February 22, 2017
December 14, 2016
November 23, 2016
The two men sat across the picnic table from one another, discussing the work schedule for the day. The dark haired one wore glasses and was the direct supervisor for several temporary workers. The gray haired man was his boss. In front of the gray haired man sat open a thin silver laptop. Both men drank coffee.
The gray haired man pecked out notes on the keyboard while the dark haired man tapped his right foot and gesticulated with both hands, struggling to get across whatever point he was trying to make at 7:19 a.m. Both men wore their contractor security badges around their necks on red lanyards, the tear-away kind, designed to disconnect from the wearer should they get caught in one of the 33 miles of conveyor belts that ran throughout the building like a clunky circulatory system.
The dark haired man swung one foot to the outside of the bench he sat upon, as if to make a move toward leaving. The gray haired man remained still. The dark haired man was due back to his work station. The gray haired man was the boss, and could stay in the cafeteria drinking coffee and surfing the web all morning if he wanted. It was that sort of arrangement that angered the dark haired man. After all, he had a college degree. And didn't he know more about the system than his boss? If that gray haired bastard were hit by a bus, the operation would continue making money like nothing had happened. But if he were hit by a bus, or felled by the heart attack that was surely sneaking up on him, who would know how to turn on the complex sorters that moved boxes here and there? The next person in charge was Don Millbank and Don was not prepared to take control, especially if what he carried around in his travel mug was still half Vodka.
The gray haired man must have been joking around because the dark haired man laughed and nodded at whatever drivel was coming out of his boss' stupid face. The dark haired man was sure he could beat up his boss. And if they were outside society, where business is handled in a much more physical way, he would prove it. And there that fool would be, lying on his back in the dust, wondering what the hell just happened. But they weren't outside society. They were all too far inside society, where the rules said a direct report has to sit across the picnic table from his boss and laugh at his jokes and not walk away until he is given permission to do so. That is, if he had any instinct for self-preservation and an interest in continuing to cash those paychecks that kept certain family members clothed and fed. So he kept laughing and kept tapping that right leg, in the hopes that one day he'd be on the other side of the table. It would be his laptop accepting those notes. It would be his cup of coffee waiting to be drunk. And people would listen and laugh at him. They'd have no choice. That's what you do in polite society.
Alfred Studer sat in the employee cafeteria eating a plastic cup filled with yogurt and granola. The flat panel television on the wall broadcast ESPN, but the sound was not turned up and the captions were not on, so all you could do was watch.
The lady working the cash register sat on a bench near her work station and chatted with employees who wandered by to get their morning cup of coffee. Alfred glanced at the clock on his laptop. The time was 6:53 a.m. His cell phone was still drawing a charge from the full battery of the HP computer, which was not itself plugged in.
A man who works on the warehouse floor walked behind Albert on his way to his work area.
"Good morning, Albert. How you doin'?"
"Good, how are you", Albert replied quickly.
"Doing well, thank you," the man answered.
Albert beat himself up a little bit over not saying "well" instead of "good". He knew that was the correct grammar, but the word "good" just came out. Now that guy was going to remember that Albert Studer doesn't know how to speak properly and that would hurt him one day down the road. Albert believed that every small decision point like that was an opportunity to steer his life in a positive or negative direction. Next time he'd be ready. "I'm doing well," he practiced to himself. Then he coughed without covering his mouth. Another bad decision. But no one was around this time, so no harm done.
The yogurt cup was empty. Albert carefully placed the plastic spoon wrapper inside the cup and bent in half the plastic spoon so it would fit inside the cup once the top was snapped in place. These kinds of control-grabbing behaviors were signature to Albert's personality. One of his three ink pens was a couple of inches away from the other two. He moved it over to make a neat trio of pens, and checked his phone battery. It was at 43% now.
An employee walked through a set of double doors at the other end of the cafeteria. He wore exercise clothes and aviator sunglasses. Albert wondered why the guy would wear sunglasses inside. Was it an ego thing? Was the guy covering up a lazy eye or something strange going on with his face? Or was it something more deeply psychological? Either way it wasn't right. Wearing sunglasses inside was an indicator. And Albert was always on the lookout for indicators.
November 21, 2016
November 17, 2016
There once was a guy who liked horses. He liked to feed them, shoe them and ride them. Then one day when he was out riding his favorite horse Ridiculous Pete, a school bus driver came along who was in his cups and ran that horse right the hell over. The guy lived and can I tell you that he was pissed off. At least after he woke up from his coma, anyway. Mostly because Ridiculous Pete was dead and had already been sold to the dogfood factory over in Lewistown. But also because while he was recovering, Willie Nelson came to town twice and he missed both shows. Old Willie won't be touring forever and this guy really liked that song Whiskey River. He liked the song so much that he named his detective agency after it. The Whiskey River Detective Agency was a pretty good business for 4 years, but there are only so many cheating husbands in town, especially after the tube sock factory closed back in 1983. It turns out the Chinese can make socks for a couple of pennies cheaper than Americans, so why not kill the economic motivation of everyone in town. Most of those rednecks couldn't find China on a map of China, much less have enough skills to get a job at the new International Hot Dog Museum over in McGavock. Earline Palmer got the job working the front desk. And everyone knows how terrible she is, but since her brother mows the grass at the funeral home, he had a connection on the inside and got her on at just over the minimum wage. Six other townspeople got part time working setting up the displays, but how long could that possibly last? Maxine Fillrup who runs the PigKnuckle Diner says the museum won't last 3 years, not the way June Hopkins keeps the books. And Maxine should know because she was married to June's brother Diddle Hopkins before he had a stroke and started believing he was the resurrected spirit of Hank Williams.
There once was a dark village that was lousy with Ninjas. Those sneaky bastards would hide in the trees and bushes, sometimes behind a wall before climbing it to kick some ass. People out walking their pet tigers and shit would end up dead with a bunch of Chinese throwing stars all sticking out of their bloody skin. And sometimes their guts would be just lying about being eaten by carnivorous birds.
Anyway, this village was really dark and everyone wondered why no one figured out how to light a torch here or there. So when the moon wasn't out, you couldn't see your stupid hand in front of your ridiculous grill. It's normally quiet outside, but some bitches over on Doodle Street kept playing their radios too loud and I hoped a Ninja would go over there and shut that shit up. But of course it wouldn't happen and I had to stay in my room and just be pissed off.
This neighborhood has all kinds of weird stuff going on all the time. Most of it is creepy in a bad way, but occasionally something stupid will happen. Such was the case when Joe the Mumbler picked a fight in the local coin op laundry and killed 13 people with his bare hands before the deputy sheriff shot him to death. I was just hanging around looking for Ninjas when I saw the whole thing happen.
When the county coroner carried away Joe's shot up ass body in his terrible rust bucket of a hearse, I went over to Joe's pickup truck and ate the rest of his potato chips. Hell, no one else was going to do it and they were just sitting there on the front seat next to his pet lizard named Punk. I'm actually surprised I got out of that ignorant truck without Punk biting me on the stupid hand like he often does. Everyone in town knows that the Ninjas are the number one dangerous thing in the village. A close second was Punk. He was a Brazilian Iguana and was a kind of blue green in color.
I heard a long time ago that iguanas carry leprosy or some shit, but I didn't believe rumors like that. Just like the time the preacher over in Toddleblock Ferry tried to convince me that the government had a third party run entirely by vampires. When I heard that I got down off that merry go round immediately, never mind the pocketful of unused tickets making my Levis bulge out like some sort of freak.
I ran home immediately and went to bed. But not after eating a while shit ton of sugary cereal and throwing up into my collection of rat skeletons. The last time I did that, it took me six weeks to get the stink out. And that was before the air conditioner went out.
Anyway, I think I hear some Ninjas creeping around outside, so I'm gonna go peek out through the curtains and try not to get my ever loving ass kicked.
May 28, 2016
May 25, 2016
May 18, 2016
May 16, 2016
Moderate and vigorous activity includes brisk walking, tennis, jogging, swimming http://health.usnews.com/health-care/articles/2016-05-16/exercise-may-cut-risk-of-13-cancers-study-suggests
But, it dramatically increases your chance of developing the deadly "exercise cancer"!
May 11, 2016
May 10, 2016
May 6, 2016
May 5, 2016
May 4, 2016
May 3, 2016
Where I come from, taking a gap year means working at The Gap after graduating high school because you have neither the money nor the motivation to apply for college.
May 2, 2016
- Plastic cup from the local catfish restaurant
- 6 oz. Maalox or equivalent antacid
- 3 oz. bourbon or other alcohol
- ½ pack of Salem 100s
- Add 3 oz. of bourbon to the plastic cup
- Fill with 6 oz. Maalox
- Serve with Salem 100s
- Leftover fried frog legs from last night’s hunt
- Rag bologna cut away with pocket knife
- Cornbread from 2 days back
- Coffee cup decorated with CB radio slang
- 3 oz. black coffee
- 6 oz. Jack Daniels or other bourbon whiskey
- 1-2 strips of crisp pork bacon
- Pack of Winston red cigarettes
- Add 3 oz. black coffee to the coffee cup
- Fill with 6 oz. bourbon
- Garnish with 1-2 strips of crisp (possibly burned) pork bacon
- Serve with pack of Winston red cigarettes
April 30, 2016
April 29, 2016
Dear Superfan: Nothing like this will ever happen to you:
"Excuse me, sir. Is that your 2003 Chevy Malibu parked outside? I notice that every inch of it is plastered with Steelers logos. Would you like a job in our team's front office? We need someone to sit in on important meetings about draft picks and which plays to run next Sunday. We need someone who will be available at a moment's notice when the game is on the line. How's $100,000 a year to start? Let's get that done for you, superfan. We appreciate your undying support."
Now, I get it. Life didn't turn out the way you would have preferred. You wanted to be the starting quarterback for the Broncos. Instead, you perform a mundane task for a faceless corporation that underpays and under-appreciates your real talent - emblazoning an inanimate object with marketing material. You can follow a theme, for sure. Some folks see a 17 year old station wagon. You see a rolling monument to Bernie Kosar. Some folks see a cubicle in a sea of cubicles. You see the Jim "Catfish" Hunter museum.
Part of me envies you. I wish I could get so into something over which I had no control, that I could just let go and lose myself in the moment. I wish I could spend endless weekend hours devouring lobster pots full of Doritos and washing them down with the amount of beer used to fill Michael Phelps' practice pool. For that, my hat is off to you. I just don't know which logo should be on that hat.
Not a lot of people look at this blog, but all of you are the best. I heard a bunch of comic-liking folk (a.k.a. weirdos) were hanging out at Web Toon. And they let me just create a free place to put stuff. Blogger doesn't have a comic template, so let's see if Web Toon can get some eyes on the stuff.
Drawing blog called Junk Drawer - Checked availability of junkdrawer.blogspot.com, but some other clever bloke has dibs.
Hugh Laurie is pretty bald on the back of his head. Noticed that while watching the 2nd episode of The Night Manager on AMC. The guy who plays Loki in the Avengers movies is the main character. Anyway. Pretty good so far.
April 28, 2016
Turd: 😠 Don't call me Turd, fucker!
Billy: 😕 Okay, relax.
Turd: 😤 Ok then
Billy: 😃 Okay Turd!
April 27, 2016
April 26, 2016
The question keeps coming up of whether or not Mahatma Gandhi had the normal number of toes on each foot. Science has concluded that the average adult male has no more and no less than 5 toes on each foot. The attached photo, I believe, puts to rest any suggestion that Gandhi had anything but the normal number of toes. Of course, the level of public discourse on the internet these days will likely not allow this clear evidence to silence all doubters. I can only hope that I’ve done my part to dissuade those who would besmirch the character of perhaps the 20th century’s most revered purveyor of peace.
· Hitler had the shortest life of all
· Both Asian leaders lived to be 88
· Churchill was the oldest when the war started (65)
· Hirohito was the youngest when the war started (38)
· Hirohito lived nearly to 1990, so he would have been able to play video games and watch MTV.
· Hitler, Roosevelt and Mussolini did not survive the war
April 25, 2016