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!

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

Someone's Been Sleeping In My Bed

A friend is a friend, so good and so true, but fuck your friends before they fuck you.

Many years ago, I had two roommates, Craig and Jeff and we shared a shithole of a trailer that was literally falling apart around us. The three of us were great friends and loyal to one another, but the torments that we inflicted upon each other and the adventures that we shared were the stuff of legend. The stories that I could tell about the things that happened under that sagging and leaking metal roof...

Jeff was this wonderful guy who had the biggest heart and would do anything to help anyone. Unfortunately, his kindness was always repaid by people taking advantage of him. Even worse, Jeff suffered from horrible depression and silenced his pain with copious amounts of alcohol. 

Craig, on the other hand, was this huge mountain of a man who also had a heart as big as he was. You could always count on Craig to lift you up; to make you smile and laugh. 

We also (briefly) had a puppy named Lumpy. Lumpy was a lovable mutt and dizzying ball of energy who loved everyone and everything. The only bad thing about Lumpy was that he had an acute form of canine IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome). That dog was just a shitting machine that spewed volcanic eruptions of fecal matter everywhere. When he started farting, you literally had seconds to get him outside, or you would be scrubbing shit for hours. Literally. It was like the shit had truly hit the fan; it would spray everywhere; the floor, the furniture, the walls and more than once, the ceiling. Imagine the surprise you would feel to come home, plop yourself on the couch and feel something cold and wet splash down upon your head. Your first instinct is to wipe your head with your hand. Bad choice. Instincts can be bad things and nothing says "Surprise!" quite like a splatter of shit to the top of your noggin. Trust me on this one. Even worse was looking up while wondering, "What the fuck?" just in time for the next dollop to land on my face. Not quite the way that I wanted to be welcomed home by my dog.

A couple of quick stories about Lumpy...

One very early morning, Jeff and I were awakened by Craig yelling and cussing up a storm. Thinking that there was either an emergency or a murder, Jeff and I sprinted down the hall to Craig's room, our hearts racing with worry. When we burst through the door, we both stopped short and our concern turned to hysterical laughter. Apparently, Craig had decided to let Lumpy sleep in his bed that night and at some point, the puppy had crapped all over his pillow. Just as apparently, Craig rolled over in his sleep landing squarely on the aforementioned pile of puppy poo. Craig's face was completely covered in crap; running rivers of shit were streaming down his face as he frantically tried to clean himself up. Jeff and I should have and could have helped him clean up the mess, but we were too busy laughing and mocking Craig to be of much use as a cleanup crew. For reasons that I still can't understand, Craig didn't share in our laughter and he never seemed to appreciate his new nickname of Shithead. I've always wondered why... Hell, I still practically piss my pants with laughter every time that I think about it.

After several experiences with Lumpy and his fountain of feces, Craig started locking Lumpy in the bathroom at night and I would liberate the poor pup and sneak him back into Craig's bedroom, where Lumpy would then proceed to leave his little presents on the floor, making miniature minefields of manure. Many was the morning that Craig would wake us up by yelling at us and showing us just how creative he could be with foul language, but I always denied everything and blamed it all on Jeff, who was either still too drunk to wake up, or too hung over to try to defend himself. Craig didn't know who to blame, although, I'm fairly certain that he always suspected it was me. He just couldn't prove it or catch me. Good times...

One night, Jeff came home early, got drunk and passed out in his bedroom. I was out whoring around and didn't make it home until late. Forgetting to liberate Lumpy from his potty prison because I was a bit tipsy myself, I staggered into my room and promptly fell asleep only to be awakened by a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. Apparently, Jeff had woken up, staggered to the bathroom, hadn't bothered to turn on the light and promptly slipped on a pile of shit. Lumpy must have had a rough night, because it was like a shit slip & slide in there. At some point while he was practicing his shit skating skills in the bathroom, Jeff managed to become airborne and while he was flying around like Superman in his tighty whiteys, he went headfirst into the shower, breaking the glass door. By the time I got to the bathroom, there was blood and shit everywhere; it was pretty bad. It was obvious that Jeff was in need of medical attention, but there was no fucking way that I was going to put him in my car. I wrapped Jeff's head in a towel and Craig carried him outside where he dumped our roommate's limp body into the backseat of his own car and we sped off to the hospital. When we got to the ER, Craig carried an unconscious Jeff inside and up to the counter. The astonished looks that we got were priceless. Here was this giant guy carrying this little guy that was covered in blood and shit. Keep in mind that Jeff was wearing underwear and nothing else. People were tripping over themselves to get the hell out of the way. The triage staff were completely professional and sprang into action, taking him straight back. Poor Jeff, he left there after spending the night, with seventeen stitches in his scalp. To make matters worse, Jeff had to explain all of this to his insurance agent, because he owned the trailer and had to make a claim on his homeowner's insurance. I only heard one side of that conversation, but let me tell you, it was pure gold. Listening to Jeff stammer out that explanation was one of the funniest things I've ever heard and because Jeff had been so drunk, he didn't remember a thing.

And then there's the story of Lumpy and the pizza, but I'm going to be nice and skip that story, just in case you haven't eaten yet. No need to thank me, I'm a paragon of virtue and kindness; the epitome of purity and innocence, I am. I even have a halo around here somewhere. 

Craig found a new home for Lumpy. I was heartbroken.

I decided to bring home a new pet, but the guys made me promise that it would be something that could be easily taken care of, so Craig and I went down to the reptile shop that had just opened to see about buying a monitor lizard. Craig decided it was a bad idea after it tried to bite his finger off. I think he was a little scared of it. For such a big guy, he sure was a pussy. I mean, what's one little finger or toe? You have nine others, right? Hell, if you're the guy that killed Inigo Montoya's father, you even have a spare.

I ended up buying a breeding pair of Giant Day Geckos and all of the associated paraphernalia instead. What could possibly go wrong with that?

I also bought a hundred crickets. I had to feed those little fuckers.

Day Geckos require some special care. They are mostly a terrarium species and are a little shy, but over time,you can get them to eat out of your hand. They really aren't meant to be handled as their skin can slough.

While I was promised a breeding pair, I'm not so sure about that. As far as I know, they never mated and I don't know if I had a male/female pair, or two females. Had they both been males, they would have fought until one of them was dead. I had no way to tell what sex they were and I certainly wasn't about to start looking for a little lizard dick. So, I just appreciated them for their beauty.

The crickets on the other hand, were a fucking nightmare. Do you know what it's like to have a hundred fucking crickets chirping in your house? Even worse, they would escape from their box and hide all over the damn house. The chirping was incessant. Crickets everywhere. I couldn't wait to feed those little bastards to the geckos. To this day, I hate the sound of crickets, they drive me crazy. 

Crazy? I was crazy once. They put me in a round room and told me to sit in the corner...

The geckos were working out well, except for the crickets that kept escaping and that fucking chirping. We would hunt them down whenever possible and we took a great sadistic joy in watching them get devoured by the geckos. It was so cool to watch them feed on the little bastards.

One day while I was in the reptile shop for a refill on the crickets, I saw these wonderful little creatures. 

They were ginormous. And disgusting.

"What the hell are those?" I asked the clerk.

"They're giant mealworms," he told me.

I smiled, thinking of all of the wonderful possibilities.

"How much are they?"

He told me a price that wasn't too bad for what I had in mind.

"I'll take a hundred," I said.

"They're too big for your geckos," he told me.

"They're not for my geckos," I replied, "I have other plans for them."

He quickly bagged up my crickets and mealworms, I forked over a little cash and headed for home. I think that I have the same evil little smile on my face right now as I did back then. Ah, memories.

I got home, fed the geckos a few crickets, completely enjoying watching those little bastards get consumed.

I was the only one home. It was perfect.

I headed for Craig's bedroom and pulled his blanket back from the bed. I then proceeded to dump all of the mealworms onto his bed, spreading them out to get a nice, even distribution.

I quickly covered them up and tucked the blanket back in. This was going to be epic. I practically skipped down the hall on the way to the living room, turned on the TV and waited for Craig to come home. It was a bit of a wait, but I didn't care. I knew this was going to be awesome.

Craig finally arrived home and we hung out for a bit and then he decided to go to bed early. I was so excited, I was ready to piss myself. I waited outside the door to his bedroom.

It didn't take long.

He screamed like a little girl. Like I said, Craig was a big wuss. I burst through the door and I swear that guy was in midair. Seriously, what's the big deal about crawling into bed with a hundred giant maggot looking things? It didn't bother me, but then again, they weren't in my bed, crawling all over me.

I was laughing my ass off.

He started freaking out and stuttering. His face got really red.

I looked death straight in the eye.

"Oh, shit," I thought.

I showed incredible courage. I ran like hell and headed for the door to the trailer.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" he raged. 

Craig started chasing after me. I made it to the door running like Bruce Jenner headed for a free sex change. He was right on my heels. For such a big guy, he could run really fast, but I was faster. There was no way I was going to let him catch me. I poured on the speed. He sped up too.

"Calm down," I urged him. "It was just a joke."

He told me that he was going to make me eat the mealworms after he finished kicking my ass. No way. Fuck that. I needed to put a stop to this.

"Dude," I yelled back, "If you make me eat them, how will we get Jeff?"

Well, that was the right thing to say, because it was like music soothing the savage beast. Craig stopped running.

"Get Jeff?" he wheezed.

"Well, yeah," I said. "You don't think I'd waste all of that money just to fuck with you, do you? It's better to get two for the price of one."

"Let's do it," Craig said breathlessly, "I can always kill you later."

It was progress of a sort.

We headed back inside and I collected the mealworms and we headed for Jeff's bedroom, where I repeated the process of hiding them in Jeff's bed. Two for the price of one. Yeah, this was going to be sweet. 

Jeff came home  and started drinking. Big surprise. After about an hour of drinking, he told us goodnight and went to bed. Craig and I stood right outside of his door. Once again, it wasn't a long wait. Jeff screamed even louder than Craig had; longer too. It was pure fucking awesome. Craig opened the door and Jeff was cowering next to his bed. The poor guy was so terrified he could barely form a coherent sentence.

"Y-y-you m-m-m-m-motherfuckers," he stammered, "That's not funny. What the fuck is wrong with you guys?"

Craig and I couldn't stop laughing long enough to answer him. I was laughing so hard that I could barely breathe.

After a few minutes, I cleaned up Jeff's new friends and tossed them outside and we all decided to call it a night. Jeff crawled back into bed, Craig headed for his room and I went into mine, locking the door behind me. I pushed my dresser against the door to block it. There was no way in hell that anyone was getting in.

Within a minute I heard Craig yell a string of profanity that was directed at me. 

Oops, must have missed a few.

Sorry, bro.

If you liked this story, you might appreciate this one:

The Rules

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment. Positive comments encourage me. If you hated it, leave a comment as well, although I'll probably just tell you to go fuck yourself.

Comments, criticisms and suggestions are always welcome.