Thursday, August 30, 2007

The Brother's Wife.... pt. II

Ah, Mystery Time
Why do I hate you so much?
Because you suck ass

And on with the Show!

Alright so soon afterward, I had spent some time at my mom's house, with my sister in Holt for about 2 days (I don't like kids), I moved into the house on Woodland with my brother and.....Mystery.

The House (as it will be known from now on) belonged to my great uncle, and I do not remember much about him other than he raised Akitas and had a sweet ass boat tail 1972 Buick Riviera, which was carefully taken apart and sitting in the basement. The house had fallen under disrepair, with a hole in the roof, the carpet in really bad shape (it was a wine color but from years of disuse had some noticeable stains and stuff on it), the kitchen looked like a garage (it had no linoleum, just plywood pretty much and a sink) and the whole place smelled like old person and urine. Great success!

We tear the carpet up, move our stuff in, and settle into what was to become my home for the next 2 years. The house looked so bad, even though my bus stop was on the same corner the house was on I would walk 3 blocks up to the next stop in order to avoid embarrassment. More on the house and the myriad of wildlife that lived in the attic because of the many holes in the roof later. This story is about Mystery.

So it is Thanksgiving. We go looking for a turkey, on me of course because my brother spends his whole checks on hot wheels cars and parts for his gas powered remote control car and not on food or utilities. I spot a 15 pound turkey and pick it up. My brother remarks that we need a pan to cook it in. Mystery pipes up "Duh, nu-uh, we have one." I ask her again "are you SURE we have a tray at home?" She is annoyed, like usual, that I would dare to talk to her, which really annoyed me, because she would be nice only when she was asking for money or for me to, you know, purchase food: "I said we have one, Steven." note she always stressed the second syllable in my name, and did that little Napoleon Dynamite snort after every sentence.

We ask her 4 MORE TIMES, each time she gets more annoyed and snorts while she tells us that she does have one. You all know where this is going. We (and by "we" I mean I) buy the groceries and head home. My brother tells her to go get the pan. She comes out of the kitchen with a MUFFIN PAN. Not a damn Turkey pan, a pan you cook 6 muffins in. She puts it on the table, where my brother and I stand, in complete shock at the total stupidity.

"You're a retard" my brother whispered, loud enough for us to hear but he was still transfixed on the pan, staring at it as if it would change into a turkey pan if he just looked at it long enough.
Since the store was at that point closed (we were some of the last customers there) and therefore could not go get the pan, I mumbled under my breath about how dumb she was and went upstairs to my room to NOT eat turkey. Luckily some of the other patrons at this particular dinner (including my mom and Jeff) brought a pan with them, so we did get to eat. My mom told Mystery she was too dumb to cook and charged her with making Koolaid, which she also screwed up (forgot the sugar). All in all a good and normal Thanksgiving.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

My Brother's Wife

Alberto Gonzales

Alberto you queef!
Jump ship because it's sinking
You, sir, are a taint



Mystery



No I am not an aspiring suspense writer. Mystery is my brother's wife. He told me early on in their relationship that he thought that was her name because everything to her was one. I did not like her. She did not like me. Haggard was in love with her.



My brother met her while wiping asses at a nursing home. He said he fell in love when he heard someone call her name. She is about 6'5, maybe 150 pounds, and her face looks like someone took a frying pan and smashed the cute out of it. She is Australian, and has a large nose, which makes it look that much the worse. I think she got in a car accident when she was a child, and hit her head really hard, which made her a little slow, which is not what I am making fun of. She is a complete and total douche, which I am making fun of.



They met and got married right as I had moved out of my dad's house because of the crack rocks, so I was grateful when they offered to let me crash at their place for a week or two. They lived way North of the River, had air conditioning, a store that rented out Super Nintendos, and a couch which did not smell of crack or anus. There was no food, but I was used to that.



I did a lot of sleeping there, not much else to do. Mystery's brother, who I will call Jizzface, was a total douche as well. I don't think he liked the fact that my brother was dating his white sister, my brother and I being colored and all, and he always had something smart ass to say to me when he walked by, like "Why don't you get up and do something with your life?" Funny, because he was almost 30 and jobless; the only reason he had a home and a truck was because Mystery's mom paid for it all. He would also mumble "goddamn niggers" under his breath as he walked by and saw me playing SNES.



I first noticed something was really off with Mystery when my brother actually bought some food once and asked her to cook it. She put the food in the oven, packages and all still on it, and walked into her room. I was not going to say anything because maybe she knew some cooking secret I did not (I cannot cook), but after about an hour when I walked by her room and she was sitting in there looking at the wall with a blank stare on her face I went to check on the food to see if it was burning or what was going on. She had never turned the stove on. O-okay, I set everything to rights, wait for it to cook, and as a joke (because I thought she was joking) went and told her it was done. She went and ate and took a huge portion for my brother, leaving me with in essence scraps.

When we moved from there (I went and glued the pages together on her brother's porn books as a parting gift) to the ghetto house she got worse, though that will be the subject of future posts.

I would also like to relate that when I remarked (as I did more and more frequently as time went on) on how ugly and stupid she was, my brother would tell me he was drunk the whole time he was with her, including the wedding, which I am not sure I believe. Also she never brushed her teeth, so her breath always smelled like shit dipped in genital wart fungus.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

The Bum

Shonuff
Am I the baddest?
Who else could wear that outfit?
Mr. Nuff can, yeahhh

Richard The Bum

I think that was his real name, but screw it he was a loser. Richard lived in a bedsheets tent in the unfinished portion of the basement not occupied by Jeff. And by "unfinished", I mean some bare earth and lots of bricks and boards and broken doors laying around in huge heaps, and the almost constant scurry of nasty vermin at all times during the night.

Richard smelled. Not just bad, but like someone had taken a diarrhea shit, bent over to inspect it, threw up in it, and left it for a week in a plastic Tupperware bowl in the heat to fester until it was almost alive. He was more than happy to eat the bummins (note* bummins is what called the food Jeff brought home when he was out all day not having a job, usually attained by digging in the trash or begging some guy for his day old donuts or something. I fuckin went hungry on those days) Jeff brought home, and never bothered us to use the shower but would be more than happy to leave the door open while he took the nastiest smelling, loudest shits I have heard in a long time, with the couch I was sleeping on less that 5 feet away.

My older brother hated Richard with a passion, because he was homeless and for some reason my brother got enraged when he thought about homeless people, like simply by existing they had insulted him. He also hated Jeff with a passion, because Jeff called him "Bobo" all the time and he was powerless to stop him or do anything about it because he is so weak and when he gets mad his voice sounds more feminine.

So it was with great gusto that I listened to Jeff and my mom tell my brother that they needed a ride from him, Jeff reminding him as he often did when my brother tried to weasel his way out of helping anyone that the house he was living in belonged to my mother (because no one else wanted it, it was condemned in all ways except the legal one, that is definitely a later post, many, many later posts) and that he, Jeff, would take it back if my brother did not comply with his weekly demands for free goods and services, including rides to wherever it is losers go.

My brother of course grudgingly acquiesced, and we all rode the Metro over. The hilarious part, dear reader, is Charles decided he wanted to tag along because he does not get out much, and so he was going to ride along as well.

With a smelly homeless man accompanying us, we blended in very well with most of the other fare on the metro going up and down 39th street that day. We got to my brother's house, and he said I should go along, which was great because I did not like his wife all that much. I get in, Jeff gets in, and my brother stops in his tracks as Richard gets in, a little anguished fart escaping him as he grunted with effort to fold himself into the front seat.

"Get your stinking ass out of my car you fucking bum!" My brother exclaimed with love and emotion. The hilarious part is Richard did not even blink at this, he just closed the door and looked straight ahead. Jeff got out and went off on him though:

"Listen here, Bobo, this is your mother's house' never mind that she had told us she did not want it and that's the only reason he took it. I could see him shaking with anger, and it made me giggle inside. Anyway, he got back in the car, where Richard, having sufficiently stunk the car up so it would never come out, was either asleep or well on his way there, and we took Jeff to his crack dealer's house.

Jeff and my brother got into it numerous times. I am told the reason Jeff spoke to me with a small modicum of respect was because he was afraid I was going to go off and smash his face, and I did little to allay that fear. My brother always ended up getting all mad and calling him names behind his back, tell in me how he was going to knock him out, which was funny because he himself had been knocked out twice by residents at his nursing home for trying to bully them (WWII vets kick ass even in their 80s), which I will expand on tomorrow.

Monday, August 27, 2007

Lighter Fare

Ah, John Lee Riches,
Will your suits never be heard?
Don't sue me for this

Lighter Tidbits

So I worked at Gateway for my first tech job, which was pretty cool, the only tools I needed to know according to my trainer who had pretty much the same name as me was "Delete Normal.Dot because it is a macro virus. If that does not work, format and reload". I wasn't sure why they needed 89 people to tell people to do something like that since he assured me those were pretty much the only tools I needed, but what the hell. I later learned why he had the SABAS award (Sucks as Bad as Siebel) all the time.

Anyway, some of the more interesting calls I got were from what I like to call the "regular" customers, here for your enjoyment:

Mustard Man: This guy was completely normal throughout the call. Just a run of the mill call, needed a new cdrom or something stupid like that, he was very polite and did not interrupt me during my stupid spiel. Finally at the end of the call, I ask if there is anything else he needed, and he pauses for about 3 seconds, and then says "I hate mustard" and hangs up. I am not sure why, but it screwed me up the whole rest of the day. Why did he hate mustard? Why did he tell me that? What was that horrible smell?

Undies guy: This guy was a pretty frequent caller, someone who in all honesty did not need a computer so much as a punching bag (aka a wife, Oh! (Oh God I'm going to hell for that one)), and always gave way too many details about his life and what he was doing and where he was and what he was wearing: (Picture a HEAVY New York Accent) "So yeah I'm on da floah heah (floor here), I'm naked cause my clothes is dryin see, and I need to change out the memory on this thing so I can play a game. I need to put some games on deah cause my wife found the pwooan (porn) and told me to delete it or else she'll leave me... also can you show me how to boin videos to disc?"

The Shitter: This was usually an older or more rotund gentleman, though one chick called in while she was taking a leak, but this is the guy who calls while right in the middle of a dump, wanting to troubleshoot something, usually the wireless signal: "Yeah I need some *eeerrrghugh* help with this *uuuurgggh* -Ploomp splash- wireless internets". I usually hung up on them.

Too busy guy: Usually a douche bag lawyer, this is the asshole who calls wanting to troubleshoot something on his computer while in a convertible with the radio on and keeps telling you to hold on he can't hear you because he is driving through a tunnel or something. I usually waited for him to say that and then hung up.

Life Story Lady:Usually the weird lady who calls with some mundane problem and as soon as she gets your ear spends 30 minutes going into detail about how her carpal tunnel is killing her or how different her cat's personalities are or how she has not felt the luscious sting of a man's cock in oh so long (I made that last one up, at least that would have been more interesting). Amusing at first but the low self esteem usually bores me into hanging up on them without fixing their issue.

Super ho- WTF?! lady: This is the lady that sounds cool as hell, witty, charming, kinda sexy sounding, telling you about cool stuff going on in her area that you should come out and meet her to go see, then you find out from her profile that she is 80 years old... and, uh.... well fuck it I ain't gonna lie you start thinking how 80 ain't all that old and maybe....never mind fuck you asshole don't judge!

The retard: Usually older white males (and by "older" I mean probably WTF lady's husband in most cases) who usually says his OS is Word and that he can't tell the difference between a right click and a left click and a double right and double left click (yes they insist on asking if they can double right click even after you tell them it does fucking nothing) and insists on reading the entire box of whatever product it is to you out loud in agonizingly.....slow........monotonous.... tones....... and if you fucking interrupt him he starts over. Unfortunately this is also the one who writes to management most often so hanging up on this kind of guy, while it happened frequently, usually ended up getting me into more trouble.

The kid (cool edition): This is the college or high school kid who admits he or she does not know a whole lot about computers but is honest about the problem (one guy just told me straight up he had been downloading porn for 3 hours straight over a cable connection ) and pays attention and has a little common sense, not to be confused with:

The kid (buttfucking lemur edition): This is the snotty little punk that got a free computer with their corvette from Daddy and is rubbing your face in your own poverty, insisting that he has so much to do with lounging around, hitting on hot chicks or trying to start his own music business, he barely uses his computer, until you look a little bit and realize all the granny tranny video clips on his pc from the night before he called that is... then he hangs up on you.

will be back on track tomorrow with the story of my brother and the bum who annoyed him.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

In Other News...

Morning Wood
Yay It's morning Wood
must sleep on back from now on
or chain dog at night

Due to the votes in the last poll, I will continue the crack chronicles for a little while longer, then move on to the other crappy cars (including the impala with the many different colors both inside and out and the Acclaim I had that smelled of not so fresh twat all the time)... enjoy!



In another part of Kansas City, at the exact same time...



Now, you may be getting slightly bored listening to these stories about my crack-loving dad, and you may be wondering "What about your stripper mom? Was all peaches and cream with her too?"



In fact, little did we know because we did not go by her house all that often, she had started down much the same road at right about the same time. She met a hippie named Jeff (sorry Jeff) who was as worthless as the sky is blue. He lived in a dungeon-like basement apartment near Westport, and was to me a taint on the skivvies of civilization.

He was with my mother, who is black, and yet inexplicably bought a guitar and named it "Nigger". He told me that I needed to work hard to be noble and steadfast like him, and yet I saw him digging in the trash behind a Church's Chicken in Westport and eating some strange looking fried chicken later that day. He also had a veritable cavalcade of homeless men sleeping in the completely unfinished portion of the basement, and during the 3 weeks I stayed there these bums would come and go through our (and my) stuff as they pleased.

I hated Jeff with a passion. He wanted me to call him either "Father" or "Sir", so I called him "Jeff", because I am bigger than he is. He informed me that it was his house and I must live under his rules; I informed him that my mom was the only one in the home with gainful employment, so it actually was NOT his house.

Jeff smoked crack. Jeff got my mom smoking crack. Crack and stripping do not mix. Crack and my mom seemed to mix just fine.

During this whole time I had to rely on either Jeff and my mom or my dad for rides to get where I needed to be. This did not bode well for "schedules", or me keeping them. I used to have my girlfriend over just to hang out or to go to a movie or something like that, trying desperately to keep whichever parent was there out of sight so she would not see the vacuous eye sockets of a practising Crack-zombie in the flesh.

I had had previous bad luck with my dad, who I had actually bought his car from him at least 3 different times, to get told later that since he's my dad that he did not have to sell the car to me, and the time I got back from a football game he was supposed to go to much less pick me up, and he did neither, so I ended up walking 8 miles home in my full football gear because my clothes were in his car, or the time I paid him 20 dollars to let me use his car and he was so busy smoking the 20 dollars up he forgot to come get me and I ended up waiting at a ghetto mall for 2 hours before walking home, so I figured I would try to rely on my mom. This was early in the cracketry, my dad had just met Janet but had shown how much of a loser he was in those 2 short weeks.

I was with my girl at my sister's house, just hanging out, having a great time in fact, they had food and try as I might I could smell no crack. Jeff was supposed to be there to pick me up at 3, it was 2:45 and still no one there, but I was not all that worried. 3 came and went, no one. 3:15, still nothing. I called Jeff's house. Big surprise, phone is out. 4 comes, I try calling my dad, apparently while my girlfriend was over, my dad had proposed and gotten married and was gone on his honeymoon at one of the finest pay-by-the-hour hotels Eastern Kansas City has to offer someone with 20 dollars. WTF?! Whatever, I kept trying other people, even at one point trying my older brother, who asked how much gas money I had, and when I told him I only had 10 dollars (remember gas was 1.15 in those days) he hung up on me and did not answer subsequent calls.

Finally at 10 til 5 Jeff shows up, acting all smug, and tells me that maybe I should break up with my girlfriend so he did not have to drive me "all over town", nevermind that her house was less than 2 miles from his dungeopartment. We get my girlfriend home, who was being a sport the whole time I must say, and then he tells me he wants me to pay to fix his car because it was breaking down and that if I buy it from him and fix it I would have to share it with him and his son, completely ignoring the small fact that I never asked him about his junkheap car.

More on Jeff tomorrow, including the fights with my older brother which were hilarious in retrospect, since Jeff was a bum and my brother absolutely hated bums.

I'll never smoke cigarettes

Foolishness

I'm a foolish man
though I'll never quit the pipe
cigs are a no go



WTF?!?



At this point in life ( Christmastime), we were used to Dad's routine: Get a job, brag about making 6 dollars an hour and tell us with a few months of hard work he might get hired on full time, getting fired 3 weeks later for stealing, tell us it was all the restaurant\ gas stations\ male pimp's fault, smoke his last check up, get kidnapped, get a job interview and get another job, ad infinitum. So we're riding along in the station wagon one day (this same station wagon would get shot up in a few weeks when he owed one of his dealers and tried to run from him) and it is one of the very few times it is just me, my brother and my dad. We are on our way to our grandmother's house, so he is somewhat clean for the day. My little brother is sitting in front, just fumbling around, and in the glove compartment he finds a pack of cigarettes.



My dad sees them and gets this embarrassed look on his face like we caught him screwing the dog (which, to my knowledge, he never did, though someone in our family did love the animals), and took them and put them under his seat. My little brother looked mildly interested, as with all of the things my dad put in his mouth why would he put up all that fuss over a cigarette?



"I swear to you, son, those aren't mine. Yerdaddy (he always said it in all one word, it sounds as gay as it does in your head) has done some things that he's not proud of, but I will NEVER smoke a cigarette. If you ever see me smoking a cigarette, I want you to run up to me and take that cigarette from me, tell me 'Daddy no!' and just hug me until I understand, I would never do that to you guys..."



Oooookaaaay. You will smoke crack, weed and God knows what else, selling off all of our things in order to attain even more crack, but you will never touch cigarettes because.....? And how gay is that? I am not going to run up and try to hug the bad out of my dad, no matter what. That's gay. There is nothing wrong with being gay, but there is something wrong with physical contact with a crackhead, unless you caught him after he stole your fucking lawnmower that you put on your damn porch and literally RAN to the back of the house to get the fucking gas tank and it's gone when you get back. How the hell did that guy do that?! There's no trees and nowhere to run since all of the houses had fences to keep out the gangs who shot each other up in the parking lot next to our house every Saturday night... but that's another story.

But back to the cigarette's, this also began what was to become a weekly thing after I left: The "Foolish Man" Tales. My dad would start off by looking at my little brother for about 5 minutes without speaking or anything, and then start off saying "Yerdaddy is a foolish, foolish man..." The only one I heard was the one in the car, maybe as a guest speaker I will get my brother to recount some of the tales...

More tomorrow.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Christmastime

Christmas



Ah, the time is near

steal my shit and wrap it up

then give it back, thanks!



Christmas Time



"Hey asshole, Christmas isn't for another 4 months" You might be saying. You are right, dear reader, it is not for another 4 months. But I feel like writing about this incident right now.



So we finally made it to Christmas. It was kind of strange because the tradition when my dad was not under the influence of the crack we would put a few gifts under the tree a week or two early so we could speculate over what we were going to get, and it was about 1030 Christmas Eve and there was nothing there yet, and Dad and Janet were upstairs smoking crack still, where they'd been all day long. The smell of fat unwashed white guy and smellier black lady were wafting out from under their door... ugh. I almost threw away my daily ration of cinnamon roll and Doritos...but no that wasn't right.



Anyway we went to sleep, and awoke the next day to a veritable cavalcade of gifts: brightly colored boxes, though a smaller pile than when there were just 3 of us, still it looked like we were gonna get something and that was nice.



So Fatso opens his first gift: A Super Nintendo, the Cash Pawn America sticker still on it. THis was sweet, SNES had not been out for very long at that point. He then opened about 5 different games for it, and also got a first down jacket. Long John opened a brand new pair of Jordans, and started complaining that they were not the color he wanted them to be. What a bitch! He also got a new watch and a first down jacket. Her daughter got a new first down jacket and some perfume and some jeans and assorted very nice clothes. I am thinking "wow, we are gonna make out like banditos!" Since, you know, all of this shit was purchased with money my dad made.



I then notice there are 4 tiny gifts left under the tree, and me and my brother had not opened anything yet. I open the first gift, a broken walkman. WTF?! My brother's first gift, socks. Hey at least they weren't used. My second gift, a turtleneck shirt that was 2 sizes too small. My brother's, a notebook.



That was it. That was the last straw. These smelly ingrates were all whining because that's all they got, and I have a broken 5 dollar walkman and a turtleneck whose size could best be described at "smedium", meaning it was too big to not try to put on though too small to wear out in public, especially with my D cup man tits.

I threw my shirt on the ground and walked off, trying not to trip over all the sweet ass loot her little niglets got (yeah I can say it, I'm black). My dad walks out and tells me that after he got everyhing Janet told him to buy for her kids and got a little something from an associate, he did not have much left but that it's the thought that counted. Fuck dat I wanted some sweet shit!

I told him that I was tired of living in his house and smelling his pipe all the time and only eating cinnamon rolls and not being in school. I remember actually telling him "I want to go to school so I do not grow up to be a fucking loser like you."

While we were arguing, Janet had tried to sneak off to the bathroom by herself. My dad lost all interest and ran into the crapper to watch her or sniff her skids or whatever it was he did in there. I informed him he should go fuck himself and left.

More tomorrow, including what my mom had been doing this whole time (guess what? It's crack too!)

Duster vs. Metro

Happy Days

Ah, it's summertime
fat people in spandex? Yum!
taste moist back pussy

The Duster

Alright, so as I've said in earlier posts, my dad was almost continually indebted to some crack dealer or another (I say almost, because usually when he got taxes back he had enough to pay his bills off and there was about a week of bliss in which he had a few extra dollars until the call of the pipe pulled him back), and this presented some unique problems. In order to not get slapped around by whatever dealer felt like it, he had to usually surrender his car for weeks at a time, which was not conducive to his ability (or inability, as it were) to hold down steady employment. He devised a crafty plan, though , one that in his crack riddled mind would be foolproof: buy such crappy cars that his dealers wouldn't be caught dead in them (although this actually ended up happening in one car, but that's another post) , thus ensuring he would always have at least one car.

The first car in this plan was a 1975 Plymouth Duster. This was actually a very cool looking car, or would have been if it had all the same color, or had had the original 318 in it, or had had semi regular maintenance on it. None of this was the case, however. The car was 3 different colors. I swear there was a dying v6 in it, it never got going very fast, and there was a delicious billow of black smoke out of the back of the car all the time. Dad was in love with this car.

Soon thereafter, My dad and Janet came home somewhat shaken up. I say "somewhat", because when you smoke crack your eyes get all huge and you start acting like a monkey forcefed coffee for 18 hours, and with this being their normal behavior, I cannot say what they would have been like if they had been freaking out.

I asked what had happened, and Dad informed me that he had been driving, and checking out a little baggie of "some stuff I bought from an associate" (I mean really, I know it's crack... you know it's crack... he knows it's crack... 'some stuff'?) WHILE DRIVING up a busy road, and had plowed the car into the side of a Metro that was crossing the street. I stood there, shocked, then realized that he was still clutching the "baggie of stuff" in his hand like it was King Midas' gold. He then seemed to realize that he had unsmoked crack in his hand and ran upstairs to remedy that issue, but it's still mind boggling. Nothing until I asked him if he ever took a shot in the mouth for some crack and he responded "I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, son" without answering surprised and shocked me as much as the fact that he had plowed into a bus, and the crack had made him superhuman enough to not only survive (he never wore a seatbelt) but have the presence of mind to grab his crack and run away.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Crack Chronicles, pt. III

The Escort
Vroom up the speed goes
Doing 30 in 5th gear
Still can't go up hills

De la crackpipas de Chronicletas

OK so after Toboggan boy I noticed that last tiny sliver of respect and\ or fear I had for my dad had vacated, replaced by disgust and contempt. So everything settled back to normal, in other words.

Janet was getting more and more annoyed with having to share her crack with my dad, whose appetite for the white candy had reached critical mass (I heard him talking about going through 2500 dollars on a saturday night). She was also annoyed with his need to follow her everywhere, and his inability to hold down a job anymore, I am not sure I will ever figure out why.

Jobs
When my parents got divorced because my dad didn't like the fact that my mom had become a stripper (yes I will tell you all about it later), he had a very good job, so I did not care that they had gotten divorced, since my life was not going to change all that much. It hurt my little brother, but screw him he broke my Nintendo.

We did not want for much, other than for our dad to stop whining "I need puuuussssyyyyy!" Which he did all the time, whether we had friends over or not. No exaggeration. Anyway, that was a small price to pay in order to not have to go hungry or wear played out clothes all the time. This all changed when Janet entered our lives.

Dad's love of Janet and also of crack did not jive well with steady employment. This is funny, because when his good job found out that he was, in fact, smoking crack, they did not fire him. They brought it to his attention (I would have loved to have been there for that meeting) and told him in order to stay employed he would need to enter some kind of drug treatment, which they would be happy to pay for since he had worked for them for 13 years. Instead of taking the very sensible offer, my dad said "I got morals! I quit!" and stomped out (his recounting, he probably also lit up a pipe in the office before he left but I digress), never to return or make that much money again (I now make 150% of what he made there, the loser).

From that moment on he worked at all of the local gas stations and fast food restaurants, always getting fired after about 3 paychecks for stealing from the store, or no call no shows. He would work real hard, see, until payday, when he would come in in the morning, get his check, then not show up for work that afternoon or that following Monday either.

The reason this happened is because Janet would leave my dad when he ran out of money, usually that Monday or Tuesday if he had overtime. She would disappear and not come back until he got paid again, at which time she would show up and tell him she would give him one more chance, he would give her his paycheck and things would be good for awhile longer. This went on for about 6 months until the divorce, but that is another story.

My dad also worked for a dildo manufacturer. Let me say that again, I know it did not sink in. MY DAD MADE THE BOXES DILDOS COME IN. He also got fired from there, but never told us why. Think about the implications of that and get back to me. He got fired from numerous places for no call no show and for stealing product. That's a clue. More on jobs and the Duster tomorrow.

Friday, August 17, 2007

Toboggan Boy

Summer
Why's it so damn hot?
I smell like burning bacon
my ass sweat fills cups





Onward with the Crack Chronicles!



Alright we left off talking about the different characters in this saga: My dad, Janet, the pole smoking crack fiend (well technically that could also be my dad....wait I'm getting ahead of myself) Her son, Long John (Polearm), Her fatter son, who would literally call and ask if we had more groceries before coming over to eat them all, let's call him Fatso, because he was, in fact, a fatso, being almost 200 pounds at 11, and a total douche at that. Her daughter is inconsequential and thus warrants no catchy name in my blog.



So we tried to settle into life in Northeast Kansas City, home of the many varied gangs, which funnily enough included only one neo nazi gang and the rest were split pretty evenly between what I called the Vatos (latino gangs), which were by far the coolest ones because as long as you did not bother them they never bothered you, I guess they were not even a gang just a bunch of strangely calm latino gentlemen who would beat the shit out of you if you made too much noise or complained about their music and all wore wifebeaters and chinos, and the requisite wannabe Crips/ Bloods, with Ramon and Pookie both claiming membership (another story).



Anyway, life was not that bad, Dad did not trust Janet at all, and so like any loving husband would do, he constantly called to check up on her, followed her into the bathroom when he was home, all the while telling her "I don't mind smelling you baby, I love everything about you", yes sounding just like a bitch the whole time. He also took us out of school to watch her while he was at work, and to tell him where she went if he called. He actually left work and drove home the one time she walked up to the corner store for a soda, and when he got there his face was red from crying so hard. He then went inside to smoke some more crack before leaving for work, and got fired the next day.



"So what is Toboggan Boy, Stevester?" You might be wondering aloud. Toboggan Boy is my dad. I will explain. Sometimes different dealers and assorted people my brother and I were strangely forbidden to interact with but whom Janet's kids ran to like they were Santa Claus would come by to pick Janet up to go shopping or to go to a crack party or whatever it is they picked her up for - I know one of them was a dealer who would only pick her up when they owed him a lot of money, so he was a regular visitor. Anyway she would head out to the car, and my dad - wearing whatever it was he was wearing when they showed up - including more often than not this pair of incredibly tight faux silk burgundy boxers (my dad was a fat, hairy white guy who, as my mom said, had no ass but literally "just a crack that runs down his back and has a hole in it"... get the visual, hold it, hold it now VOMIT!!) and nothing else - would try to run down 3 flights of stairs to either stop her, see if he could go too or just to kiss her in front of them so whoever it was (usually either their dealer or someone in her family, who all knew they were married) would know she was his. When he was wearing the shorts, he would stand outside for as long as it took, nothing else on, ensuring that I would never get a date.

Anyway, the nickname came about that winter. Janet decided she was going to go visit her mother, it being the Christmas season and all, and this time she was not going to take my dad, no matter how much he jumped up and down or whined (which he did every time until everyone let him have his way). When her mom showed up, Janet attempted to covertly sneak out of the house in order to get some peace and quiet while my dad was asleep. We were standing around outside, just hanging out. I happened to look up and see my dad looking out the window, a crazed glare in his eye at the treachery his love was causing. We hear the "aWhough whough whuuuugh!" sound of him bawling his wimpy eyes out just slightly above the din of him running down the stairs, yelling "Baby NoooOOooOo!"

It had been snowing, and living in a dump like that none of us had yet taken the initiative of salting the ground yet. There was a healthy patina of snow on the stairs. My dad had apparently missed this crucial fact as he came barrelling out the door, wearing only the silk boxers with the smelly skid in the back. I will try to explain what happened next as if it was happening in slow motion, as it in reality only took about 15 seconds from start to finish:

My dad burst through the front door, yelling "Baby NooOOo!" and running in actuality pretty fast for a fat old guy. he hit the first group of stairs at full speed, and miraculously made it down them still going strong. When he hit the landing before the second, much longer flight, the adrenaline/ crack fueling his system apparently began to wear down, and his eyes got wide as he....slipped. Amazingly, instead of busting his face, the snow acted as sort of a ramp and he slid, head first in his burgundy faux silk boxer shorts, to the ground, not even missing a beat as he jumped up and ran almost headfirst (he hit it with his shoulder) into the car, and even possibly dislocating his shoulder did not stop him from the "Baby No"s... More later.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Just a quick note on the poll

To all those jokesters who voted Nell Carter, kill yourself. To the loyal few who thought I was a fatter Michael Strahan, you are awesome and can crash on my sofa anytime. I did my part for homeland security today, taking my strangely middle eastern looking British friend to the airport. I didn't think about it until I drove off, but it probably looked funny me parking in the fire lane nowhere near the actual terminal, popping the trunk and getting his bags out then taking off as fast as I did. Oh well if they can't take a joke screw em.

Also on the current poll, there will be stories on all fo them, just wanted to know what to do in upcoming weeks, I am thinking of doing like a series or something on each topic (yes I have that many stories). More on the crack chronicles tomorrow, including "toboggan boy".

Mr. Karawte Man If You Please!

Mr. Homeless Man

Hey there homeless man!
Bet you wish you had A\C!
Sadly, so do I



Alright I know I said I was going to do the crack chronicles all week, and I promise I will get to them, but I have to tell you all about Mr. Karawte Man.



I am a first degree black belt in karate. There are good things and bad things with that statement:



Good: If I get into an altercation with someone, I am fairly confident I can get out of the situation without getting hurt too bad. I can probably defeat 2, maybe 3 assailants if they do not know karate, or at least disable them enough so I can get away.



Bad: Everyone assumes I spend my entire day on high alert for ninjas and terrorist street fighters, and thusly cannot understand how when they sneak up on me and rabbit punch me in the back of my fucking skull how I did not deflect that. People wishing to prove themselves also target me in some maligned plan to become a UFC fighter.



Mr. Karawte Man is pretty much the person I am talking about in the bad part. We teach some self defense classes, tai chi and the like, and this guy is almost always there, never participating, all but pissing his pants in anticipation for the Q & A session after the class, so he can come up with some scenario so outlandish he should pitch this shit to a movie director and make some money. If any readers are movie directors, I have some ideas on a completely unrelated note.



Picture a hillbilly, sometimes even wearing the requisite overalls, kind of balding, usually wearing a trucker cap, with a southern accent and always drags out the last syllable of each word in a kind of questioning tone, like he thinks you're pulling his leg. I will post some of the actual questions he asked, my thought response, and what I have had to tell him. 1. Will be his question. 2. Will be my thought. 3. will be what I said:



1. "What' s say you're in your car, Mr. Karawte maan, and someone pops up in the back seat and puts a .357 magnum to the back of your head and tells you to drive. How do you get out of that, Mr. Karawte man if you please?" (When he says "Mr. Karawte Man", his head kind of jiggles from side to side)

2. You are a fucking Mongoloid.

3. "Then you better do what he says or you will die."



~Note~ When I concede that there is no karate move to deflect a fired bullet/ nuclear weapon/ M1 Abrams tank, he always points at me and goes "Ha!" like he got me.



1. "Say you're tied up and a gang comes in the room and they all have baseball bats and they are going to beat you to death. How do you get out of that, Mr. Karawte Man if you please?"

2. Where the hell is this asshole hanging out that he is getting in these situations?

3. "You die."

1. "What say you are completely alone in the middle of a concrete bunker, Mr. Karawte Man if you please, you're tied naked to a concrete wall with fire ants all over your body, there are 4 men 20 feet away firing an automatic gatling gun at your testicles. How do you deflect those, Mr. Karawte Maan if you please?"

1. "What say aliens come from the outer space, and fire their laser beams at you and gitcha. How do you fight off the entire Borg army, Mr. Karawte Man if you pleeeeaaaase?"

The last two are not real questions, but with some of the incredibly stupid scenarios he has come up with they are also not out of the realm. He HAS asked about fighting off: Bears, groups of 3 or more people, a shark and various celebrities, usually I would assume whatever he saw in the newspaper while he was sitting on the bus on his way up to the class, trying fruitlessly to bite his own ear off.

He also enjoys when my instructor tells me to show him how to get out of some of these situations, like the gun to the back of the head and the more believable ones, because he at that point starts kind of moaning like "Uh oh I am going up againsta a black belt, wait'll the other hillbilly rednecks hear about this here!"

Mr. Karawte Man, I hope you die on the toilet. THen get shot by a gatling gun fired by an alien yak monster that is intent on harvesting your smelly ballsac for spaceship fuel.

More crack chronicles tomorrow.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Mmmmm.... Crack (pt. 2 of 4300002894)

Tourette's

Damn Tourette's Syndrome
shit ass cock fuck farts asshole!
sorry about that



The Saga Begins...

Alright, after the apartment manager found out there was 7 of us living in a 2 bedroom apartment and had been the cause for almost half of the police calls to the area, we were told to get the fuck out and don't come back. What happened next was absolutely hilarious, unless you are me, in which case it is not. I played football, being too fat to wrestle and too uncoordinated to play basketball (Which was kind of cool, because it was always funny when someone assumed since I am black that I could play and it always made me chuckle when I saw their face fall upon the realization that they had found the only one who could not), and thusly had weekly games, which until the delicious siren call of the crack pipe called my dad would attend. I had heard we were told to move, and my dad spoke briefly about moving back to our old house, in The Duplex (there WILL be many stories on that place), though I was under the assumption it was still in the planning stages and had not yet made it to the implementation phase...



So I was at a football game, and living about 3 blocks from the school, as usual I walked home. Upon arriving, I unlocked the door, a little startled that no one was outside since it was such a beautiful evening, and stood there in shock. The entire house was completely empty, save for some very inappropriate sharpie drawings on the walls, a stench of urine and a small mound of human shit sitting in the living room. I stood there, dumbfounded, then walked toward my room thinking perhaps my dad had pawned everything in the living room and dining room and everyone was hiding in the rest of the house. Nope. EVERYTHING was gone. I walked out, in my football pads (I usually changed at home and walked up there that way, it was easier and like I said I am lazy, too lazy to change my clothes to walk anywhere) and sat on the front stoop. About 20 minutes later my dad drove by, and informed me that we had moved while I was gone and thanks a lot for helping out in a sarcastic tone. I wanted to tell that buttfucker that I was at a football game, actually playing in it, and wasn't even aware that we were moving.

So I get in the car, and as we're driving along my dad is telling me I have to get over my attitude, things don't always work out like we plan and he is doing the best he can. I have no idea what this numbnuts is talking about, I know he's a failure he doesn't have to try to explain it to me like I am a moron too. I am wondering how I am going to keep my girlfriend, we had been together for a couple of years at that point and you wouldn't believe this from looking at my picture but ladies didn't flock to the Stevester in those days.

We get to The Duplex, whose ghostly horrors I had assumed I had escaped forever a few years before. Before I get into that, though, let me explain the condition of the apartment: when I told you there was urine, very primitive and inappropriate drawings and a mound of human shit in the living room, I was not embellishing or kidding you. Janet's son, who we will call J, informed me that for good luck when they move out of a house he shits on the floor and draws some scenes depicting the good times they had had in that abode. I was also shocked to learn that they rarely got a good reference from previous landlords.

Anyway, we get to The Duplex, and it is pretty much a dump: broken furniture, eggs cooking in the kitchen, the sweet smell of crack and marijuana wafting through the air, very loud music being played on a very cheap radio. This was to become life for the next 6 months. We did upgrade from eggs to a few packages of cinnamon rolls for our daily meals (nutritious!) and they did pay to keep the telephone on, as is custom for drugged out losers (if you know a drugged out loser, you know what I say is true: no food, no lights, no gas, no water, but that phone bill is ALWAYS paid).

It was at the Duplex I met the Alphabet gang. The Alphabet gang was not really a gang; it was a phalanx of crack dealers who all had one-letter names for some inexplicable reason: V, O, M, J and so on... these gentlemen would some over and hang out like they owned the place, and I guess in a way they did because my dad was always talking about owing them 2500 dollars or more. They would give him crack "on credit", meaning he had to give them all the money he had, and then when he got paid he had to pay them again even if he was only a few dollars short. They would call my dad "Steve-o", which was not as cool as it is now that there is a famous "Steve-o" in showbiz. If it was possible to prostrate himself any more before these losers, there would have to have been bodily fluids exchanged. When they would call he would come running from wherever in the house he was, outside, upstairs, the dungeon (I will explain why it was called that later)... we would yell out "Dad! Phone!", and he would be all like "Tell them I ain't here!" (Which the person on the phone could almost always hear) and when we told him which alphabet guy it was, you could hear him saying "oh shit oh shit" under his breath as he ran to the phone.

The Alphabet Gang were a study in hilarity themselves. They would frequently "kidnap" my dad, meaning they would take him to their house when he owed them too much money (which was often), and allow him to run another crack tab there. He could not come home, but he could make phone calls all day long, annoying us with his whining:

"Son, your daddy's been kidnapped. Don't cry now -" I never knew why he said this, we knew the score and usually put him on speakerphone and walked away -" I know with the love and support of my family I will be able to pull through this-" usually as soon as he got kidnapped his wife would disappear until about an hour before he got released- "but I don't know what they're going to do to me, son... I'm scared." I would usually remind him that they were going to let him smoke crack until he paid his bill off, which would make him feel better and he would hang up, presumably to go smoke some more crack.

Being kidnapped meant the drug dealers would use his car, which was almost new when he bought it but had been beaten up so bad it now sounded like a dying lawnmower (really) and no one could sit in the back seat because of the trash and product he was stealing from whatever job he was working at that week. It also meant that he could drive himself and a dealer to his job so he could still make that money, and a dealer would pick him up after work. When he got paid he would sign his check (or a gross majority of it) over to the dealer, which would usually cover just the back-crack he smoked, which would be enough to let him out and then he would have to work to pay off what he smoked while he was there. Simple economics. When he was set free, he would come home and run up the steps, both hands slapping his sides like he was doing a jumping jack the whole time, and burst through the front door usually to find.... no one cared.

Sometimes when we felt like playing a trick on him we would write a letter saying we had abandoned him, and usually we all waited in the other room while he read it and laugh out loud at him when he started whining like a punk. When he noticed us there he would grab his wife and start sobbing like a bitch, talking about "Don't ever leave again Janet, a hrrooo hhrrooo hhrrooooo!" Kind of like a basset hound but whinier sounding.... stay tuned, tomorrow will be a lot funnier I just wanted to give a little background.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Mmmmm..... Crack

Flanders
Oh great it's Flanders
Now my whole day is ruined
your joy ruins lives



The Crack Man Cometh, pt. 1:

So I figured today I would take you down the very long, very shitty path I had to walk through what I like to deem "the crack years". After my parents got divorced, we moved with my dad to Kansas to live with my uncle. after about a year, when I was ready for high school, we moved to North Kansas City, and that's where it happened.



My dad is a lover, he needs the ladies in his life. What's wrong with that, you might ask? Well in itself, nothing, but since he was too lazy to go looking for what he wanted (my dad is white but will only get with an ebony queen) in the right places (church, library, a bar, somewhere public and legal) he ended up picking up....let's say "less than favorable" prospects. This is the story of one of them, probably one of the better ones since he married this one.



I will not give out her real name, though I am pretty sure she does not have Internet access it still would not be right, so I'll call her "Janet". Dad came home really late one night, all excited because he had met someone finally. I was genuinely happy for him, 1) because that meant I did not have to worry about walking by his room and accidentally seeing him jerking it (come on, at least shut your door I have to walk by there to get to the bathroom!) and 2) he would leave me alone about finding him a woman, like I really wanted him banging one of my friend's moms.



He pulled me aside, away from my little brother (I am not sure why, since my little brother is about 30 times the thug I am or could ever be, you can't be gangster and be a fat boy with glasses, it's just not cricket) and gave me the juicy details on the beginnings of what he assumed was a love dynasty.

"I was at a crack party"- wait, stop right there. I had no idea what he was talking about and he was still droning on about laying waste to 200 dollars of the rock candy and how it made him feel and blah blah blah.... my fucking dad smokes crack? I felt a gray hair appear on my head and my attention turned to all of the items in our house that would soon be ensconced snugly in the closest pawn shop -"and that's where I saw her: I tell you son I fell in love, she was doing the rock circle-" I must interrupt yet again, the "rock circle" is a hallowed tradition apparently at these "crack parties", where a sufficiently skanky woman will go around in a circle of dudes, each of them holding either a crack rock or a component to a crack pipe (from here the tradition gets kind of muddled) and she must suck them off in order to attain that quest item, not unlike Zelda, except with crack and blowjobs instead of fairies and wizards. Anyway, -"and when she got to me it was love at first sight." Now at this point 2 questions popped into my head. Guess which one I asked:

1. How far back were you in the circle?
2. How fucking far back were you in the circle?!

I mean really, think about this: you are sitting in a circle, apparently after having smoked a bunch of crack or whatever, and you see some lady blowing dudes for rocks. Is the first thing through your head "Man I think I'm in love"?!

Anyway, I went to bed completely confused that night. On the one hand, my dad just told me he was smoking crack, which sucked. On the other hand, he did NOT tell me whether or not he kissed that woman, but no matter I was not ever going to let his lips touch anything I planned on consuming anything from.

The next week was a blur, I got a girlfriend (I might post about her, not much that is funny but from the poll votes my misery seems to be entertaining) and football season started, as well as school starting. That weekend though all hell broke loose.

I met Janet. She was ugly, but hey my pops liked her what did I care. I had to catch myself from saying something like "Nice to meet you did you suck any cock for crack recently?" or "Are you high right now?" And with a herculean effort I managed to stay silent, simply staring at her mouth wondering how many men it had pleasured in the last 24 hours.

We lived in a 2 bedroom, 1063 square foot apartment. It was a little crowded before, but we had a futon bunkbed and a sega genesis so it was all good. When Janet moved in it got even more crowded, and I wondered how long this would go on. Not much longer, though it ended not the way I thought it would. Janet's 3 kids and her nephew moved in as well. How awesome to share the vast wealth that my pops brought home with 5 more people when I was wearing played out clothes to school already! I could see the XJ900 ProWings coming back at me like an unstoppable rebel force: The great days of actual Reebok shoes and pants that fit and did not smell of marijuana were over.

Of Janet's 3 kids, one was the proverbial gangster, always getting into fights, dealing drugs and humping an alarming rate of hot chicks all the time (dammit!) with what he never minded showing us was what had to be a 12 inch cock. Which further pissed me off, especially since he showed one of the girls I was trying to date and she too became mesmerized, though I can't fault him for that.

Her daughter was strangely attractive, but almost never there and thusly was my favorite out of the three (Long John Polearm was also cool but like I said he banged too many people I wanted to get with for me to like him very much)

Her youngest son was opportunistic to the core. He would come over to our house, eat all the food (usually within a day), play video games until his grandparents had their fridge stocked, then leave our house to repeat the process over there. I hated him because he could get out of the hellhole whenever he felt like it.

The food situation became dire soon thereafter as well. We had enough during the year it was just the 3 bachelors to keep me fluffy, but once the size of the family more than doubled and my dad quit his job because they wanted him to stop smoking crack and "I've got morals!" (no joke) we got about 2 dozen eggs, some bread and Doritos to eat pretty much for all meals every day, which was awesome to me if I had been able to eat any of that stuff. But since my brother and I were the only ones going to school, no dice.

I know you are wondering about why my dad would quit his job. Well, they found out he was smoking crack, probably when he stopped showing up on time and we only lived 6 blocks from his job (really). Instead of firing him, because he had worked there for at that point 13 years, they told him in order to stay employed he had to go to rehab, which they would pay for of course. When he told Janet and the rest of us about it, it was at this point he got all annoyed:

"I told him I quit! I've got morals! I can't stop and I won't stop". Remember that last sentence, it was to become his mantra. When asked what he was going to do since now there were 8 people living in a 2 bedroom apartment with no income, he proudly displayed his gas attendant's shirt and informed us that they did not drug test.

More later.

Monday, August 13, 2007

PSA

Road Rage
Thanks a lot asswipe
you cut me off yet again
Die on the toilet

Holy Crap
OK I know I said I was going to delve deep into the effects the sweet, sweet crack rock has on my family, but some of the events that transpired over the weekend warrant this post.
My little brother is in jail. He had 7 warrants out for his arrest. That's not the funny part. The funny part is, my older brother went to see what they needed to get him out of jail, and figured no one would ask his name, knowing he had 2 warrants out himself. This is, strangely enough, completely normal.

My older brother goes to jail once a month. Sometimes it's for a couple of hours, usually longer, but he is constantly in and out of jail because he does not believe in paying fines or going to court. He also has used the same license plates since early 2003, simply mixing and matching stickers (usually with the wrong color on them) to make up the current year, for instance: the year is 2007, so if he can find a sticker with the number 7 on it that is about the same size, he will put that over whatever is currently on the car so we would have a yellow "0" and a usually completely different colored 7 on the plate to get the correct year, no matter how fake it looks. He is also the king of getting temporary tags, and then screwing the dates up on them. He has had a temp tag that said February 30 before, as well as had a temp tag that expired 4 months after the date upon which he was driving when he got stopped (I can't remember the date, but it was like July and his temp tag expired in late October)... I guess he lives under the same assumptions we all make, namely "Why should I pay for another tag when there's a copier machine and magic markers handy here?" The problem is he has learned to tune out the "Well the many reasons why..." part of that thought process.

Every time he gets stopped by the police, he begins taking off his jewelry, wallet and other personal items and handing them to whoever is in the car, all the while talking about "I'm going to jail, come bail me out at " and from memory reciting the address of the jail and usually giving the name of the person to talk to...

He also gets caught in these far off weird places that when he tells you he is in jail you wonder: "Is that a city?" "Do they even have a jail there?" and the ever obvious "What the hell was he doing there?"

For instance, he called us telling us he had gotten taken to jail in Lawson, Missouri, about 40 miles Northeast of us, out in the middle of friggin nowhere. We drove up, and see a town square, 4 shops and about 10 houses. WTF?! We start the process, which is usually: bail him out, then watch as he is rearrested, follow him to the next jail, wait for him to be processed, bail him out again, etc. etc. ad nauseum. SOme of these scavenger hunts have taken us as far north as Maryville and Tarkio (Myself, personally... some trips his wife has gone on have taken her up to Iowa and beyond) and out to places like Bonner Springs, Warrensburg, all around the area. Usually the ticket stems from speeding and the license plate thing or the fact that he has a hardship license and is 50 miles from anywhere a human would be able to perform "work", though I like to believe some of the tickets spring from DWH, or Driving While Homely.

Anyway back to the current issue (trust me there will be plenty of time to explore the other things he has been in trouble for) he calls my house asking me to come bail him out. I was not in, being out of town all day working. He should know though that even if I was home I probably wouldn't have bailed him out since a lot of the time the reason he is in jail is because he jumped bail and the bondsman had to go hunt him down, so finding a bondsman who will bail him out is a fiasco in itself, and a sure way to have a bounty hunter kicking your door in in a month when he *gasp* doesn't show up for court... though this should say something about bondsmen: talk to eachother. Idiots like this have screwed you guys over so many times you are (in my humble opinion) not in complete control of your faculties if you waste your money bailing him out... but I digress.

So he asks me to come bail him out, and like I said I do not get home in time to care, I came home and went straight to bed. He calls the next morning, saying (with a disappointed tone) that he had signature bonded out and needed a ride home because his car was (rightfully so) impounded. Fine whatever, as I am driving out to BFE to pick him up for what I know will be $0 gas money, I realize a few things: why would that asshat want me to come bail him out when he could just signature bond out? Why would that disappoint him? (Though on this one I can kind of see because then the bondmen know where to find him, as opposed to someone bailing him out and them going to someone else's house, allowing him that extra hour of freedom) and what retard police department would let someone like him get out based on their word?

I pick him up, take him to my mom's house (I think he finally got evicted, the subject of another post as to why) and he has the gall to ask me to borrow my car for a few days while he thinks about how he is going to get his out of the impound lot. I almost burst out laughing at him before leaving.

The Crack Chronicles starts tomorrow, unless something happens tonight (which it might)

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Da Iceman

In honor of my buddy Max tying the knot, I am custom creating a special haiku in order to contribute to the nuptials:

Max's Married!

Max got hitched, congrats!
Funny, I'd pegged him as gay
screw it I still do



Iceman pt. 2

The Iceman was one sick sucka. I think he was bipolar, and from some of the conversations some of the security guards have had with him he seemed to be kind of like Dave Chappelle's rendition of Lil' John, acting all crazy and then without warning being completely serious and giving up thoughtful little tidbits that made you wonder if he really was all that insane, until you looked down and realized he had masturbated all over your new slacks while you were thinking.



"What's this fascination with jerkin' it, Stevester?" you might be asking. Well I can't hear you because I am not in the computer. I will tell you, however, that Iceman had a knack for ruining people's day with his self-love sessions. I worked the night shift, and so only saw him sitting over on the wall facing the building we worked in once or twice when I had to work a double, but the other guards would tell me of times when he would be sitting there, calm and serene, quietly waiting for the many lawyers and dentists and professional people to start filtering in, intent on putting their nose to the grindstone in order to scrape enough money together to get that tummy tuck/ boob job so they could be the envy of the country club. He would then whip out his smelly man-beef, and start milking it for all it was worth furiously, sometimes inexplicably wearing a sock over his hand (maybe so he could pretend it was a stranger?) but always with this evil little grin on his face, trying to make eye contact with anyone he could.



There were other things the Iceman did that were nasty, but then again some of the other bums (not homeless, most of them wanted to get to a mission and try to get on their feet; these guys enjoyed being bums) did sick stuff too. Iceman assumed he was a prostitute for awhile, at least that's what he frequently told us, and was seen often wearing daisy dukes and a cut off halter top looking thing, sometimes wearing lipstick and some high heels, his sweat-drenched hairy chest and underarms emitting an odor that I'm told would be normal for some parts of New York.

Most of the bums also showered in the fountain in the park, some wearing only their skidmarked underwear, which to me was somehow worse than them being naked. There was a little troop of like 5 bums that we would call the "Bumcorp", and though there were oftentimes more than that those 5 were always hanging out together, I would like to think sharing handout money and sipping off of the same fine Thunderbird wines they would procure.

In the Summer they would get cardboard boxes, some blankets from the Salvation Army truck, and make what I swear would look like a little fort in the park, and someone would bring in a tiny black and white tv (The park has electrical outlets, presumably for concerts and stuff, though the only concert I ever saw was some christian rockfest, which was the most frightening fucking thing I had ever seen in my life) and the bums would gather around and do each other's hair (no joke) while watching Jerry Springer. You could hear them hooting "Jerry! Jerry!" along with the crowd on the television. Those were good times.

There was also this guy who I will call Garret. Garret was one of the nastier bums, in that he was a little more active in the prostitution racket than Iceman, who wore the uniform but we never saw him clocking in, if you know what I mean. There were stories of Garret being caught in some of the unlocked stairwells in the building, used condoms laying in a shitty halo around him, a small line of men waiting to pound his monkey hole. I know, I know, it sounds unbelievable and completely disgusting, and I would not have believed it either, but I saw him get on the elevator in the parking garage with another bum and not come back off for about 5 minutes, at which time he was pulling his pants up and the other bum was doing the same... *shudder* that's friggin gross.

I am not completely sure it if it was Iceman or Garret, but the final straw I think occurred one fine October morning in 2004. We had to go to these mandatory meetings in order to get our checks, and though I could not stand them there was free breakfast so what the hell. Well I showed up and there was a bunch of commotion going on in the park across the street. I asked Big Mike, probably one of the top 5 coolest guards ever (he was like 6'6, 350 pounds and looked mean as hell but was hilarious, kind of like me but with muscles, not man tits) what was going on. It seems a couple of bums had gotten tired of people telling them to get jobs and quit polluting the fine downtown area with their homely faces and smelly bodies. So they had waited, one bum laying strategically on a bench lengthwise with his feet resting on the ground, the other bum milling around seemingly just like any other day. As people started filing into the building, the bums sprang into action, the bum on the bench yanking his jeans and panties down and lifting his legs, the other bum detrousering and sliding his manbeef into the other bum's turd-cavern. What's funny about this is Mike said a couple of people watched for a good 20 seconds or so before coming across the street to complain to us, and even funnier it was out of our jurisdiction so we could do nothing about it but call the cops.

I would have liked to have been there when the cops showed up to break up the bum's creation of poopchowder, if only to see how they got them to stop (I would have swung my nightstick into the standing bum's smelly ass, but that's just me). I mean, you really don't want to touch these guys, but with people standing around complaining (and yes, still watching) you gotta do something!

Don't be late Monday, I am going to do what will probably be a week long miniseries: Crack, and how it affects everyone. Congratulations Max, really. See you lovebirds tonight!

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

Fast Food Shenanigans, pt. 2

This is for everyone who has had to see it; you know who you are:


Greyskull's Skirt

Greyskull's leather skirt
like the trolls of the darkness
will scar me for life


More Burger King Madness


So among the stranger customers we used to have were the Whopper Junior lady, Duckman and Goldberg. I take you on jouney of knowing, you find more. Jinqui (I love Borat).

Whopper Junior Lady: This was an older woman, maybe 60-65, who would either drive through in her beat up Dodge Shelby and get out of her car in order to scavenge change from under the drive through window (completely oblivious to how long the line behind her was), or come into the lobby in order to literally blow her catshit smelling breath directly into the front line cashier's face. She always ordered the same thing, a Whopper Junior, because it was 99 cents I assume. The drive through visits, though annoying, were nothing to the in lobby visits.

If she came through the drive through and you just gave her the sandwich she would go off on you until you gave her the sandwich in a bag with a receipt (so she could file it under "w" for "Whopper Junior" in her crazy-lady filing cabinet at home, presumably filled with dead cats, mummified road kill and buttons to all sorts of things she never intends to purchase), napkins and ketchup. I mean who does that? She's making a meal out of a tiny ass burger that more often than not had been sitting under the heat lamp for 20 minutes before being given to her!

If she decided to come in, she would come up to the front counter, sometimes cutting in front of other people, and spend at least 5 minutes looking at the menu, when we all knew what she wanted and usually started making as soon as we saw her come in... and heaven forbid you should try to hurry her along or ask if she wanted a Whopper Jr. This would cause her to literally, through somewhat pursed old lady spittle-infested lips, to blow her breath into your nostrils, causing your eyes to water and your bowels to attempt to empty onto the floor. It smelled like cat shit dipped in rotten milk and then left out in the sun for a week. She would then, while waiting for her burger if the guy was new or if the cook hated you and wanted to see you suffer and thusly did not start on the food right away, tell you about things that were going on in her life, which some of the more sensitive (aka homo) employees would listen to but I would walk away and go stand in the back until the burger was done.

Duckman: Duckman was one of those funnier regular customers who you would think could probably function well enough in normal life but soon found out there was something not quite there with this guy. He had kind of a military haircut, a police officer's mustache (and no that's not stereotypical, you know the second I said that the mustache popped into mind) and always wore a hawaiian shirt and shorts (usually well into the winter).

He would order a double cheeseburger with no cheese (now that I think of it making him a perfect match for Whopper Jr. Lady, though the thought of them sexing it up, 2 old people's bodies making splorching sounds like trying to make hand farts in a vat of old mayonnaise, getting it all in your mouth....ugh), but the way he ordered it was what made this guy special. I wish I had a video to show you but I will try to explain: He would stand there, and as soon as you said "May I take your order?" he would close his eyes, scrunch his face up like he was taking a shit, open his eyes so wide you assumed he was gonna barf or that he had been punched in the balls, and make kind of a clicking noise with his mouth and sigh loudly, like that smacking sound you make when you eat with your mouth open. The funny thing is I saw him at like Taco Bell and McDonald's and he was completely normal. With his very pronounced Adam's apple he looked kind of like Duckman, the old USA cartoon series, thus the name.

Goldberg: Goldberg was awesome, and we would wait in the atrium for him most days. I think he had epilepsy (which is the subject of my next Iceman post) or something because he would be kind of like practicing Karate moves the whole walk up North Oak to the restaurant. He looked exactly like Goldberg the wrestler, and always wore a full denim outfit. He looked like he was cursing the whole time too, but we waited outside once and though his face was all red and his mouth was moving he never made a sound. It was funny because he would karate walk up to the register and then like completely change into this gentile guy who would order something and be all smiling and stuff, walk normal while he was inside and then start going crazy as soon as he got outside, like he was working off some pent-up rage issues and was only able to harness the awesome power of his anger for a few minutes at a time. Since we had a manager who looked exactly like Sgt. Slaughter, I sometimes fantasized about them meeting in the Octagon or something, which would have made my day.



Tomorrow: The Iceman returns

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Crackwhores and Crappy cars

Today's haiku was actually elicited about 2 weeks ago. I have to drive by some....questionable neighborhoods on my way in to work in the morning, and I frequently see women who are either failed strippers who figure since they cannot get currency for showing off their cooter that they might as well share it for free, or they are crackwhores. Sometimes their garments are not the best at covering up things that no one should ever have to see, and so without further ado...

Ode to the Crackwhore

Oh silly crackwhore
Please stop showing me your vag
it fries my eyeballs


The Diplomat

OK so over the years I have had some truly shithole vehicles, and the drive home in the hot rod Escort with the scotch taped on headlights (I promise I will put a pic up later) got me remembering my old Diplomat:

It was 2000, and I had just gotten my GED in order to get a better g-o-b, and I decided with my taxes I would purchase the finest car I could with my vast newly accumulated 700 dollar wealth. This led me to the local public auction, standing outside in the beautiful Kansas City February rain/sleet/snow/ice/human feces drizzle/storm/tornado that we all know and love.

I walked past the Crown Victorias and Mustangs, intent on finding a true gem, and then I saw it, nestled snugly between a Mercedes that required a special key to unlock that no one had and a completely crushed Pontiac Grand Prix that ended up going for 10 dollars: a 1986 Dodge Diplomat. My father-in law was a Mopar fanatic (still is) and so I knew if I purchased this ride I would be able to trick him into some free auto mechanic work. It looked admittedly a little rough, with an inexplicable hole in the corner of the hood and no headliner, and under the hood the previous owner had (for racing purposes no doubt) removed the oil fill cap and stuffed a dirty rag in the hole, presumably to lose some more weight at the drag races. Well it had the after effect of shooting 10-W40 all over the inside of the engine compartment and inside the hood. At that point I saw the genius of the hole in the hood: it was to make it look like the car was steam powered!

Anyway, I won the car for 250 dollars, and it drove right home, smoke billowing out of the top of the car the whole way. I noticed a few other issues: The front windows would not roll down, the car had no power but once gotten up to highway speeds would run forever, and the heat ran full blast all the time. This was awesome in February, not as much in July and August.

The part of the car I wanted to share the most with you, dear reader, is it's personality. You see, all cars have a personality. The Escort is a hooker that has been beaten up too many times to pull down top dollar but still will do whatever she's told with no prodding required, I had a Crown Victoria that would not start unless you pressed the gas down 3 times before you started it, and so on and so forth. The Diplomat, I believe, was channeling Vice President Dick Cheney.

"Oh so the car must be fiscally sound, a compassionate conservative that is always took you in the right direction and was not really a car, motorcycle or boat?" you might be asking. And you would be a retard for asking that, since Dick Cheney has absolutely no good qualities unless aiming at an old man's face with a shotgun is considered a good quality to have.

No the Diplomat is more like the character Lil' Cheney on Lil' Bush: it is a bird killer. You see, with the impenetrable cloud of smog that would be billowing out of the hole cut in the hood because I was too lazy to wash the oil off of the engine, it would actually create a kind of vortex that would suck birds out of the sky and throw them through my grill at an alarming rate. I hit at least 4 birds every 3 months. Once I saw a cardinal flying across the highway and I was starting to say "money money money" like the old wives' tale suggested and then I heard the almost inaudible surprised "Sqwaggrgrgrgrgrgr" of the poor bird as it got mulched through the grill, and I swear right after that happened I got a little more power out of that car.

The funniest bird killing though was at the Creekwood Commons, a shopping center just North of KC. It was summer, we had finally gotten it so the front windows would roll down but not the back (screw my kids, they whined about the wind all the time anyway), and my little brother was riding shotgun on our way to get some Chinese takeout. We were sitting at the light, a bright early autumn Saturday afternoon, smoke forming a pillar of death into the sky, and my brother was trying to scrunch down in his seat so no one would see him, as he still had "an image to uphold", the loser. Anyway, all of a sudden we heard another "squawk" sound, and a bird fell out of the fucking sky, bounced off the hood of my car and died. I was not at all surprised. My brother simply said "well, that's it then", got out of the car in heavy shopping season traffic and walked away. I don't think he ever rode in that car again.

Ugh



So someone (the Tylester in fact) brought it to my attention that Xerxes in 300 seemed to be getting a little....personal with the protagonist of the film, giving his enemy what looks like a very inappropriate shoulder massage... not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just that if you're going to annihilate some bearded dude's country, at least have the common courtesy to not attempt molesting him first. Maybe I'm wrong but that's just the way I was brought up... anyway that's what prompted my haiku for the day:








300


Xerxes you sicko
rubbing up on other dudes
next time just shake hands


I guess the movie was good, personally I could have used a little more back story, it kind of felt like a showcase of slow motion movie technology and special effects more than a finished movie... but I know why they focused less on the story and more on the action... not many people like me who will stay up until 3 in the morning watching the History channel during World War 2 month...




Fast Food Shenanigans

So my buddy Marcutio and his wife came by this last weekend, and I noticed something kind of funny, in a weird man-am-I-a-loser kind of way: Everyone who worked at the Burger King during the 2 years I was there has married someone else from that Burger King who worked there at that time... and yet I seemed to remember no chicks liking me at all and not being invited to the many orgies that apparently occurred there during that period. It may have been because I was a fat disgusting oaf but I think it is more likely that they were intimidated by my huge....brain.


Anyway we were reminiscing about the multitude of crappy regular customers we got (you ever notice how someone who comes in every week to buy a 99 cent burger automatically thinks they are a "regular" and own stock in the company?) and I thought I would share some of them with you.


My brother

OK first he is not really a regular customer but for awhile my older brother worked with us, and is sadly the funniest character there. Picture a guy who is about 5'0", 100 pounds, and walks in a weird bobbing fashion that, along with his permed yet receding hair makes him look kind of like a raptor or angry bird of prey (he never cuts his nails so that adds to the image since he likes to hold his hands out in front of him). I think the reason he was working with us was because he wanted to hang out with a younger crowd to prove he still had it since he was over 30 and we were all 18 and 19... but I digress...


Anyway, he also worked days at a nursing home wiping anuses (anus? Anii?) , and would come straight up without changing. He would take his shoes off, put them on the table people ate off of, and lay down like a dead cockroach in the booth... you know, arms on his chest, knees curled up so he really did look just like a dead cockroach. It was also kind of funny because he had this bad gas all the time and if you walked by and listened real close you could hear a constant "phoooooooo" sound coming out of his ass, not unlike what comes out of a lot of politicians' mouths, only more concentrated.



Picture this, but with a human head and smellier farts.
So anyway we have him laying in a booth with his shoes on the table sleeping until we called him on to work, and people would think he was homeless and put change and stuff in his shoes all the time because with his bad gas and the little globules of crap (literally most of the time) on his shirt people assumed he was homeless... the funny thing is he would wake up and not be in the least bit surprised to find money in his shoes, though he never had any idea why it was there or how it got there.. "Hey I have money for some lunch" he would exclaim happily upon waking up to find that no one was sitting within a 10 foot radius of his anus cloud.


I think the funniest thing about him is he would hit on chicks all the time, doo doo on his shirt or not. Sometimes his breath was not the best either and he would be all like "Mmmm girl what you doin' later" to whoever he was lucky enough to corner that day... I remember one girl who actually asked him if he had shit on his shirt, and he was all nonchalant about it like "yeah don't worry about that anyway do you got a man?" Ignoring the fact that she was wearing a wedding ring on her finger completely.


Most of the managers loved him though, because he would happily do the nastiest, dirtiest jobs we had and all but sing while he did it. I know if you work in fast food you know about the grease trap: that sewer-like holding tank thing, smelling like dead skunk and baby shit all the time...well my brother would pester the manager unmercilessly asking if he could clean the trap out. Upon being finally given approval, he would sit down like a kid at Christmass and pull that crap out all day long, sometimes bare handed. He would also enjoy greatly scraping the grease and crap off of the inside of the broiler hoods, cleaning the bathrooms all the time, swapping out urinal cakes, and wonder why no ladies were succumbing to his sexual enticements, sometimes said with grease\shit\bloody tampons sticking to him (I an only kidding about the last one)... hmm go figure.


More later.

Monday, August 6, 2007

Some People...

OK, I will probably not post this often in the future, but talking about the Iceman got me to thinking about another bum that annoyed me greatly:

Long before we were married, my wife and I, both pulling down some mad cashage from da BK (I made 6 bux an hour and thought I could live on that forever....ah those were the times) and could finally afford our first apartment together. Wouldn't you know it, a combined 1000 a month does not net a lot of housing in Kansas City or anywhere. Our choices consisted of: crappy apartments by the highway in the ghetto or sleeping in my car. Since the stupid windows in my car would not roll up we opted for the apartment, though in retrospect we should have slept in the car.

Of the MANY issues with the apartment (the Somalian guys downstairs would regularly offer to trade their sister for my girlfriend, but not let me look at her face first (of course I would never trade her, but you know I wanted to see if the deal was good.......what?)) was the fact that because the buildings were unsafe even for crack consumption the phone company refused to install lines in our abode, or at least that's what our slumlord kept telling us. Anyway, it wasn't so bad, we could drive down to the corner (walking was dangerous and a good way to get raped\mugged\shot) and use the payphone in front of the corner store. Over the weeks we accumulated quite the jar of change, that we kept in the car. This got us into trouble with the city's homeless on numerous occasions, but the first one was at the corner store.

We pull into the parking lot, intent on making the all hallowed telephone call. upon closer inspection I noticed a German shepherd tied around the payphone pole, growling menacingly (is there any other way to growl? I shall explore this) at me. Unfortunately this startled me and I raised the coin cup too far up, exposing it to the many, many losers who frequented said neighborhood, including the owner of the dog, some very dirty scrawny hippie guy who smelled of spoiled milk, urine and failure.

He runs over and exclaims in the happiest voice I have heard in a long time "I've been waiting for you all day long!" and holds out a grimy hand. I must admit, dear reader, I was impressed, both that he had, as he said, waited for me "all day long" and that he had kept a dog there in order to hold me up long enough to get at my change. As we were right in front of a liquor store I was under no illusions as to what he was going to do with the money, and gave him about 2 dollars in assorted silver change (I throw pennies away, they're stupid). He unhooks the dog, counts the change intently, then has the nerve to flip me off because it is apparently not enough to purchase whatever it is he wanted! The nerve of some people! Unfortunately, my wife was driving or I would have gotten my change back and flattened the dog out of spite.

Da Fizirst!

Well, here goes:

I am going to be lazy and post a few haikus my colleagues have already heard, and maybe if there's time enough a story every now and again. This haiku came about because, while I am not particularly interested in feces, I am a guy and thusly want to at least see if I swallowed a coin or see if I can see some corn or something to break up the monotony that is my day...

Auto-Flusher of Happiness

Damn that auto-flush!
steals poop before I've seen it
it makes mornings sad

Iceman
I worked as a console operator for about 2 years, and during that time I saw many things which cannot readily be unseen. One of the more interesting (and less disgusting) encounters there was the Iceman. I have no idea why this homeless man was named that: he did not have cool mirrored sunglasses or the requisite handlebar mustache one would associate with being given the name "Iceman". He was, however, in my own personal and completely unscientific opinion, bugfuck insane.

I remember one incident, early on in my illustrious tenure, I was too naive to realize that there was a difference between legitimately homeless people and loser bums, and learned that lesson the hard way. I had bought a couple of burgers, and while walking past the little wannabe park to get to the building I noticed Iceman picking through the trash. I figured he would appreciate a nice hot sandwich and gave him one. This asshole turned and chucked my delicious hamburger right into the trash!

"Why did you do that?" I asked, sincerely wishing I had clocked in already so I would have had my Mag light. He just shrugged and sauntered off, presumably to masturbate furiously in front of some strangers who had made the mistake of sitting in his park (this is another story). I went and clocked in, vowing to never help a bum out again.

Later on that night, one of the guards who had seen what I did informed me that Iceman was digging the burger out of the trash and eating it! Why?! I was soon to find out Iceman took great pride in doing things which made no sense, like buzzing to get in and when told he could not eter the building taking a dump right in front of the building and walking off without even wiping. More on this and other things later.