Yes, This is Still Happening

Hiya. It's time to present the next installment of Unnamed Short Story (or whatever the hell). A couple of people have said some really nice things about the story not being as big of turd as I have insisted. That's totally super duper nice of them and I appreciate it. For seriously. But...um..let's just agree to disagree on this ok? Ok. And with that, here it be:

UNNAMED SHORT STORY, PART II

The exact speed of the coffee/waffle mixture that Arthur spit out was clocked at 94 miles per hour (by a cop sitting in her patrol car, outside the house in a speed trap. The cop, thinking it was the vehicle that had just passed, pulled the car over and chewed out the driver and began issuing a ticket. The driver explained to the officer that he was in fact driving a 1973 Vega and it was simply impossible to be going that fast unless there was a stiff wind pushing the car down a very long hill, which there wasn't. The cop agreed and she subsequently quit the force to become a market research analyst) when it struck Lorraine dead center in the face. Arthur tried to speak but only managed to choke which caused him to start to spit up. Lorraine raised her arms in self defense to protect herself from another onslaught. In doing so she whacked the table which caused Arthur's coffee mug to tip and deposit its steaming contents into his lap. It then fell to the linoleum and detonated  sending shards of ceramic bits into Arthur's shin. He in turn rose quickly and clumsily, leaning on the table for support which caused Lorraine's bowl of cereal to splash across her sizable bosom. After much confusion and curses with some half-hearted cleaning thrown in for good measure, Arthur managed a response of sorts.

"What did you say?" he asked, holding his wounded shin and scalded crotch at the same time, a feat not recommended by the Dexterity Society. 

Lorraine, with some waffle still in her hair, repeated her intentions. 

Arthur was stunned. He sat down slowly and stared stupidly at the lopsided lazy susan that had been a wedding gift from Lorraine's cheap brother. He had forgotten about his shin and wasn't even the slightest bit concerned about his crotch anymore. He was completely numb. His entire life passed before his eyes and it wasn't even interesting enough to grab his attention. His Muffin Bottom was leaving him. And all this before his second cup of coffee. This was not how he would like to start his day. 

"Arthur?" Lorraine prodded cautiously. Arthur had reacted quite satisfactorily at first what with the panic and all but this was now becoming a little intense. He had become completely pale and was breathing shallowly. His hands had latched onto the nearest thing which was a paper napkin and he was now engaged in methodically picking it apart. He was placing the little pieces on the table in front of himself in small stacks as if he were playing solitaire. And he appeared to be losing. All the while he was just blankly staring at the centerpiece with cloudy eyes. He was muttering something to himself but it was incoherent. Lorraine was getting nervous. This was not going according to plan.

"Arthur? You can keep the house...I don't even want the cat," she offered and glanced over at the cat who was sniffing the heating vent cautiously. Arthur did not respond. He finished with the napkin and set to work on another. Lorraine backed slowly out of the kitchen and ran as fast as her chubby legs would carry her up the stairs to the bedroom. She had packed most of her things the night before and in no time at all she had everything she needed, including an extra box of Ring Dings. She lugged her bags down the stairs and set them by the front door in a jumble like a bunch of impatient children. Walking as quietly as she could (which wasn't very quiet at all), she returned to the kitchen to check on Arthur. She was quiet surprised to find him staring directly at her, his eyes clear and shining, a little grin creeping across his face. He swiftly and abruptly stood up. Lorraine let out a little yelp in spite of herself and backed up to the sink, her massive buttocks getting there first and spreading sideways to near its full girth. Arthur's eyes never left hers.

"Good morning Honey Lips," he said. This struck Lorraine as odd because he had never called her that before. As a matter of fact, he had once remarked that her lips reminded him of a piece of undercooked pork he had once had the displeasure of consuming. Nevertheless, he had most certainly said "honey lips"; and with a straight face too.

"Arthur? A..are you o.k.?" Lorraine questioned. She was looking at his hands which were relaxed by his sides and apparently free of weapons. She then concentrated a possible weapon for herself if need be. She had never known Arthur to be a violent person but the man moving closer to her now did not appear to be the same person she had spent countless nights sleeping next to. The only thing readily available of any potential lethal merit was a large whisk. She eased one pudgy hand towards it and was shocked as Arthur's dry hand came down on top of hers and squeezed firmly.

"I'm fine dear. Question is, how are you?" Arthur replied softly and closely. His eyes were still fixed on hers in a hypnotic gaze. She wondered if this is how an opossum feels at the moment it realizes that playing dead to an oncoming semi is quite useless and it is about to become another stain on the highway. She also wondered why she was getting so nervous. This was just Arthur after all, different sounding or not. He's definitely not someone who she thought she should fear.

She wrenched her hand away and moved over to the table, slipping a little in the coffee on the floor. She had had enough of Arthur controlling this situation. This was supposed to be her big moment.

"Oh, I'm just fine Arthur. And I'm going to continue to be just fine without you." She smugly concluded this statement with a little head nod which lost its attempted severity in the hilarity of waving jowls and chin flapping. The cat, mistaking the racket for a flock of birds taking wing, bounded into the kitchen and ran smack into Arthur's leg. It stumbled backwards and fell over with a small thud, apparently unconscious. Neither Arthur nor Lorraine gave evidence that they had noticed.

"That's nice for you dear." Arthur said with a sincere smile. Lorraine cocked her head to the side and squinted at him. She wasn't sure if he understood what was transpiring and quite frankly she hadn't the time or energy to care anymore. She had a bus to catch and if she wanted to get the triple seat in the back by the bathroom before anyone else, she had better get moving. Arthur just kept on smiling that smile at her and it was getting on her nerves. Who did he think he was anyway?

"Well, ...uh...'bye!" she said and turned to go down the hall to the front door. This was a mistake on her part because it was at that exact moment that Arthur's eyes clouded over and the smile vanished from his face. He reached under his armpit and produced a sizable ladle that he had hidden there. He followed Lorraine down the hall to the front door and as she bent to retrieve her luggage, he doinked her on the back of her skull three times with tremendous force (Pop! POP! CRACK!), each hit harder than the first. Lorraine made a noise not unlike that of a sea lion and toppled forward. Her luggage did not survive. Blood poured out of the almost perfectly round hole the back of her head and started to pool on the floor.

Arthur stood over her bloated body shaking the ladle and making quick "HA!" exaltations. "I guess Samsonite hadn't thought of that for a stress test, huh?" he asked no one.

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And this is the end of Part II. Well holy shit. What the fuck is going on there? Did somebody really just get murdered with a fucking ladle? Wow. It's like Shakespeare up in this piece. Ok, peeps. Peace out until the next installment which will be next week. Things are gonna start getting weird(er). Laters.

Random Shit That I Have to Get Out of My Head Before it Fills Up

When I find something that I like (like a fun website, blog, TV show, etc) I become voracious. I consume all the content. I'll go to a site I like and spend all my time reading everything that is posted there. You have a kick ass webcomic thing? I'm-a-gonna read all them motherfuckers in one sitting. Your blog is super awesome and funny? Hey, look at me reading every goddamn post you have. You have a way-cool TV show? I'll Netflix the shit out of it. This is all well and good but ultimately what happens is I catch up to whatever the latest post/episode is and then there's no more. I have to wait in REAL TIME for stuff to happen. It's bullshit. I need more of  your funny/interesting/thoughtful/whatever content and I need that shit now. Don't make me navigate away from your page. I'll do it. I may totally forget that I love your page too. I'm flighty and I have short-term memory issues. Of course I will then obsessively check and re-check to see if there are any updates. It's not healthy. Hurry up with my entertainment stuff already.

Misty rainy bullshit rain today. I was driving in to work and the rain was like "Weee! I'm annoyingly hard to wipe away cuz I'm not quite rainy enough to warrant a full swipe of the windshield wipers. And I'll make the wipers stutter across the window. What setting will you choose for the intermittent wipers? No setting will suffice! Ha! Ha! And you forgot to replace the crappy blades again cuz you only remember when you're in the car!"

Fuck you rain. Why don't you stop being so misty and commit to real rain drops? What kind of a storm constists only of tiny, tiny rain spittle? If I was a storm I'd be totally like "Awwww, yeah! Here comes them BIG drops bitches! I'm gonna be all up in your face with the rain. Holla!" That'd be awesome.

And then my windshield wipers were all "Weee, I've got a notch in me that makes a big ol' streak right in your line of sight forever ok?" Goddamn it. Note to self: buy wiper blades TONIGHT. Or forget again, whichever's easier.

I'm getting a new laptop at work. My old one is ok but kinda slow so it has been decided that I should get a newer, faster model. This is fine by me. The problem is that the IT guy who is backing up my data stinks. This isn't me being mean because this is a fact. He smells of bad breath, poopy and other terrible things. Also, there is a thing on his neck and I think it's trying to talk to me. I think it started out as a mole but it has become evil I don't want to talk to it. I feel it staring at me when he's talking his death breath all over me. When he was using my computer to do whatever, he kept touching his face and hair and then my keyboard and mouse. Duuuuuude, now I have to dump some industrial strength purell over everything in my space. I think I have to throw them all away. Again, this cannot be mean because it has the power of the truth to back it up.

That is all. Carry on.

Get Some More Rest. Trust Me.

I have had a week. And it has not been a good one.

The week started with a delay in getting the components I needed to finish a project at work. This pushed my time to meet the deadline off by a day and a half. So that meant that I had to work late the past several days. Although this isn't the best scenario and it certainly was an inconvenience, it doesn't happen very often so I'm really not complaining about working late so much as just putting it in context. So Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday (yesterday) I worked late each night. How late? I put in about 12 hours for each one of those days (oh awesome. I just did some quick math {thanks Malden public schools!}and figured out that I'm now officially working for free today).

And during all this the kitchen project is on-going and so my home is in disarray. Add to that the fact that we STILL do not have internet access at home (or Video On-Demand for that matter since that also runs off the router). The replacement router that Verizon sent us also did not work so that was less than helpful. Oh, and they sent what was clearly a used router. I'm all for recycling or whatever but goddamn it for the money I send these fuckers every month they should send me a brand-new router dammit. The Verizon guy is coming tomorrow to troubleshoot and hopefully fix what the issue is. I just wanna watch TV shows on Hulu. Is that too much to ask? So far, yes. Yes it is.

Meanwhile work is crazy busy and threatening to become busier. Hmph. I had to do a couple of trainings this week and that never sits well with me. At this company we are scattered between several building sites (in Cambridge, MA all within walking distance of each other. It's inconvenient but you have to make it work) and so scheduling meetings with people can be difficult. Especially if they have another meeting that butts (heh..."butts") up against the time slot you are trying to book. They may have to walk from one site to get to the next meeting at another site which can make the start times slightly off. The running joke here is that meetings usually start 5-7 minutes late but I've seen people come in 10 minutes late. My point? Ok, chill, I'm getting there. I like how I projected that you the reader might be bored by all this detail since it was boring me. But I don't really know do I? Perhaps you LOVE details. Maybe you revel in making lists and organizing things by shape and size as well. I mean, you're still reading this paragraph right?

I still show up to meetings on time if not slightly early if I can. I have yet to adjust to this slight delay in start times and so when no one had showed up for the 9 am training yesterday by 9:05 I have to admit to being a bit pissed. Finally 3 of the 4 people showed up by about 7 past 9. I got the training started and was making good progress when at 9:37 (yes, I remember the exact time) the 4th person finally showed up. He apologized and found a seat. I was so annoyed with him. I looked at him and then at the clock and said "Look, I can't sign off on your training seeing as how you missed half of it. You'll have to reschedule." Ooooh! Layin' down the LAW! Ok, so a minor power trip there but c'mon...Fuck that guy. Whatta douche. He looked at me like "Really?" and I gave him my best "Yea, fucking REALLY" face (was it the Gas Face perhaps?). So he got up and left the conference room. The other nozzles in the class all continued to stare down at the table. That's right bitches. Don't make eyes at me.

Then last night after working late (again) I decided to take a different route home than usual. On Wednesday after working late I had encountered a lot of traffic over near the Museum of Science and I just did not have the stamina to deal with another clusterfuck. So I took the longer but somewhat more scenic route home. Ye Olde Jetta was in fine form but a bit parched as the fuel gauge "fill me" light had been on since the previous night. I knew I had enough to get to my usual fill-up station so I wasn't really concerned about it. As I was driving I had passed several gas stations and noted that none of them sold diesel. I meandered along through Melrose and made my way onto Route 1 north in Saugus. That's when I noticed that the Hess station had a diesel sign. "Oh sweet", I thought to myself. "I'll just fill up here and it'll be done." The station I usually go to is past my house so I was glad that I could just get this done now and not have to drive right by my house to go to the Irving station in Salem. Since I was feeling a bit brain-dead and tired I welcomed the chance to get home earlier.

I pulled in and sidled up to a pump. It looked just like the ones at the Irving station. Two pumps on the right, the space in the middle where you put in your credit card and stuff, and on the left-hand side there was a green pump. Nice. Let's do this. I got out, put in my credit card, picked up the green nozzle and started pumping. I stood there not really looking at anything for a little bit. Just sort of spacing out really. Then I looked at the pump itself. "Hmm," I thought. "Diesel here is pretty cheap. This may be my new place. Hey, look at that. They have the wrong rating system here. It says '87 octane'. Heh, don't they know that diesel has cetane not octane? Boy, Hess must be run by a buncha maroons." La, la, la, la, still pumping away with not a care in the world.

And then it hit me. Oh fuck. Oh no. Oh shit. I looked, I REALLY looked at the pump. There, written in white letters 5 inches high on the green background was the word "REGULAR". Oh fuck me. I immediately let go of the handle on the pump. How much had I dumped in there? "12.08 gallons. Of. The. Wrong. Fuel", said the gauge in what I perceived as a slightly dickish tone. FUUUUUCK! I stood there with the nozzle still in the tank for a good minute just trying to assess if this had actually just happened. Yep. It had. Ok, so what the fuck do I do now? Well, I knew enough not to try to start the thing up but that still means that I am stuck here. As I walked around the car to grab my cell phone to call for Triple A I noticed a big (and I do mean BIG) sign off to the right that said "DIESEL HERE" right over a pump that was separated from all the others like it had farted or something. And the handle was bright red. No, Hess gas station, no. Diesel is supposed to have a GREEN nozzle thingie. Goddamn stupid brain.

I know I'm totally projecting onto Hess that they're the dummies for having their pumps kinda-sorta look like diesel pumps from a completely different company but jumping-jesus-fuck-a-monkey they do look like the Irving ones.

This is not the offending pump but it does illustrate the layout of the one I used last night. See how the tyrants at Hess like to segregate the "regular" fuel from the "premium" and "plus" options? I know what they're doing here. They are trying to subliminally make people who do not need "plus" or "premium" fuel for their cars (and who are not paying attention) to instinctually grab for those pumps rather than the poor, lonely "regular" pump that has been banished to the left. So not only have they ostracized the diesel fuel onto its own separate island away from the "normal" fuels but now they also are trying to swindle the brain-dead public into buying the more expensive types of gas. I know you're game Mr. Hess and I'm callin' you out on this. Yer a sneaky mofo.

And so 35 minutes later the tow truck showed up and towed my poor poisoned Jetta home. The kid (and he was a kid too, like 21 years old. Fucking hell I'm ancient) did a good job getting the thing backed into our driveway. He had to do like a 52-point turn to get it in but he managed. By this time it was about 9pm and since his truck was loud and had flashing lights every one of my neighbors were in their windows gawking at us. Yea, I know. I would have done the same thing but it really just annoyed me last night. I kept saying "Yes, it's a tow truck. Fuckin' AMAZING huh?" to no one in particular. I wasn't in the best mood. I had just spent $38 on fuel I could not use, had my car towed and now I have to find a place that will be able to fix this problem that I created. I got my stuff out of the backseat, locked the car (not sure why) and went in to drink a nice scotch to put this day behind me.

So right now the car is sitting stoically in my driveway awaiting another tow truck to drag it to the doctor's. It's a good thing I have my mantra to guide me through these little hiccups that life and my tiny brain throw at me. None of this shit matters. I must remain calm.

UPDATE: Had the car towed to the garage on Saturday and now some $250+ later, she's back to her old self. Although I think the trust she had in me is gone.

Move Along...Nothing to See Here

I sometimes get visitors to ye olde blog who have clearly come here by mistake. They'll be searching for something on the interwebs and Google will send them my way. Personally I hope they stay and read my blatherings but what usually happens is they'll bail immediately once they realize this isn't the site they were hoping to find. Earlier today I got what is currently my favorite misdirected visitor. Click on this picture to check out what this guy was surfing for:

What the fuck kind of hyper-specific porn is that? I like the terrible typing "eussian" and "on a room". But rather than judge this poor Indian gentleman (you know it's gotta be a dude) for his wanting to see a Super Russian lady of age 40 who just happens to like to fuck a boy on a room, I'm more interested in why Google thinks that out of 658 results (which is a lot for this I'm thinking), my little blog matched perfectly. And what's that Trent Reznor sex link? Hmm. I'm curious now. I also like how Google didn't even bother to offer help like they usually do with the "Did you mean.." alternate spelling suggestions. I think this time they just threw up their hands and went with what he typed as gospel.

So, thanks Google for sending people to my site but if it's going to be this kind of bait and switch tactic I think it may end up turning them off in the end. That is unless I add some Super Russian ladies or whatever "bajar gratis kazaa musical sex" is. Lemme google it.

A New (to me) Look

Snazzy. Or at least "different". Whatevs. I like having the shit listed on the right hand side of the pane better. Looks a bit cleaner too.

So news? Do I have news? Will I have news? What news? Is there news? Shouldn't I have news by now? Are you sure there will be news? Aren't you potentially fucking with the "jinx" if you mention the remote possibility of maybe perhaps having a hint of some instance of something that could be construed as news? Hmm? Dunno. Won't know for a couple of days at least. Stay tuned or whatever.

UPDATE: There is no update unfortunately. Well, at least there isn't any update as of 9:00 this morning (Tues. 6/30/2009). Hmph. I should have news by now dammit.