Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Coffee.

I work with this guy who, no matter what time of day it is, is always moving close to the speed of light. For awhile, i thought he was a functioning meth or coke-addict like someone from "intervention",(which might be one the most amazing train-wrecks on television since "flavor of love" or that show with bobby brown and whitney houston), but today, i finally put it together. This gentleman is always holding a large coffee "mug". Actually, it's more like a 64 oz. big slurp cup from 7-11 with a handle. He is seen about twice a day, taking five and a half foot strides towards the breakroom. Imagine that popular Bigfoot video, sped up about five times, and in business casual. That is this guy every day. His khakis must have nomex inserts to keep his legs from bursting into flames, because this guy is flying to the coffee machine to load what has to be a snow shovel full of grounds in there to get that much coffee. I imagine what it's like to watch him 'load" that machine.

CoffeeCrusader: "HEY GUYS!!! HI YA DOIN?? JUST MAKIN MYSELF A CUP O' THE OL' JOE THERE, DON'T MIND ME!!!!!"

Fellow Employee1: (whispering) "why is he yelling? Is it safe for us to have a wood burning stove in here??

Fellow Employee2: "It's actually a coal oven. He modified it because the unit here couldn't produce on the level he needed. Oh yeah, and try not to touch him until he gets his coffee, (holds up hand with missing index finger), he gets a little agitated.."

Now, I've "experimented" with coffee in the past. All it gave me was a slight buzz, bad breath, and the overwhelming urge to crap.....LARGE. I couldn't imagine needing it like he does. But I guess that caffeine works different on all of us.

Friday, December 19, 2008

Dang.

Why do people with offensive breath always have secrets to tell? There is nothing worse than the union of stale red bull, jagermeister, cigarettes, fast food and beer. Most of the time, their horrid breath is so distracting, that i can't even hear what they're saying. The stench is like static. God. Someone should make some kind of portable breath potency meter. So you can know if your about to ruin someones night with some JAMMING-ass breath...And to make matters worse, when I turn my head or move my body in such a way as to avoid said funkiness, the source,(who is usually drunk), interprets this as an invitation to get closer. This is usually the time that I wish for special powers. Something like neuro-muscular electrical signals that I could send though my eyes, into the target's bowels, causing their rectum to spasm uncontrollably, ending the conversation...instantly. I then begin to think about the face that I would likely make while invoking such an ability. It would be a very intense face indeed. One raised eyebrow, one eye, no doubt much larger than the other with focused psychic power. I then begin to imagine what kind of toll this ability might take on my body. Maybe the strain of using this ability would cause me to crap my pants too? If that were the case, i would have to use my powers only when it was absolutely necessary. Instead of thwarting the funky of breath, i would be limited to intervening on life and death situations only. Stopping would-be hostage takers and then shunning the cameras and media attention because I just smoked the tires in my shorts.. Maybe the smell of the criminals' drawers would be too overwhelming, and the media wouldn't even notice my shame...fuck it...too risky....better choose a new power.

Monday, December 8, 2008

picked the second door...

Here we go. Round and round
Girl 1:

Thought you were married? Lost a lot of weight. Rubbing your nose. Everyone you're with, rubbing their noses. A mess, but a hot mess. Lines of your face are so...clean. Superb organic geometry. Where is he? Out of town? So you're on the town, having a hot night, a white night. But just a little, not too much. Hell, I've seen worst. Ring finger is.....vacant. She asks if I'm going with them, to the next bar, to the strip club, to the dark places...


Girl 2:
Nice enough. Board games at your friends house for afterhours. "Scene It", and some kind of electronic charades game. It was like flat soda. They cringed when I said "tits" They weren't 25 years old, they were a quarter century old. And at the end of the evening, goodnights and goodbyes like visitor and prisoner, separated by glass.

#1's white friend is a brotha I used to work with. I call him on my way home. He tells me that they are divorced. Even though I was in my car, I think my neighbors could still hear me screaming....SHIT!!!!

The flesh is indeed weak.

Monday, December 1, 2008

Nervous about chicken.

Aight, aight, aiiiiight, check it. So I'm going to the grocery store at about 1:30 in the am. As i pass through the doors into the crushing brightness, (that much fluorescent light can almost feel suffocating at times, high frequency whining, and an almost gelatinous sheet of protons laid over the senses), I happen upon a refrigerated display with various kinds of chicken in it. I stop to browse the selection, and before i make my descision, I find myself looking around to make sure that no white people see me doing this. Upon realizing that I was actually SNEAKING to buy chicken in order to prevent the perpetuation of any stereotype, I erupt into laughter. I started to think about black people, dressed in bad, "white person" costumes, (shitty face-paint and all), in basements, planning late-night shopping trips to buy watermelons, bbq ribs, pit-bulls, and hot-combs in bulk. It also made me think about the fact that sometimes, when i'm shopping late at night, I will wait for white women who are getting out of their cars at the the same time as me, to almost get into the store before I get out of my car because I don't want to scare them.......and because I dont want to get maced or kicked in the pills for telling them they dropped a glove or some shit...