but it was raining, it was late and I was tired, so fuck it. Plus, the road was a busy one and the last thing that I wanted to happen was for me to get caught on the side of the road with my dick in my hands. It just wouldn’t look right. It’s unbecoming, frankly.

And so is having to register as a sex offender.

Besides, I’m like a fucking camel and I can hold my water.

I made it into 7-11 without pissing myself and I asked to use the restroom and was refused. Fuckers. I really, really had to go and briefly contemplated pissing on the side of the building, but again, there was that whole getting caught with my dick in my hands thing, so that ruled out that bright idea. After that whole unfortunate incident with the lamb at the petting zoo, I just can’t go through all of that again.

Anyway, while I was in 7-11, I also bought myself, of all fucking things, a Big Gulp, because as badly as I had to piss, I also needed a drink, because my mouth was drier than a fucking desert. It was a fucking conundrum, let me tell you. I thought that I was going to piss that liquid out just as soon as I drank it in. I stopped drinking.

By now, I was pretty frantic, but instead of finding relief, somewhere, fuck, anywhere, I drove myself over to my local bank branch to use the ATM. My paycheck is a direct deposit into a credit union account that I still have in PA. The ATM at my bank not only dispenses cash, but accepts cash deposits, so every two weeks I withdraw money from my PA account and deposit some of it into my WA account. It’s fairly simple, if a bit of a pain in the ass. I arrived at the bank and jumped out of the car, running to the ATM and I inserted my debit card, keyed in my PIN and withdrew some cash. As I waited for the machine to reset so that I could begin my next transaction, I had to pee so badly that I started pacing back and forth, growing more frantic as the moments dragged on.

The ATM reset and I inserted the card for my local account and keyed in the PIN, hit the right buttons for the cash deposit, inserted my cash and started doing the pee pee dance. The dam was breaking, the water was rising and it wouldn’t hold for much longer. Desperate, I headed for the shadows; I needed relief and I needed it right then. I turned my head back to the ATM and it was in the process of spitting my money back out and that shit was flying everywhere, because, oh, you know, fuck me.

I ran back to the ATM and scooped my money up from the ground and attempted the deposit again. The machine accepted the cash and I couldn’t hold it any longer. I ran over to my car, which was parked in a pretty inconspicuous spot and I unzipped and just let it fly. I felt so relieved that I just wanted to cry tears of fucking joy and I figured that any second now, some cop was going to pull up and catch me with my dick in my hands and that might prove to be somewhat embarrassing. But it didn’t happen.

Honestly, who was going to see me?

Instead, while I was in the midst of pissing out what felt like 1,192 gallons, I turned my head back to look at the ATM and that’s when I noticed “it”. “It”, in this case being a very large and prominent security camera that was pointed directly at me.

Fuck. Caught with my dick in my hands and on camera, no less. I always knew I’d be a star, one day.

I did the only sane and logical thing possible.

I turned, looked up at the camera, smiled and then waved. Like a grinning fucking fool.

Seriously. Okay, the bank might have security footage of me pissing all over the place, but who the fuck would ever see it? Unless something happened at the ATM and they needed the footage, no one would ever see it. No one, watches this shit live, right? So, I should have been in the clear. Should have been.

The only problem was that I wasn’t. Oh, fuck no, I wasn’t anywhere near the clear. It was a bit more fucking opaque than that.

Who watches that shit? Why? Fuck me. Did they count how many times I shook it too?

All of that shit flashed through my head in the space of a couple of heartbeats and I realized that Richard was still talking.

Why was he still talking? What the fuck was he talking about?

Oh, yeah. That…

“And I’m sorry, sir, but the bank feels that it is in our best interests not to have a relationship with a customer who urinates all over our property,” Richard finished.

Well, why the fuck not? I didn’t ask him that, of course, but I really wanted to.

The way I saw it, I was just an innocent victim, caught up in the chaos and the bank was making me out to be the bad guy. I mean, there I was, innocently answering a call of nature, one that couldn’t be left unanswered by that point, if I may remind you and was it my fault that the bank did not provide restroom facilities for their customers? How is the bank’s lack of foresight and lack of concern for the well-being and kidney comfort of their customers my fault? Why do people always blame the victim?

Richard was still talking. Why? Why was he still talking?

Dick.

“Is there anything else that I can help you with today, Mr. Marandola?” Richard asked.

Help me with something else? What the fuck did you help me with the first time, you pompous little fuck? Oh, and stop with the fucking talking. Stop. Stop it. Sit down and shut the fuck up, I need to think, here.

I couldn’t think of shit, but then I thought about begging for another chance, but I didn’t think it would help and I wanted to keep my dignity intact. In my heart, I realized that it was really and finally over between us and there was nothing I could do that would fix things.

I remember sighing, resigning myself to my fate and then a great feeling of fuck it all, I mean peace came over me and I relaxed. And started pissing.

“Mr. Marandola, you’re doing it again,” Richard complained.

“No, I’m not,” I replied.

“Mr. Marandola, I can hear you quite clearly,” Richard accused.

“I am not,” I said in self-defense.

“Yes, yes you are,” Richard accused once more.

I hate people who point fingers. Where was his proof? It’s not like he had me on video. Again.

“No, no I’m not. It’s not what you think,” I lied.

“Sir…” Richard started, the exasperation evident in his voice.

But I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t know what else to say or do at that point, I was at a complete and humiliating loss. Instead, I just ended the call. What the fuck else could I do?

I consoled myself with the thought that the bank might have rained on my parade, but at least I’d pissed on theirs.

Fuck.

I have to pee.

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

The Tale of the White Whale and the Stinky Cheese Man

PART ONE

"Call me Ishmael." - Herman Melville

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

― Herman Melville

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

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

     But I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     This is how it all went down...

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

     I heard fucking banjos.

     I smelled cheese. And... shit?

.

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

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

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

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

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

     I did a little fucking dance in my head.

     Sell it? Would I?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Sure, no problem," I replied.

     What could possibly go wrong?

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Nobody ever fucking listens.

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

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

     Well, sort of...

     I had no brakes, remember?

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

     No bueno.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, just like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This little piggy went to market.

     I think I might have even thrown up in my mouth a little.

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

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

     Stay tuned for Part Two.

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

Someone's Been Sleeping In My Bed