The other day I was at work when one of the new supervisors told me I was needed in the bathroom. "Wonderful," I said into the radio, in my badass imagination. "Does a customer want to defecate into my open mouth? Or does the management?"
It turns out that the little boys' room was out of paper towels and that one of the stalls "wasn't working." My job was to replace the paper towels and discover how, exactly, a small room designed for shitting in can "not work."
First, I found out that the stall was "not working" because someone had locked it from the inside and then somehow left--presumably by crawling under the door. I also discovered that I had no idea how to open the paper towel dispenser. This left me posting an "out of order" sign on the door and standing outside the bathroom with a roll of paper towels in my hand.
A young girl approaches me. She needed help finding something, and decided to ask me the following question: "Do you work for the books, or do you just work for the toilets?"
Let me just restate this. I work at a job in which a situation arose that prompted a small child--the universal harbingers of innocent truth-telling--to ask me if I worked for the toilets. A child asked me if I labor on behalf of, and in service of, inanimate objects that function only as poo receptacles. Apparently, in this little girl's eyes, the shitters are, collectively, my boss.
And my response? I merely sighed and told her that I work for both the books and the toilets, and that I couldn't help her at that moment. I sent her off to find someone else.
Anyway, I have a couple posts in the Tubes. The next one is a long one, several weeks in the making: The Food Monster Final Tour. That's right, more of my friend committing dangerous acts of shameless gluttony for our amusement! Take that, TV ads of starving, near-homeless brown children!
Showing posts with label [Demarcations]. Show all posts
Showing posts with label [Demarcations]. Show all posts
Monday, November 9, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
My Summer Vacation by Canada Jackson
Gentlemen! Pack your tobacco and clean your sidearms for I have returned.
(I would have said "Ladies and gentlemen," were it not for the common knowledge that women are not allowed to use the Intranets.)
I have not found time to bore you with embarrassing episodes of my miserable existence recently because of my increased duties as the weeping dwarf that the universe--like a mad medieval king intoxicated with feudal power, brain ravaged with a timely combination of syphilis and questionable grog--forces to dance in its dining hall, the only thing approaching recompense being the occasional chicken bone chucked halfheartedly at my head.
Ah, Jackson, you readers may say, if you're not viciously attacking random passersby with ad hominem like a hipsterish ancient mariner, you're bemoaning the existential despair of your comfortable, middle-class existence. It's the only game in town, says I.
Recently [Demarcations] hired six new bright-eyed and enthusiastic no-names as grist for the all-hungry soul mill that is their book selling operation. I felt nothing but pity when I saw them in the back room, eagerly absorbing their training. You poor, feckless motherfuckers, I thought. No training on this world can prepare you for discovering a naked, homeless man bathing himself from the toilet bowl in the public restroom. You will never be prepared to have a man--angry about not being allowed to cut the long register line--throw a book at you. But you will most certainly be familiar with being supervised by hill-folk whose knowledge of the product they're selling--literature--is taken up entirely by the crudest of facsimiles--pornography and Glenn Beck.
These delightful young pups are starting off at the registers, as I once did a little more than a year ago. What I was thrilled to discover, however, is that they are somehow getting paid fifty cents more than me. From day one. So, for the slower folks at home: new people, less responsibilities, less knowledge, less experience...more money. I, instead of starting a fire in the stockroom and spelling out "I quit" in urine on the carpet, discussed this discrepancy with the general manager. He was shocked by this difference in pay and said he would try and do something about it.
Apparently "something" is cutting my hours to one day a week. My last paycheck was fifty four dollars. I think I am going to work on my urine calligraphy. Either that or pimp this pitiful blog out in some fashion as to get an insane billionaire to finance the publication of a book--which, due to my brain's inability to (medically speaking) do anything will never actually see the light of day. And I highly doubt there is an audience out there for pompous, obscene rambling on the subject of everyday annoyances peppered with misused, misspelled ten-dollar words. Hurr hurr, beer, farts.
Speaking of not doing things, my good friend in New York City keeps harassing me to update this blog, citing the fact that she knows people who actually read it. Poppycock! It occurs to me, though, that if I mention her in this blog that I must come up with a handle for her, ala RJP4 and Mr. Midnight a.k.a the Food Monster. I find myself unable to do anything with her name, save the fact that her first name is more Irish than drunken morning premarital sex in a sheep pasture with a fiery barmaid named Moira, and her last name is more Jewish than complaining simultaneously about the air conditioning being too high and the soup temperature being too low in a deli in Manhattan. I expect a text message from her any minute ending our friendship. I'm just saying that if you need both a pub and a pyramid built in the same afternoon that I might know someone. Hi-o! Stereotypes.
Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'll try more to keep this damn albatross better fed. I know I say this with almost every post. But this time I might mean it. But probably not. Although now I do have tons of free time and no money to do anything else...
Maybe I'll passive-aggressively turn my posts into a more typical kind of blog in which I detail the horror of my daily activities. For example: "I wake up at eight o'clock sharp and then nap until around 11, when I am awoken by my stocky, homosexual pet cat's effort grunts as he climbs onto my bed. At this point I waste fourteen hours watching youtube videos of animals walking into things. My girlfriend sends me a text: 'What are you doing?' and I respond 'Working on grad school applications.' I eat several doughnuts and lose consciousness in my own filth--but not before a quarter-turn in order to prevent bed sores."
Is this really what you want, America?
(I would have said "Ladies and gentlemen," were it not for the common knowledge that women are not allowed to use the Intranets.)
I have not found time to bore you with embarrassing episodes of my miserable existence recently because of my increased duties as the weeping dwarf that the universe--like a mad medieval king intoxicated with feudal power, brain ravaged with a timely combination of syphilis and questionable grog--forces to dance in its dining hall, the only thing approaching recompense being the occasional chicken bone chucked halfheartedly at my head.
Ah, Jackson, you readers may say, if you're not viciously attacking random passersby with ad hominem like a hipsterish ancient mariner, you're bemoaning the existential despair of your comfortable, middle-class existence. It's the only game in town, says I.
Recently [Demarcations] hired six new bright-eyed and enthusiastic no-names as grist for the all-hungry soul mill that is their book selling operation. I felt nothing but pity when I saw them in the back room, eagerly absorbing their training. You poor, feckless motherfuckers, I thought. No training on this world can prepare you for discovering a naked, homeless man bathing himself from the toilet bowl in the public restroom. You will never be prepared to have a man--angry about not being allowed to cut the long register line--throw a book at you. But you will most certainly be familiar with being supervised by hill-folk whose knowledge of the product they're selling--literature--is taken up entirely by the crudest of facsimiles--pornography and Glenn Beck.
These delightful young pups are starting off at the registers, as I once did a little more than a year ago. What I was thrilled to discover, however, is that they are somehow getting paid fifty cents more than me. From day one. So, for the slower folks at home: new people, less responsibilities, less knowledge, less experience...more money. I, instead of starting a fire in the stockroom and spelling out "I quit" in urine on the carpet, discussed this discrepancy with the general manager. He was shocked by this difference in pay and said he would try and do something about it.
Apparently "something" is cutting my hours to one day a week. My last paycheck was fifty four dollars. I think I am going to work on my urine calligraphy. Either that or pimp this pitiful blog out in some fashion as to get an insane billionaire to finance the publication of a book--which, due to my brain's inability to (medically speaking) do anything will never actually see the light of day. And I highly doubt there is an audience out there for pompous, obscene rambling on the subject of everyday annoyances peppered with misused, misspelled ten-dollar words. Hurr hurr, beer, farts.
Speaking of not doing things, my good friend in New York City keeps harassing me to update this blog, citing the fact that she knows people who actually read it. Poppycock! It occurs to me, though, that if I mention her in this blog that I must come up with a handle for her, ala RJP4 and Mr. Midnight a.k.a the Food Monster. I find myself unable to do anything with her name, save the fact that her first name is more Irish than drunken morning premarital sex in a sheep pasture with a fiery barmaid named Moira, and her last name is more Jewish than complaining simultaneously about the air conditioning being too high and the soup temperature being too low in a deli in Manhattan. I expect a text message from her any minute ending our friendship. I'm just saying that if you need both a pub and a pyramid built in the same afternoon that I might know someone. Hi-o! Stereotypes.
Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'll try more to keep this damn albatross better fed. I know I say this with almost every post. But this time I might mean it. But probably not. Although now I do have tons of free time and no money to do anything else...
Maybe I'll passive-aggressively turn my posts into a more typical kind of blog in which I detail the horror of my daily activities. For example: "I wake up at eight o'clock sharp and then nap until around 11, when I am awoken by my stocky, homosexual pet cat's effort grunts as he climbs onto my bed. At this point I waste fourteen hours watching youtube videos of animals walking into things. My girlfriend sends me a text: 'What are you doing?' and I respond 'Working on grad school applications.' I eat several doughnuts and lose consciousness in my own filth--but not before a quarter-turn in order to prevent bed sores."
Is this really what you want, America?
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Brief [Demarcations] update
Yesterday I sold a book to a fat lady called "Crystal Reflexology." On the cover some retard was jamming a crystal into her ear. No joke. Real thing.
Too bad Bea Arthur died. An important part of American life in times past was the right to tell people that not only were they wrong, but also too stupid to remain not in the care of some kind of state-certified attendant. It's not "mean." It's doing your duty as a rational human being. Instead of "And yet it moves," Gallileo says, "Oh, well, sure."
If your back hurts you can shove crystals in your ear until they start poking out of other orifices and it won't help. Losing some of that gelatinous burden, however, might do the trick. Or, like your ancient mammalian cousins, realize that the land-walking life is not for a person of your grandeur and waddle into the embrace of the seas where gravity is not so unforgiving.
Too bad Bea Arthur died. An important part of American life in times past was the right to tell people that not only were they wrong, but also too stupid to remain not in the care of some kind of state-certified attendant. It's not "mean." It's doing your duty as a rational human being. Instead of "And yet it moves," Gallileo says, "Oh, well, sure."
If your back hurts you can shove crystals in your ear until they start poking out of other orifices and it won't help. Losing some of that gelatinous burden, however, might do the trick. Or, like your ancient mammalian cousins, realize that the land-walking life is not for a person of your grandeur and waddle into the embrace of the seas where gravity is not so unforgiving.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Quick [Demarcations] update
A woman came up to me and asked if we had a book on crystals. I hesitated. There are books on crystals--as in the actual geological phenomenon, and there are books on "crystals"--as in "I am insane and/ or stupid and I think caressing certain rocks will cure my fetal alcohol syndrome."
"Uh," I sputtered. "What kind of crystals?"
"You know," she said. "Crystals. Like...crystals.
Yup. Retard. I just lead her to the Stupid Horseshit section and cut her loose.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Six degrees of Canada Jackson.
I have, in my long and glamorous life, met two whole celebrities. Well, kind of celebrities. In that if you saw them walking down the street you might say, "Hey, is that that guy from ______?" and then realize that even if it were that guy from ________ it wouldn't matter because they would probably ask you for bus fare if you tried to talk to them.
Oh, wait, I've met three. I once got into a bar fight with Doris Kearns Goodwin. She kicked my ass.
Anyway, these are the true stories of my celebrity encounters.
First, I met Henry Winkler. That's right, the Fonze. The lawyer from Arrested Development. The beleaguered football coach from Adam Sandler's moving portrait of anger and mental disabilities, The Waterboy.
I met him while working as a bartender at the Scranton Cultural Center, which was by far the worst job I have ever had--and hopefully ever will have. There were times when I worked for fourteen hours straight and went home with nine dollars in tips. There were times when I was in real danger of physical harm at the hands of drunken concert goers because we ran out of beer. And, once, while standing outside in the rain, I witnessed a man vomit in the gutter--myself having to take quick evasive action as the currents pulled the former contents of his stomach towards my shoes. The reason the Scranton Cultural Center is called the Scranton Cultural Center is because excessive drinking, violence, and public vomiting are all an important part of Scranton's culture. As my friends and I paraphrase the very misleading TV show "The Office:" There ain't no party like a Scranton party, because at a Scranton party someone dies.
But anyway, Henry Winkler. He was coming to Scranton to hype his children's books about a kid with dyslexia. First there was a little party with champagne on the second floor of the building, followed by Mr. Winkler giving a little talk to an audience of kids in the theater. During the little pre-party I swiped a bottle of champagne, thinking it would be excessively cool to have a champagne bottle signed by the Fonze. Why did I think that? Because Scranton is full of radiation that makes you retarded.
I waited backstage while he was giving his talk to the little tykes. After he was done I asked his manservant (I assume his manager or assistant or sex slave) if he would sign my bottle. Mr. Winkler said, through his concubine, that he would not. Crushed, I decided to have him sign one of his books about kids who can't read.
Even though I spent a good ten minutes in Mr. Winkler's presence, he neither spoke to me or made eye contact with me. Instead he spoke to his manservant about how he was going to sign the books across his picture on the back because no one does that, and how will you know it's really his signature if he doesn't sign it accross his picture? "Why didn't anyone else think of that?" asked. Clearly, it's because Henry Winkler is a fucking genius. He also piqued my ire when he asked me, again through his chattel, to bring him some water. I did so, and received no acknowledgement whatsoever.
But, the life of celebrity is tiring. With this in mind I decided to sign my champagne bottle for Mr. Winkler.
My next dramatic semi-celebrity meeting was at my current semi-job at [Demarcations]. In this case, I met Bronson Pinchot. That's right, Balki of TV's "Perfect Strangers."
Bronson Pinchot on the left.
Oh, wait, I've met three. I once got into a bar fight with Doris Kearns Goodwin. She kicked my ass.
Anyway, these are the true stories of my celebrity encounters.
First, I met Henry Winkler. That's right, the Fonze. The lawyer from Arrested Development. The beleaguered football coach from Adam Sandler's moving portrait of anger and mental disabilities, The Waterboy.
I met him while working as a bartender at the Scranton Cultural Center, which was by far the worst job I have ever had--and hopefully ever will have. There were times when I worked for fourteen hours straight and went home with nine dollars in tips. There were times when I was in real danger of physical harm at the hands of drunken concert goers because we ran out of beer. And, once, while standing outside in the rain, I witnessed a man vomit in the gutter--myself having to take quick evasive action as the currents pulled the former contents of his stomach towards my shoes. The reason the Scranton Cultural Center is called the Scranton Cultural Center is because excessive drinking, violence, and public vomiting are all an important part of Scranton's culture. As my friends and I paraphrase the very misleading TV show "The Office:" There ain't no party like a Scranton party, because at a Scranton party someone dies.
But anyway, Henry Winkler. He was coming to Scranton to hype his children's books about a kid with dyslexia. First there was a little party with champagne on the second floor of the building, followed by Mr. Winkler giving a little talk to an audience of kids in the theater. During the little pre-party I swiped a bottle of champagne, thinking it would be excessively cool to have a champagne bottle signed by the Fonze. Why did I think that? Because Scranton is full of radiation that makes you retarded.
I waited backstage while he was giving his talk to the little tykes. After he was done I asked his manservant (I assume his manager or assistant or sex slave) if he would sign my bottle. Mr. Winkler said, through his concubine, that he would not. Crushed, I decided to have him sign one of his books about kids who can't read.
Even though I spent a good ten minutes in Mr. Winkler's presence, he neither spoke to me or made eye contact with me. Instead he spoke to his manservant about how he was going to sign the books across his picture on the back because no one does that, and how will you know it's really his signature if he doesn't sign it accross his picture? "Why didn't anyone else think of that?" asked. Clearly, it's because Henry Winkler is a fucking genius. He also piqued my ire when he asked me, again through his chattel, to bring him some water. I did so, and received no acknowledgement whatsoever.
But, the life of celebrity is tiring. With this in mind I decided to sign my champagne bottle for Mr. Winkler.
My next dramatic semi-celebrity meeting was at my current semi-job at [Demarcations]. In this case, I met Bronson Pinchot. That's right, Balki of TV's "Perfect Strangers."
Bronson Pinchot on the left.According to Wikipedia, Bronson Pinchot owns a god damn town near Scranton. He moved there and bought all the buildings with his "Perfect Strangers" and Beverly Hills Cop money. And, for whatever reason, he occasionally relaxes with a warm cup of the distilled, burned offal we call coffee at the Scranton [Demarcations]. How he has not killed himself is anyone's guess.
Now, I should say that in actuallity Mr. Pinchot is a nice guy. When I was ringing him up I didn't realize that he was Bronson Pinchot until he handed me his credit card with BRONSON FUCKING PINCHOT on it. Also, someone behind me asked a manager if he could take his lunch break. This struck Mr. Pinchot as funny, as it was eight o'clock in the evening.
"Lunch?" said Mr. Pinchot. "That train has sailed." I am not ruling out that Bronson Pinchot was intoxicated during this interaction.
Bronson Pinchot on the left. Wokka wokka.
Now, I should say that in actuallity Mr. Pinchot is a nice guy. When I was ringing him up I didn't realize that he was Bronson Pinchot until he handed me his credit card with BRONSON FUCKING PINCHOT on it. Also, someone behind me asked a manager if he could take his lunch break. This struck Mr. Pinchot as funny, as it was eight o'clock in the evening.
"Lunch?" said Mr. Pinchot. "That train has sailed." I am not ruling out that Bronson Pinchot was intoxicated during this interaction.
Bronson Pinchot on the left. Wokka wokka.It has occured to me that nearly everyone has some cool story of meeting a real life celebrity or otherwise important public figure. My cousin got to shake hands with President Clinton while he was still president. RJP4 has met several celebrities during his exile in New York City. My sister saw Jake Gyllenhaal and Kirsten "Beastly Whore" Dunst buying rice--and was once yelled at by Sean Connery.
I, however, have been irritated by Henry Winkler over the course of an evening and shared a surreal three minutes with Bronson Pinchot. Clearly I am the winner.
----------------------------------------------------------
PS: Hopefully, children, I will have more time and motivation to post as [Demarcations] continues its steadily more entertaining shit show of a downward spiral into irrelevance and bankruptcy. Rumor has it that the new CEO is randomly visiting stores and firing people. Oh please, Father Christmas! Oh please let him visit humble Scranton, Pennsylvania to find me and set me free! And please, dear Father Christmas, let me tear off my stupid nametag and tell him to take his fraudulent charity book drives and maddeningly arbitrary sales goals and go fuck himself to death.
Cheers!
I, however, have been irritated by Henry Winkler over the course of an evening and shared a surreal three minutes with Bronson Pinchot. Clearly I am the winner.
----------------------------------------------------------
PS: Hopefully, children, I will have more time and motivation to post as [Demarcations] continues its steadily more entertaining shit show of a downward spiral into irrelevance and bankruptcy. Rumor has it that the new CEO is randomly visiting stores and firing people. Oh please, Father Christmas! Oh please let him visit humble Scranton, Pennsylvania to find me and set me free! And please, dear Father Christmas, let me tear off my stupid nametag and tell him to take his fraudulent charity book drives and maddeningly arbitrary sales goals and go fuck himself to death.
Cheers!
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
More reasons I hate my job.
1) Thanks to this here recession we got goin' on my hours have been cut to the point of having one day of work a week. Sometimes I have a full 8 hour shift, sometimes not. One week I was only scheduled to work four hours. Somehow this hasn't stopped me from hemorrhaging money like I have the Dollars-Tuberculosis. I cough demurely into a white handkerchief and look anxiously as dimes fall from it.
2) At my one day of work this week I heard two teenage girls discussing me.
Girl 1: Doesn't he look like [inaudible]?
Girl 2: Yeah. Maybe the hobbit version.
[Assorted giggles.]
I briefly imagined myself flagging them down and saying, "Hey, I don't come to where you work and tell you that you are too fat and pock-marked to work the pole while holding back tears of shame and thinking about your step-dad." But I would never do that. Bible says that would be wrong.
3) I had to alert the general manager to a teenage boy walking around the store with a gigantic inflatable cartoon penis.
4) That same night the store was visited by a living, breathing, cautionary tale against drinking while pregnant. This was the clearest and most obvious case of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome the world has ever seen. Eyes spread about seven meters apart, the classic "elfin" features, and, of course, the full house of behavioral problems. He yelled, he screamed, he demanded people help him find horror books even when we were engaged with other customers. When someone finally did free up to help him he was incomprehensible. His sister-mother had the same features and yelling issues. Clearly we were dealing with a multi-generational illness. In the end, she bought him the uncut version of the original Friday the 13th. I should receive a promotion for not immediately demanding to know why the mother hated the world so much as to use her genitals as a weapon against us all.
After they had left the store I went to the horror fiction section to see the damage left in their wake. The child had somehow knocked down a bookshelf. That took me a while to fix. I then went to the horror film section--only to find more of a mess and several empty DVD cases.
"Why didn't your fat ass get an abortion?" Imaginary Jackson asks.
"Because Bible says that would be wrong," says hillbilly woman, as she and her mongoloid son steal DVDs and cut in line in the public sphere. Wrong indeed, you horrible inbred deep-woods nightmare--now stop your walking talking miscarraige from biting me.
And with that my hate catharsis is complete. I will now resume rubbing my cat's belly and telling him what a handsome fellow he is.
Handsome devil.
2) At my one day of work this week I heard two teenage girls discussing me.
Girl 1: Doesn't he look like [inaudible]?
Girl 2: Yeah. Maybe the hobbit version.
[Assorted giggles.]
I briefly imagined myself flagging them down and saying, "Hey, I don't come to where you work and tell you that you are too fat and pock-marked to work the pole while holding back tears of shame and thinking about your step-dad." But I would never do that. Bible says that would be wrong.
3) I had to alert the general manager to a teenage boy walking around the store with a gigantic inflatable cartoon penis.
4) That same night the store was visited by a living, breathing, cautionary tale against drinking while pregnant. This was the clearest and most obvious case of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome the world has ever seen. Eyes spread about seven meters apart, the classic "elfin" features, and, of course, the full house of behavioral problems. He yelled, he screamed, he demanded people help him find horror books even when we were engaged with other customers. When someone finally did free up to help him he was incomprehensible. His sister-mother had the same features and yelling issues. Clearly we were dealing with a multi-generational illness. In the end, she bought him the uncut version of the original Friday the 13th. I should receive a promotion for not immediately demanding to know why the mother hated the world so much as to use her genitals as a weapon against us all.
After they had left the store I went to the horror fiction section to see the damage left in their wake. The child had somehow knocked down a bookshelf. That took me a while to fix. I then went to the horror film section--only to find more of a mess and several empty DVD cases.
"Why didn't your fat ass get an abortion?" Imaginary Jackson asks.
"Because Bible says that would be wrong," says hillbilly woman, as she and her mongoloid son steal DVDs and cut in line in the public sphere. Wrong indeed, you horrible inbred deep-woods nightmare--now stop your walking talking miscarraige from biting me.
And with that my hate catharsis is complete. I will now resume rubbing my cat's belly and telling him what a handsome fellow he is.
Handsome devil.Thursday, February 12, 2009
Books: You're doing it wrong.
This is why I hate my job:
A few days ago I was yelled at by a customer. I was yelled at by a fully grown adult man because my store did not have Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3. Please let this be for your children, I thought. But no: "I read Number 1 and Number 2 and now I want to read Number 3," he said, as if he could read my mind.
Sweet and merciful Jesus, you grown-ass man, have you no concept of shame? I swear, upon everything that may be considered by any to be holy, that when I am finally elected Emperor of these United States I will make it so grown-ass people who are unable to hide their Pokemon Adventure whatevers like particularly unsettling pornography will have to go door-to-door like sex offenders and pronounce to all and everyone that they are shameless deviants who should be kept away from children and easily lured pets. "Feed them to the bears!" cries Jackson the First, "Feed them to the bears!"
(There will be a bear pit.)
The gall it takes to harass another human being over something that should be carried home in a small paper bag and hidden under a floorboard, knowing that should it be discovered you would have to hang yourself from the rafters with a hastily scrawled note to loved ones saying "Oh God I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry"! "Monster does the world a favor," reads the obituary.
Now, I do not in any way advocate the taking of one's own life. But, if you are legally an adult with all of your faculties intact, and you get snippy with The Help because they do not have your colorful Japanese dog-fighting-for-children comic book, you should immediately attempt to end yourself. But if you failed so terribly at life you will probably fail at death, too. So ask your mom to do it.
Full disclosure: I recently bought a graphic novel (the third League of Extraordinary Gentlemen), but that has tits in it so there's a difference. Plus there's obscure literary references and off-color jokes about Shakespeare. But it's mostly tits.
Full disclosure: if there were tits in Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3 I would immediately resign and retire to my hidden compound at Owl Creek, never to engage society again. But, seeing as we are dealing with Japanland, children+tits+flashing lights=Saturday morning, so gas up my generator and clean my guns, friends.
A few days ago I was yelled at by a customer. I was yelled at by a fully grown adult man because my store did not have Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3. Please let this be for your children, I thought. But no: "I read Number 1 and Number 2 and now I want to read Number 3," he said, as if he could read my mind.
Sweet and merciful Jesus, you grown-ass man, have you no concept of shame? I swear, upon everything that may be considered by any to be holy, that when I am finally elected Emperor of these United States I will make it so grown-ass people who are unable to hide their Pokemon Adventure whatevers like particularly unsettling pornography will have to go door-to-door like sex offenders and pronounce to all and everyone that they are shameless deviants who should be kept away from children and easily lured pets. "Feed them to the bears!" cries Jackson the First, "Feed them to the bears!"
(There will be a bear pit.)
The gall it takes to harass another human being over something that should be carried home in a small paper bag and hidden under a floorboard, knowing that should it be discovered you would have to hang yourself from the rafters with a hastily scrawled note to loved ones saying "Oh God I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry"! "Monster does the world a favor," reads the obituary.
Now, I do not in any way advocate the taking of one's own life. But, if you are legally an adult with all of your faculties intact, and you get snippy with The Help because they do not have your colorful Japanese dog-fighting-for-children comic book, you should immediately attempt to end yourself. But if you failed so terribly at life you will probably fail at death, too. So ask your mom to do it.
Full disclosure: I recently bought a graphic novel (the third League of Extraordinary Gentlemen), but that has tits in it so there's a difference. Plus there's obscure literary references and off-color jokes about Shakespeare. But it's mostly tits.
Full disclosure: if there were tits in Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3 I would immediately resign and retire to my hidden compound at Owl Creek, never to engage society again. But, seeing as we are dealing with Japanland, children+tits+flashing lights=Saturday morning, so gas up my generator and clean my guns, friends.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Asshole Taxonomy presents: "The Neo Nerd."
I have bemoaned, here and elsewhere, that while the Internet is a wonderful invention in terms of its capacity for expanding freedom of expression and thought—and possibly democracy itself—it is also killing us all, dammit. While there is a certain charm in the idea that any dribbling hill person can have an Internet Web Log in which to stammer out the innermost machinations of his or her brain (long Swiss-cheese’d by a combination of Creutzfeldt-Jakob and turpentine cocktails), the Internet is fraught with the same perils of all cultural expansions. Not only does it open up an unprepared West for all the horrid perversions of the Orient, it also allows groups formerly relegated to the outskirts of acceptability and decency a place to congregate, confabulate, and masturbate.
It in this unforeseen capacity that the Internet is mostly responsible for this post’s Asshole: The Neo-Nerd.
“But Jackson!” you might say, as you typically do whenever I need this construction, “Cannot you, yourself, be classified as a nerd? Do you not enjoy an occasional science fiction romp? Are you not highly critical of the new Transformers movie due to your not-so-secret homorobotic crush on Optimus Prime? Do you not wear glasses and work in a book store and contribute to an Internet Web Log that regularly references such things as the Technodrome?” And, after hissing and shushing you because of the possible presence of ladies, I would admit it as so. And yet, while I may be a considerable nerd I am not—and as God as my witness will never be—a Neo-Nerd.
And what, pray tell, is the difference? What makes a nerd fit to walk upright among men while the Neo-Nerd, in a just and sensible society, would be banished to the sewers, forever to feast upon the refuse of the society that shunned it? Allow me first to properly secure my ranting hat.
Nerdiness has become an acceptable part of society. Everything from calculator watches to quoting Star Wars has become a-OK. Comic book movies are blockbusters and nominated for Academy Awards. Lost has made science fiction palatable. But there is always balance in the universe—and as such, some nerds were pushed into a dark wasteland opened up by once-beautiful openness of the Internet. Suddenly there is someone who does want to read your stories about Captain Kirk giving it to Obi Wan Kenobi. Suddenly there is someone who does want to argue with you about why it’s “Elvish” and not “Elfish.” Suddenly there is someone who also likes to dress up like a wolf and…do whatever Furries do. I assume rub each other and howl or something.
There is a Never Never Land, children, and good Lord in Heaven is it eye-meltingly horrible. Peter Pan doesn’t fight pirates and live in a kick-ass tree-house here, kids. Instead he insists he’s a vampire and can’t hold down a job to pay for his microwave burritos. Anyone who claims that it’s a virtue to remain a child at heart hasn’t seen the real world outcome: two physically mature sub-humans dressed as raccoons humping each other.
But, honestly, as long as they stay in their cold, dark corner of the Internet, I have no beef with the Neo-Nerd. If they stayed on their fan fiction and sword-collecting websites, all would be well. But, being completely unaware of their status as most undesirable, they occasionally venture out into the real world; their skin ghostly white, their sweatpants stained with long streaks of cheeto dust, hair greasy from an apparent abandonment of all tenets of personal hygiene, brains confused by light and three dimensions, compounded by their inability to separate themselves (worthless on virtually all measurable levels) from their MMORPG avatar (ninth level paladin dragon-slaying troll-bashing he-man love-machine). Whereas the Fattie is deluded enough to think that they can do magic, the Neo-Nerd is deluded enough to have a baffling amount of confidence.
You have probably encountered the Neo-Nerd if you are nerdy enough to read and understand SQR. He is the guy who will call you a “fag” even though he himself has never and will never know the love of a woman. He is the guy who will cite his skills at Halo as if they are really worth something beyond the typically advanced eye-hand coordination of the hourly masturbator. If you are stupid enough to engage the Neo-Nerd, he will spend the entire conversation criticizing you and everything you like or enjoy, even though later he will have to call his mother for a ride home. Basically, the Neo-Nerd’s mind and perception is so twisted by lack of reality that they believe their social inadequacies and unacceptability are actually benefits. Like all Assholes, the Neo-Nerd simply, and bafflingly erroneously, believes that they are better than you. Yes, you.
The Neo-Nerd is also incredibly skilled at the art of what we have previously termed conversation rape. Whereas the Fattie was maybe an apprentice-level conversation rapist, the Neo-Nerd will leave you in the shower, fully clothed and in the fetal position, sobbing and knowing that you will never be clean. There is one particular Neo-Nerd who stalks [Demarcations], whom the staff calls [Fat Bitch]. My latest encounter with [Fat Bitch] was when I was tasked with alphabetizing the science fiction series. I was working on our largest series, Forgotten Realms—which, as far as I can tell, is about long-haired people fighting abominable snowmen with crossbows. Because I was touching these books, [Fat Bitch] must have assumed I read them and would also like to talk about them even though I was clearly at work and too polite to put steel-toe to testicles. He stood over me for about ten or fifteen minutes, vomiting endlessly upon me his opinions on things with too many apostrophes and consonants to ever be pronounceable by anyone without a brain disease. Eventually I stopped even my stock of non-response responses (“uh huh”, “right”, “sure”, “K’frrd’nch does sound like a nice place to raise a half-elf”, etc.), hoping that he would get the subtle message that I hated him and wanted him to die. Just when I was about to open my jugular with my pen two more people walked into the section and [Fat Bitch] smelled fresh meat. I finished my section feeling like a helpless coward, not strong enough to protect those poor, innocent people from an hour-long conversation about which guild is the best in a place that is not real.
And so, friends, heed my warning! Should ye be approached by anyone wearing ankle-cuffed sweatpants who is not (A) in the immediate vicinity of a gym, (B) over the age of sixty-five, or (C) asleep, run! Run for the nearest and brightest source of light that is not a Best Buy or an establishment that regularly sells Hot Pockets! God forbid, if one should bite or scratch you, immediately wash the wound with soap, water, and the highest proof whiskey you can find, then fill your pockets with stones and walk into the nearest river or lake.
Remarkably, through this piecemeal taxonomy of individual species, we are quickly approaching a general rubric for Assholes. So far we seem to have two rules down:
1) Whereas the individual has a complete disconnect from reality (e.g. believing in magic, thinking that his or her Xbox Live gamerscore is comparable to carpentry or masonry or being actually able to do anything and be paid money for it).
2) Whereas the individual has a baseless claim of superiority (e.g. a lot of people reading their Smurfs fanfiction, having seen a boob once in Warcraft).
Be sure to tune in next time for more Asshole Taxonomy. Or other stuff. Or maybe I’ll go another two weeks without posting.
It in this unforeseen capacity that the Internet is mostly responsible for this post’s Asshole: The Neo-Nerd.
“But Jackson!” you might say, as you typically do whenever I need this construction, “Cannot you, yourself, be classified as a nerd? Do you not enjoy an occasional science fiction romp? Are you not highly critical of the new Transformers movie due to your not-so-secret homorobotic crush on Optimus Prime? Do you not wear glasses and work in a book store and contribute to an Internet Web Log that regularly references such things as the Technodrome?” And, after hissing and shushing you because of the possible presence of ladies, I would admit it as so. And yet, while I may be a considerable nerd I am not—and as God as my witness will never be—a Neo-Nerd.
And what, pray tell, is the difference? What makes a nerd fit to walk upright among men while the Neo-Nerd, in a just and sensible society, would be banished to the sewers, forever to feast upon the refuse of the society that shunned it? Allow me first to properly secure my ranting hat.
Nerdiness has become an acceptable part of society. Everything from calculator watches to quoting Star Wars has become a-OK. Comic book movies are blockbusters and nominated for Academy Awards. Lost has made science fiction palatable. But there is always balance in the universe—and as such, some nerds were pushed into a dark wasteland opened up by once-beautiful openness of the Internet. Suddenly there is someone who does want to read your stories about Captain Kirk giving it to Obi Wan Kenobi. Suddenly there is someone who does want to argue with you about why it’s “Elvish” and not “Elfish.” Suddenly there is someone who also likes to dress up like a wolf and…do whatever Furries do. I assume rub each other and howl or something.
There is a Never Never Land, children, and good Lord in Heaven is it eye-meltingly horrible. Peter Pan doesn’t fight pirates and live in a kick-ass tree-house here, kids. Instead he insists he’s a vampire and can’t hold down a job to pay for his microwave burritos. Anyone who claims that it’s a virtue to remain a child at heart hasn’t seen the real world outcome: two physically mature sub-humans dressed as raccoons humping each other.
But, honestly, as long as they stay in their cold, dark corner of the Internet, I have no beef with the Neo-Nerd. If they stayed on their fan fiction and sword-collecting websites, all would be well. But, being completely unaware of their status as most undesirable, they occasionally venture out into the real world; their skin ghostly white, their sweatpants stained with long streaks of cheeto dust, hair greasy from an apparent abandonment of all tenets of personal hygiene, brains confused by light and three dimensions, compounded by their inability to separate themselves (worthless on virtually all measurable levels) from their MMORPG avatar (ninth level paladin dragon-slaying troll-bashing he-man love-machine). Whereas the Fattie is deluded enough to think that they can do magic, the Neo-Nerd is deluded enough to have a baffling amount of confidence.
You have probably encountered the Neo-Nerd if you are nerdy enough to read and understand SQR. He is the guy who will call you a “fag” even though he himself has never and will never know the love of a woman. He is the guy who will cite his skills at Halo as if they are really worth something beyond the typically advanced eye-hand coordination of the hourly masturbator. If you are stupid enough to engage the Neo-Nerd, he will spend the entire conversation criticizing you and everything you like or enjoy, even though later he will have to call his mother for a ride home. Basically, the Neo-Nerd’s mind and perception is so twisted by lack of reality that they believe their social inadequacies and unacceptability are actually benefits. Like all Assholes, the Neo-Nerd simply, and bafflingly erroneously, believes that they are better than you. Yes, you.
The Neo-Nerd is also incredibly skilled at the art of what we have previously termed conversation rape. Whereas the Fattie was maybe an apprentice-level conversation rapist, the Neo-Nerd will leave you in the shower, fully clothed and in the fetal position, sobbing and knowing that you will never be clean. There is one particular Neo-Nerd who stalks [Demarcations], whom the staff calls [Fat Bitch]. My latest encounter with [Fat Bitch] was when I was tasked with alphabetizing the science fiction series. I was working on our largest series, Forgotten Realms—which, as far as I can tell, is about long-haired people fighting abominable snowmen with crossbows. Because I was touching these books, [Fat Bitch] must have assumed I read them and would also like to talk about them even though I was clearly at work and too polite to put steel-toe to testicles. He stood over me for about ten or fifteen minutes, vomiting endlessly upon me his opinions on things with too many apostrophes and consonants to ever be pronounceable by anyone without a brain disease. Eventually I stopped even my stock of non-response responses (“uh huh”, “right”, “sure”, “K’frrd’nch does sound like a nice place to raise a half-elf”, etc.), hoping that he would get the subtle message that I hated him and wanted him to die. Just when I was about to open my jugular with my pen two more people walked into the section and [Fat Bitch] smelled fresh meat. I finished my section feeling like a helpless coward, not strong enough to protect those poor, innocent people from an hour-long conversation about which guild is the best in a place that is not real.
And so, friends, heed my warning! Should ye be approached by anyone wearing ankle-cuffed sweatpants who is not (A) in the immediate vicinity of a gym, (B) over the age of sixty-five, or (C) asleep, run! Run for the nearest and brightest source of light that is not a Best Buy or an establishment that regularly sells Hot Pockets! God forbid, if one should bite or scratch you, immediately wash the wound with soap, water, and the highest proof whiskey you can find, then fill your pockets with stones and walk into the nearest river or lake.
Remarkably, through this piecemeal taxonomy of individual species, we are quickly approaching a general rubric for Assholes. So far we seem to have two rules down:
1) Whereas the individual has a complete disconnect from reality (e.g. believing in magic, thinking that his or her Xbox Live gamerscore is comparable to carpentry or masonry or being actually able to do anything and be paid money for it).
2) Whereas the individual has a baseless claim of superiority (e.g. a lot of people reading their Smurfs fanfiction, having seen a boob once in Warcraft).
Be sure to tune in next time for more Asshole Taxonomy. Or other stuff. Or maybe I’ll go another two weeks without posting.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Asshole Taxonomy presents: "The Fattie"
Something that you may not know about Scranton is that recent census statistics show that between ninety-eight and ninety-nine percent of all residents are insufferable assholes. Whereas most cities have at least something resembling a shadow of a sense of community, Scranton and its immediate vicinity is virtually identical to most popular depictions of post-apocalyptic survival societies—in which not only has civilization as an institution broken down, but also civility on an individual, person-to-person level. As my good friend and brother-in-arms RJP4 has so aptly said, Scranton, Pennsylvania is Thunderdome.
But note that I did not say that Scranton is full of mere assholes, but insufferable assholes. These are not the ordinary assholes that one might encounter occasionally in normal life. While most regular assholes are irritating, the Scranton species of asshole is something different altogether: these are people who not only willingly opt out of the basic social contract of manners, decency, and mores, but seemingly delight in their abandonment of basic interpersonal skills. While most assholes bend the rules of civility—implying that they are at least aware of them—the Scranton asshole will smile at you with empty, uncomprehending eyes as they shit on your birthday cake. If man is, as Aristotle claimed, a political animal, then most of the residents of Scranton ceased to qualify as human when they sat naked in their kiddie pools and removed, via unsterilized ice cream scoop, the parts of their brains in which most of us store our social tool box.
Another interesting part of the Scranton species of asshole is that there is a somewhat distinct taxonomy. Enough time spent here, and one will gradually begin to see various types of asshole emerge. I would venture that most of these types are not limited to Scranton, but the already asshole-conducive nature of the city amplifies their natural abilities of social disruption and all-around cake-shitting. (That is not to say the shitting of cakes, but rather the aforementioned shitting on cakes.)
And so, as a public service, I intend to do my Linnaean duty and classify some subgroups of the asshole. Tonight’s edition is what I shall call the Fattie.
Now, now, to head you off at the pass: the fatness of the Fattie is not what makes them socially unacceptable. It is the behavior of the Fattie, which is unique to the Fattie and mostly likely caused by insensitive societal reactions to said fatness, such as this. And not all overweight people are Fatties. I know upwards of three—perhaps four—overweight people who are positively delightful. Also, I think the word “Fattie” is funny and that they wouldn’t be anywhere near such assholes if they pulled out the IV of ranch dressing and began some systematic lurching in order to gain enough momentum to get outside—preferably by means of a door, or barring that, crashing through a non-weight bearing wall.
Seeing as anecdotal evidence is always the best way to prove a claim, I will proceed to tell you about my recent experience with the Fattie.
[Demarcations], being a book store, is prone to Fatties. They spend most of their time trundling about the science fiction, horror, manga, and metaphysical studies sections. Occasionally one might get lost and end up, frightened and confused, in the health and fitness section—but the staff is typically quick to respond to their distressed squeals and roll them back to their self-indulgent fantasy land.
One particular Fattie completely destroyed my night recently. It began with her awkwardly slaloming up to the information desk, breathlessly asking two questions. First, she had a birthday coupon for fifty percent off, but her email “crashed.” Two problems: birthday coupons are always, always twenty-five percent off, and her email “crashing” doesn’t make any sense unless she personally consumed the servers at gayharrypotterfanfiction.net. Being clinically polite, I replied “Uhhh I believe the birthday coupons are only twenty-five percent off an item.” She smiled, and most of her facial features were obscured and she helpfully informed me that I was wrong, even though I work there at a desk with a big sign that says “INFORMATION” over it. Although, to be fair, she may have merged completely with the Internet by now and may be more informed about my workplace than I am. Perfectly possible.
The second question this girl asked was “Where are your books on magic and astrology?” Now, you must understand that I find it incredibly difficult to maintain decorum when someone asks me anything like that—from “where are your Scientology books?” to “Where are your books about the Lizard men that secretly run the world?” Luckily, these books are all contained in the Retarded Horse Shit section (or, in the original Latin, “metaphysical studies”). Every time I help a customer find this section, I am tempted to close the conversation with “Have a nice day. Oh, and everything in this section is not real and you are an idiot. Please do not breed. Thanks.” Like a doctor attending an execution, I feel morally uncomfortable with people purchasing books on drug-addled space religions or how the people in third world countries are hungry because they don’t want food badly enough.
Here’s an excerpt from Dr. Jackson’s Certified Real World Horoscope:
Leo: Today you are still fat and no one likes you. Years from now you will die because your diaphragm cannot support your weight in a reclining position.
But Jackson, old boy, you might be asking yourself, does this poor water horse really deserve the full brunt of your devastating wit? Not yet, I would reply. Patience, friends. Our adventure is not yet over.
Hours later I was called up to the registers to check people out. Who comes up to my register but my new friend the magical land whale. The transaction was uneventful, save for the fact that she was buying a book on playing the piano. This fact stuck in my mind because the image of her fingers caused me some distress—wedged and nearly immobile onto her hands like sausages mid explosion; oily, I imagine, from tearing apart a meal of broiled duck like an insane medieval king. But she left the store and these disturbing thoughts left me. And never would I have thought of this poor beast again had I not had to close the store that night.
After all the customers had left, it is the duty of the booksellers to straighten up and make sure the books are all back where they belong. It is, at times, a lengthy and terrible process. And what did I find that night, scattered all about the store? Books on magic, astrology, and pianos. Apparently in the hours between out meetings she had carried most of these sections in her sturdy arms and discarded them as she pleased all over. Teenagers—who I typically consider the worst people in the world next to myself and my associates—cause less of a mess than this single cow-eyed she-troll.
There are rare moments in life when you are completely defeated. Where, upon seeing the task or foe before you there is nothing to do but put your hands on your head and utter a completely involuntary groan of despair. This is what the Fattie had reduced me to. Her absolute disregard for the people who might have to clean up after her book holocaust and her smiling non-comprehension of the pain she would cause, typical of the Scranton breed of asshole, left me destroyed. My birthday cake had been thoroughly shit on, and it would be well past midnight before I got home.
These are the classifying traits of the Fattie: a lack of basic interpersonal skills based on either home-schooling or social rejection due to physical unattractiveness—not entirely their fault. Sometimes in order to make up for these social inabilities, the Fattie may become overly confident and outgoing, leading to a long conversation about Star Wars in which one party is nonconsensual (what I like to call “conversation rape”). A sense of entitlement, probably due to suffering at the hands of people who think being fat is not totally rad. Finally, due to their horrible existence, the Fattie has a complete detachment from reality. Magic? Sure! Harry Potter was a documentary. Also, people don’t like you because you are fat, not because you’re a terrible person.
In closing, I cannot stress enough that the Fattie is not a terrible person simply because of being overweight. I am simply insensitive and fat jokes are easy.
More Asshole Taxonomy on the way (and hopefully more astute that this incoherent crap written in blind rage).
But note that I did not say that Scranton is full of mere assholes, but insufferable assholes. These are not the ordinary assholes that one might encounter occasionally in normal life. While most regular assholes are irritating, the Scranton species of asshole is something different altogether: these are people who not only willingly opt out of the basic social contract of manners, decency, and mores, but seemingly delight in their abandonment of basic interpersonal skills. While most assholes bend the rules of civility—implying that they are at least aware of them—the Scranton asshole will smile at you with empty, uncomprehending eyes as they shit on your birthday cake. If man is, as Aristotle claimed, a political animal, then most of the residents of Scranton ceased to qualify as human when they sat naked in their kiddie pools and removed, via unsterilized ice cream scoop, the parts of their brains in which most of us store our social tool box.
Another interesting part of the Scranton species of asshole is that there is a somewhat distinct taxonomy. Enough time spent here, and one will gradually begin to see various types of asshole emerge. I would venture that most of these types are not limited to Scranton, but the already asshole-conducive nature of the city amplifies their natural abilities of social disruption and all-around cake-shitting. (That is not to say the shitting of cakes, but rather the aforementioned shitting on cakes.)
And so, as a public service, I intend to do my Linnaean duty and classify some subgroups of the asshole. Tonight’s edition is what I shall call the Fattie.
Now, now, to head you off at the pass: the fatness of the Fattie is not what makes them socially unacceptable. It is the behavior of the Fattie, which is unique to the Fattie and mostly likely caused by insensitive societal reactions to said fatness, such as this. And not all overweight people are Fatties. I know upwards of three—perhaps four—overweight people who are positively delightful. Also, I think the word “Fattie” is funny and that they wouldn’t be anywhere near such assholes if they pulled out the IV of ranch dressing and began some systematic lurching in order to gain enough momentum to get outside—preferably by means of a door, or barring that, crashing through a non-weight bearing wall.
Seeing as anecdotal evidence is always the best way to prove a claim, I will proceed to tell you about my recent experience with the Fattie.
[Demarcations], being a book store, is prone to Fatties. They spend most of their time trundling about the science fiction, horror, manga, and metaphysical studies sections. Occasionally one might get lost and end up, frightened and confused, in the health and fitness section—but the staff is typically quick to respond to their distressed squeals and roll them back to their self-indulgent fantasy land.
One particular Fattie completely destroyed my night recently. It began with her awkwardly slaloming up to the information desk, breathlessly asking two questions. First, she had a birthday coupon for fifty percent off, but her email “crashed.” Two problems: birthday coupons are always, always twenty-five percent off, and her email “crashing” doesn’t make any sense unless she personally consumed the servers at gayharrypotterfanfiction.net. Being clinically polite, I replied “Uhhh I believe the birthday coupons are only twenty-five percent off an item.” She smiled, and most of her facial features were obscured and she helpfully informed me that I was wrong, even though I work there at a desk with a big sign that says “INFORMATION” over it. Although, to be fair, she may have merged completely with the Internet by now and may be more informed about my workplace than I am. Perfectly possible.
The second question this girl asked was “Where are your books on magic and astrology?” Now, you must understand that I find it incredibly difficult to maintain decorum when someone asks me anything like that—from “where are your Scientology books?” to “Where are your books about the Lizard men that secretly run the world?” Luckily, these books are all contained in the Retarded Horse Shit section (or, in the original Latin, “metaphysical studies”). Every time I help a customer find this section, I am tempted to close the conversation with “Have a nice day. Oh, and everything in this section is not real and you are an idiot. Please do not breed. Thanks.” Like a doctor attending an execution, I feel morally uncomfortable with people purchasing books on drug-addled space religions or how the people in third world countries are hungry because they don’t want food badly enough.
Here’s an excerpt from Dr. Jackson’s Certified Real World Horoscope:
Leo: Today you are still fat and no one likes you. Years from now you will die because your diaphragm cannot support your weight in a reclining position.
But Jackson, old boy, you might be asking yourself, does this poor water horse really deserve the full brunt of your devastating wit? Not yet, I would reply. Patience, friends. Our adventure is not yet over.
Hours later I was called up to the registers to check people out. Who comes up to my register but my new friend the magical land whale. The transaction was uneventful, save for the fact that she was buying a book on playing the piano. This fact stuck in my mind because the image of her fingers caused me some distress—wedged and nearly immobile onto her hands like sausages mid explosion; oily, I imagine, from tearing apart a meal of broiled duck like an insane medieval king. But she left the store and these disturbing thoughts left me. And never would I have thought of this poor beast again had I not had to close the store that night.
After all the customers had left, it is the duty of the booksellers to straighten up and make sure the books are all back where they belong. It is, at times, a lengthy and terrible process. And what did I find that night, scattered all about the store? Books on magic, astrology, and pianos. Apparently in the hours between out meetings she had carried most of these sections in her sturdy arms and discarded them as she pleased all over. Teenagers—who I typically consider the worst people in the world next to myself and my associates—cause less of a mess than this single cow-eyed she-troll.
There are rare moments in life when you are completely defeated. Where, upon seeing the task or foe before you there is nothing to do but put your hands on your head and utter a completely involuntary groan of despair. This is what the Fattie had reduced me to. Her absolute disregard for the people who might have to clean up after her book holocaust and her smiling non-comprehension of the pain she would cause, typical of the Scranton breed of asshole, left me destroyed. My birthday cake had been thoroughly shit on, and it would be well past midnight before I got home.
These are the classifying traits of the Fattie: a lack of basic interpersonal skills based on either home-schooling or social rejection due to physical unattractiveness—not entirely their fault. Sometimes in order to make up for these social inabilities, the Fattie may become overly confident and outgoing, leading to a long conversation about Star Wars in which one party is nonconsensual (what I like to call “conversation rape”). A sense of entitlement, probably due to suffering at the hands of people who think being fat is not totally rad. Finally, due to their horrible existence, the Fattie has a complete detachment from reality. Magic? Sure! Harry Potter was a documentary. Also, people don’t like you because you are fat, not because you’re a terrible person.
In closing, I cannot stress enough that the Fattie is not a terrible person simply because of being overweight. I am simply insensitive and fat jokes are easy.
More Asshole Taxonomy on the way (and hopefully more astute that this incoherent crap written in blind rage).
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Not with a bang but a LOL
With Tyler bringing up "Calvin and Hobbes" and my previous post waxing nostalgic about simpler times, I feel the need to complain.
Recently at [Demarcations] I was talking with an older employee about comic strips. This, of course, made me think of Calvin and Hobbes--with which he had little contact. As we were talking about the strip I had a very sad realization: Calvin and Hobbes has become anachronistic--dated! It focuses on a boy who spends the majority of his time outside, building forts and snowmen and riding in a wagon. The kid also has an imagination so powerful that it shakes the foundation of the material world he lives in: dinosaurs flying fighter jets, cardboard box time machines, and that constant, fabricated companion.
I'm afraid that the generations after mine would look at this strip and see nothing of a foothold. No context, no frame of reference. When I was a kid I seem to recall being nearly always outside. I climbed trees. I dug massive holes for the hell of it. I went to the park and rode my bike, and I remember being called from the back porch as the sun went down. But now it is rare for me to see any kids in the neighborhood. Sometimes, as I am going to work, I see them slogging their way up to the old John J. Audubon School #42--and sometimes I see them slogging their way home. But that is it. The park is full of old people and young couples with dogs. I haven't seen anyone on a bike here in ages--at least, anyone who didn't have sunglasses and lycra shorts.
And this is how I know I am old. I have started my what's-with-the-kids-these-days speeches. Next I'll be confiscating errant frisbees (if there were any) and lose my ability to use a remote control. But I really do feel that these generational changes are significant--moreso, perhaps, then the one behind me complaining about "the rap music and the em tee vee."
I think it is better for kids to be outside getting scrapes and bruises and playing tag or Cowboys and Indians than screaming homophobic obscenities at each other while one of their avatars teabags another.
I think that if this generation had a Calvin he would be a fat, lonely little fuck altogether medicated and crushed out of existence. We could call it "Calvin and No One," because he sure as hell wouldn't be able to imagine his way out of a paper bag, let alone come up with a separate being. Whereas the previous had remarkable insights and thoughtful observations, this bright and shining new Calvin would have fingertips stained orange from Cheeto-dust, pale skin from constant illumination-by-monitor, and would most likely grow up and go Columbine on all our asses.
Sweet Jesus, I just went back and read what I wrote and I come off as one of those internet assholes that are so popular these days. Sorry to put my grumpy pants on, all. But what else are blogs for but the late-night airings of our indignant rages passed off as legitimate social commentary and criticism?
The next post will be back on track. And will most likely mention vomit. I am noticing a pattern.
Recently at [Demarcations] I was talking with an older employee about comic strips. This, of course, made me think of Calvin and Hobbes--with which he had little contact. As we were talking about the strip I had a very sad realization: Calvin and Hobbes has become anachronistic--dated! It focuses on a boy who spends the majority of his time outside, building forts and snowmen and riding in a wagon. The kid also has an imagination so powerful that it shakes the foundation of the material world he lives in: dinosaurs flying fighter jets, cardboard box time machines, and that constant, fabricated companion.
I'm afraid that the generations after mine would look at this strip and see nothing of a foothold. No context, no frame of reference. When I was a kid I seem to recall being nearly always outside. I climbed trees. I dug massive holes for the hell of it. I went to the park and rode my bike, and I remember being called from the back porch as the sun went down. But now it is rare for me to see any kids in the neighborhood. Sometimes, as I am going to work, I see them slogging their way up to the old John J. Audubon School #42--and sometimes I see them slogging their way home. But that is it. The park is full of old people and young couples with dogs. I haven't seen anyone on a bike here in ages--at least, anyone who didn't have sunglasses and lycra shorts.
And this is how I know I am old. I have started my what's-with-the-kids-these-days speeches. Next I'll be confiscating errant frisbees (if there were any) and lose my ability to use a remote control. But I really do feel that these generational changes are significant--moreso, perhaps, then the one behind me complaining about "the rap music and the em tee vee."
I think it is better for kids to be outside getting scrapes and bruises and playing tag or Cowboys and Indians than screaming homophobic obscenities at each other while one of their avatars teabags another.
I think that if this generation had a Calvin he would be a fat, lonely little fuck altogether medicated and crushed out of existence. We could call it "Calvin and No One," because he sure as hell wouldn't be able to imagine his way out of a paper bag, let alone come up with a separate being. Whereas the previous had remarkable insights and thoughtful observations, this bright and shining new Calvin would have fingertips stained orange from Cheeto-dust, pale skin from constant illumination-by-monitor, and would most likely grow up and go Columbine on all our asses.
Sweet Jesus, I just went back and read what I wrote and I come off as one of those internet assholes that are so popular these days. Sorry to put my grumpy pants on, all. But what else are blogs for but the late-night airings of our indignant rages passed off as legitimate social commentary and criticism?
The next post will be back on track. And will most likely mention vomit. I am noticing a pattern.
Friday, December 12, 2008
The Marty McFly of the digital age
I work at a local book store--shall we call it, perhaps, "[Demarcations]." Now, this being one of the few book stores in the area (draw from that fact what you will) we get some interesting people. Most of them are just unremarkably crazy. For instance, there is a person who regularly vomits in the men's room. This is not really worth much hullabaloo because this person has what we might call brain and behavioral problems, which means he may think that it is OK to purge oneself on the floor of a public place. This is something that everyone knows crazy people do, so why blog about it? It is not blogworthy to say that a crazy person did something that, to non-crazy people, appears crazy. (I imagine that crazy people have a kind of supra-sane communication and understanding, and that other crazy people would respond to a person purposely vomiting in public with sage nods and "good shows" all around. But then again I am not a doctor and am, by most rubrics, mentally retarded.)
But beyond the shuffling and vomiting hordes, [Demarcations] also provides its many services to some genuinely astonishing people. Tonight I had the pleasure of helping a young boy who had clearly traveled through space and time from the distant lands of what can only be called "1992."
(I have done a Google Image Search of the phrase "1992" in order to better show what I mean, but I got distracted by one of the results:
This woman, who looks considerably like television's Ricky Gervais. She is also a "traffic manager" from 1992.)
At first I was struck by the time traveler's appearance: light blue tapered jeans; an oversized striped sweater of the colors green, orange, and red; white high top sneakers; a green down vest; and a perfectly shaped blond semi-mullet. Unlike a regular mullet, which was worn primarily by the lower class (a tradition carried on today only by idiot sub-humans), the semi-mullet was the rich man's mullet--being business in the front and slightly more drunken business in the back. For those of us who grew up televisually inclined, think of the blond Taylor child on Home Improvement.
Next came the mysterious time-wanderer's request: He wanted the Simpsons. "Ye Gods!" thought I. Trapped in the confines of the early nineties, this poor soul has yet to see the fate of the Simpsons! Sure that he would not believe me, I--with heavy heart--led him back to the glass DVD cases, where I unlocked for him seasons four and five.
After my brief encounter, I thought that he had gone. But he returned again to continue marveling me with his antiquated tastes and behaviors. He approached me, apologizing for taking up my time again. Can you imagine? A child! Apologizing and being needlessly polite! He wanted to purchase another boxed set--this one of some wrestling business. How can this boy afford all these boxed sets, I thought. But then, slapping my forehead, I remembered: the nineties were times of economic prosperity. Mulleted children with day glow slap bracelets and deep seated fears of a Negro President scampered around buying ridiculous shit all the time. Such a strange and terrifying world this boy had come from: a land where Sonic the Hedgehog is a cultural icon, where the "overall" is not extinct, and Star Wars--Oh! Those beautiful Star Wars!--remains unblemished. He probably still played outside, thought computers were only for doing math problems, and had never called anyone a "gay ass bitch faggot" after they "killed" him in cops and robbers.
As he left the building--surely to disappear in a ball of lightning--I could not help but think of such a brave old world.
But then some crazy motherfucker tossed his biscuits in the bathroom.
But beyond the shuffling and vomiting hordes, [Demarcations] also provides its many services to some genuinely astonishing people. Tonight I had the pleasure of helping a young boy who had clearly traveled through space and time from the distant lands of what can only be called "1992."
(I have done a Google Image Search of the phrase "1992" in order to better show what I mean, but I got distracted by one of the results:
This woman, who looks considerably like television's Ricky Gervais. She is also a "traffic manager" from 1992.)At first I was struck by the time traveler's appearance: light blue tapered jeans; an oversized striped sweater of the colors green, orange, and red; white high top sneakers; a green down vest; and a perfectly shaped blond semi-mullet. Unlike a regular mullet, which was worn primarily by the lower class (a tradition carried on today only by idiot sub-humans), the semi-mullet was the rich man's mullet--being business in the front and slightly more drunken business in the back. For those of us who grew up televisually inclined, think of the blond Taylor child on Home Improvement.
Next came the mysterious time-wanderer's request: He wanted the Simpsons. "Ye Gods!" thought I. Trapped in the confines of the early nineties, this poor soul has yet to see the fate of the Simpsons! Sure that he would not believe me, I--with heavy heart--led him back to the glass DVD cases, where I unlocked for him seasons four and five.
After my brief encounter, I thought that he had gone. But he returned again to continue marveling me with his antiquated tastes and behaviors. He approached me, apologizing for taking up my time again. Can you imagine? A child! Apologizing and being needlessly polite! He wanted to purchase another boxed set--this one of some wrestling business. How can this boy afford all these boxed sets, I thought. But then, slapping my forehead, I remembered: the nineties were times of economic prosperity. Mulleted children with day glow slap bracelets and deep seated fears of a Negro President scampered around buying ridiculous shit all the time. Such a strange and terrifying world this boy had come from: a land where Sonic the Hedgehog is a cultural icon, where the "overall" is not extinct, and Star Wars--Oh! Those beautiful Star Wars!--remains unblemished. He probably still played outside, thought computers were only for doing math problems, and had never called anyone a "gay ass bitch faggot" after they "killed" him in cops and robbers.
As he left the building--surely to disappear in a ball of lightning--I could not help but think of such a brave old world.
But then some crazy motherfucker tossed his biscuits in the bathroom.
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