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!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge 2: This Time It's Personal
I've recently resumed the downward spiral of self-flagellation and misery that is applying to doctoral programs in philosophy. Hopefully I will detail my adventures in this mire of Lovecraftian terror better than I did last time AND MORE IMPORTANTLY MAYBE THIS TIME I WILL BE SUCCESSFUL.
I am currently struggling with the various essays I have to write. First I need a writing sample. Last time I used my senior thesis from the Honors program at the University of Scranton. Somehow this seventy page pile of sparsely cited thirteen-point-font madness, written in the space of twelve hours four days after it was due, did not manage to impress upon anyone that I can tie my shoes without pissing myself, let alone communicate complex thoughts coherently. "The Death of Democracy," it's called, and it's horrifyingly available at the Weinberg Memorial Library here in Scranton. My thesis, as I recall, is that I am a retarded person who should be put in government care--or, at the very least, have someone with me at all times to slap things out of my hands that I am slowly putting in my mouth.
So, new writing sample, written whole-cloth and hopefully not the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone, ever. My topic ideas:
1. Technology!, or: Why Heidegger and Marx Can Suck On It ("It" Being My Penis)
2. Plato's Republic vs. The Constitution of the United States, or: Plato Was a Dickhead, USA! USA! USA!
I'm leaning more towards the second one, as everyone knows that Plato was a dickhead, but not everyone knows that Heidegger and Marx should suck my dick.
They will, however. They will.
Furthermore, there are these strange little things I have to write up that are called "Personal Statements," "Statement of Purpose," "Statement of Intent," "Academic Statement," &c. As far as I can cobble together these are all the same things...unless one institution requires two of those things. Apparently some schools ask that I explain the following:
1. Why I want to study philosophy. (Money, power, women.)
2. Why I want to study philosophy at their particular school. (I don't. I want to go to the place that will give me the most money. If you are not that place, then I don't want to go to you.)
3. What makes me so god-damn special. (According to my family and friends: my incredible ability to embarrass myself in front of large groups of people I respect. According to my professors: my ability to find new and interesting ways to avoid any cognitive functioning above that required for respiration and, on my best days, wearing clothes. According to me: one time in Halo I killed my friend Annie with a rocket that I fired from the other side of the map. Yeah, Cornell. I know you want me.)
I think I might just write "I am a winner and sex machine." and see how far that gets me. I think honest-to-god philosophers would have a lot of fun with that one. What does me mean by "a winner"? Does that mean that he has won things in the past or simply has the potential to win things in the future? And what things? Grocery store sweepstakes? Carnival prizes? The affection of the masses? Why is his status (possibly--nay, probably--self-proclaimed) as a sex machine relevant? Is his proclamation positive or negative--a deconstruction of the modern feminist idea of a "sex object"? Can a man be a sex machine?
Clearly, I can. Just look at the airbrushing on my van, bitches. Plus I think it would be cool to have people ask "Doctor, why did you offer Mr. Jackson a position as a graduate student here?" And the answer be, simply, "Oh, he's a winner and a sex machine."
Now if only SQR could mass-produce an "I AM A WINNER AND A SEX MACHINE" t shirt.
Anyway, I'll keep you idiots updated on my quest to further debase myself in a manner second only to walking around downtown Scranton wearing a beautifully hand-written sandwich-board sign saying, "I shat my pants."
I am currently struggling with the various essays I have to write. First I need a writing sample. Last time I used my senior thesis from the Honors program at the University of Scranton. Somehow this seventy page pile of sparsely cited thirteen-point-font madness, written in the space of twelve hours four days after it was due, did not manage to impress upon anyone that I can tie my shoes without pissing myself, let alone communicate complex thoughts coherently. "The Death of Democracy," it's called, and it's horrifyingly available at the Weinberg Memorial Library here in Scranton. My thesis, as I recall, is that I am a retarded person who should be put in government care--or, at the very least, have someone with me at all times to slap things out of my hands that I am slowly putting in my mouth.
So, new writing sample, written whole-cloth and hopefully not the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone, ever. My topic ideas:
1. Technology!, or: Why Heidegger and Marx Can Suck On It ("It" Being My Penis)
2. Plato's Republic vs. The Constitution of the United States, or: Plato Was a Dickhead, USA! USA! USA!
I'm leaning more towards the second one, as everyone knows that Plato was a dickhead, but not everyone knows that Heidegger and Marx should suck my dick.
They will, however. They will.
Furthermore, there are these strange little things I have to write up that are called "Personal Statements," "Statement of Purpose," "Statement of Intent," "Academic Statement," &c. As far as I can cobble together these are all the same things...unless one institution requires two of those things. Apparently some schools ask that I explain the following:
1. Why I want to study philosophy. (Money, power, women.)
2. Why I want to study philosophy at their particular school. (I don't. I want to go to the place that will give me the most money. If you are not that place, then I don't want to go to you.)
3. What makes me so god-damn special. (According to my family and friends: my incredible ability to embarrass myself in front of large groups of people I respect. According to my professors: my ability to find new and interesting ways to avoid any cognitive functioning above that required for respiration and, on my best days, wearing clothes. According to me: one time in Halo I killed my friend Annie with a rocket that I fired from the other side of the map. Yeah, Cornell. I know you want me.)
I think I might just write "I am a winner and sex machine." and see how far that gets me. I think honest-to-god philosophers would have a lot of fun with that one. What does me mean by "a winner"? Does that mean that he has won things in the past or simply has the potential to win things in the future? And what things? Grocery store sweepstakes? Carnival prizes? The affection of the masses? Why is his status (possibly--nay, probably--self-proclaimed) as a sex machine relevant? Is his proclamation positive or negative--a deconstruction of the modern feminist idea of a "sex object"? Can a man be a sex machine?
Clearly, I can. Just look at the airbrushing on my van, bitches. Plus I think it would be cool to have people ask "Doctor, why did you offer Mr. Jackson a position as a graduate student here?" And the answer be, simply, "Oh, he's a winner and a sex machine."
Now if only SQR could mass-produce an "I AM A WINNER AND A SEX MACHINE" t shirt.
Anyway, I'll keep you idiots updated on my quest to further debase myself in a manner second only to walking around downtown Scranton wearing a beautifully hand-written sandwich-board sign saying, "I shat my pants."
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?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
America's Future, Today!
Hey, remember when I used to post funny quotes from my adventures teaching elementary school? Well, I'm doing that again. So lets get to it.
The first quote comes from L. L, is a runt of a child. He's in third grade, but is the size of a first grader with the grading voice of a life time smoker. L routinely puts me into fits of laughter with the bizarre and perfectly childish things he says.
This past week I had burned myself while using the oven in my kitchen, the burn is rather large and pretty gross looking. I decided to take advantage of my disfigurement and try and gross out some kids. I walked up to L in after care and sat down with him and several other girls and boys. I then asked L if he wanted to see something gross. Being a 9 year-old boy he readily agreed. I pulled up my sleeve and showed him my burn, all the other children let out a delightful "Eeeww..." but L was not phased.
"You think that's gross! my sister mooned me with no underwear so now I know where girls pee from!"
The first quote comes from L. L, is a runt of a child. He's in third grade, but is the size of a first grader with the grading voice of a life time smoker. L routinely puts me into fits of laughter with the bizarre and perfectly childish things he says.
This past week I had burned myself while using the oven in my kitchen, the burn is rather large and pretty gross looking. I decided to take advantage of my disfigurement and try and gross out some kids. I walked up to L in after care and sat down with him and several other girls and boys. I then asked L if he wanted to see something gross. Being a 9 year-old boy he readily agreed. I pulled up my sleeve and showed him my burn, all the other children let out a delightful "Eeeww..." but L was not phased.
"You think that's gross! my sister mooned me with no underwear so now I know where girls pee from!"
Monday, August 31, 2009
Harry Potter: A retospective
When the Harry Potter craze started over a decade ago (yeah...a decade) I didn't completely buy into it the world J.K. Rowling had created. I read the first two books and my thoughts on the books could be compressed down to simply "meh..." I gave up reading the books for a few years and it was only after considerable harassment by my peers that I started reading them again. "Goblet of Fire," was the one that got me hooked and sped through the books like I might find answer to universe on the next page. I had completely bought the world that J.K. Rowling had created hook, line and sinker. She could have made Harry into a Cyborg from the future and I wouldn't have batted an eye. Finishing the series to me was as rough as a junkie running out of heroine. I totally went through withdrawal and even found myself rereading certain books trying to recreate the excitement I felt the first time. Going cold turkey with Harry Potter isn't easy. There were times when I'd stay up late and hope that I'd still get my letter for Hogwarts. I'll admit it, I took the facebook quizzes, "Which Hogwarts house would you be in?" and "Which Harry Potter Character are you?" Late at night I'd wish I had my own wand or pretend to make up plays for my all-star Quiditch team. Harry as the Seeks, Wood as Keeper, Ginny as a Chaser. We were sure to beat Slytherin with a team like that!
Night sweats and dry heaving followed for months, but I eventually broke free. Now that I've freed my soul from the clutches of Potter, I've been able to look back on the Harry Potter universe and make some observation. I think the first one that struck me is the completely ignored fact that everyone is doing it at Hogwarts. Harry did Ginny, Ron did Lavender Brown and probably Hermione (that dog). Until I heard that Dumbledore was gay I was convinced he was boning Mcgonagall on the side. Imagine the debauchery that flowed through Hogwarts halls at night. All those spells and potions and shit. I bet you could have heard the "Enlargo" spell being muttered hundreds of times every night with a simple flick and swish. The room of requirements was most definitely a hot bed of illicit activities. Need a room that will provide hours of privacy? Done. Need a room that will have every ungodly device someone could desire? Done. All those portraits would undoubtedly know and probably see what was going on. I would not want that fat lady asking me for the password when it was clear that the girl next to me smashed on butter beer was not coming over to study. The mornings after must have been a sight too, waking up next to some chick or dude who had slipped you a love potion (Isn't a love potion the same thing as a roofie?). You can also bet a fist full of galleons that there was a Plan-B spell that was always floating around Hogwarts?
Second, can you imagine how hard is would be to heat and cool a place like Hogwarts? An old drafty castle like that? Jesus Christ, the amount of coal and wood they go through. I bet there isn't a single bit of insulation and not one double paned window in that whole place. The carbon footprint of Hogwarts must be astronomical. Hell, its not us muggles causing global warming its those less than eco-conscious wizards messing everything up. I'm driving around in a fucking hybrid and using those shitty ass compact florescent bulbs because some idiot wizard is burning coal like there is no tomorrow. Hey Hogwarts, thanks for melting the ice caps and killing polar bears.
Why did Voldemort always decide to start shit around finals? Am I to believe that he sat around all year and then absent-mindedly glanced at the calendar to realize it was May and say aloud, "Oh crap. Finals are starting, better start fucking with Harry and the gang." Come on Voldemort, hatching evil plans to rule the world is not a seasonal activity, you need your game face on all the time. Plus did Harry ever actually take any finals? I think every single time finals rolled around he was out solving some mystery or nearly getting killed. I should have done that in college, get into a near death situation that results with me in the hospital conveniently during finals. I would just cook up some crazy story about what happened and make myself sound heroic.
Harry Potter was way emo. "My parents were killed...my forehead hurts." Shut the hell up Harry, no one likes a whinny bitch.
Where wizards living in America ever mentioned? Is it because Mrs. Rowling has some pro-Anglo agenda she is pushing? Probably not. It's more likely that wizards in America are way cooler. They're too busy riding around on flying jet skis and manipulating the stock market to deal with the trivial concerns of lame wizards in England.
Yeah, Harry Potter might just be a book, but I like to critically analyze things that are made up. Why? I dunno...I just feel like it. I've written J.K. about my concerns regarding the Harry Potter universe, but she has yet to get back to me. She is probably shitting her pants because I saw all the gaping holes and now she doesn't know how to feel. Personally I think her sending me a millions dollars would make her feel better.
Night sweats and dry heaving followed for months, but I eventually broke free. Now that I've freed my soul from the clutches of Potter, I've been able to look back on the Harry Potter universe and make some observation. I think the first one that struck me is the completely ignored fact that everyone is doing it at Hogwarts. Harry did Ginny, Ron did Lavender Brown and probably Hermione (that dog). Until I heard that Dumbledore was gay I was convinced he was boning Mcgonagall on the side. Imagine the debauchery that flowed through Hogwarts halls at night. All those spells and potions and shit. I bet you could have heard the "Enlargo" spell being muttered hundreds of times every night with a simple flick and swish. The room of requirements was most definitely a hot bed of illicit activities. Need a room that will provide hours of privacy? Done. Need a room that will have every ungodly device someone could desire? Done. All those portraits would undoubtedly know and probably see what was going on. I would not want that fat lady asking me for the password when it was clear that the girl next to me smashed on butter beer was not coming over to study. The mornings after must have been a sight too, waking up next to some chick or dude who had slipped you a love potion (Isn't a love potion the same thing as a roofie?). You can also bet a fist full of galleons that there was a Plan-B spell that was always floating around Hogwarts?
Second, can you imagine how hard is would be to heat and cool a place like Hogwarts? An old drafty castle like that? Jesus Christ, the amount of coal and wood they go through. I bet there isn't a single bit of insulation and not one double paned window in that whole place. The carbon footprint of Hogwarts must be astronomical. Hell, its not us muggles causing global warming its those less than eco-conscious wizards messing everything up. I'm driving around in a fucking hybrid and using those shitty ass compact florescent bulbs because some idiot wizard is burning coal like there is no tomorrow. Hey Hogwarts, thanks for melting the ice caps and killing polar bears.
Why did Voldemort always decide to start shit around finals? Am I to believe that he sat around all year and then absent-mindedly glanced at the calendar to realize it was May and say aloud, "Oh crap. Finals are starting, better start fucking with Harry and the gang." Come on Voldemort, hatching evil plans to rule the world is not a seasonal activity, you need your game face on all the time. Plus did Harry ever actually take any finals? I think every single time finals rolled around he was out solving some mystery or nearly getting killed. I should have done that in college, get into a near death situation that results with me in the hospital conveniently during finals. I would just cook up some crazy story about what happened and make myself sound heroic.
Harry Potter was way emo. "My parents were killed...my forehead hurts." Shut the hell up Harry, no one likes a whinny bitch.
Where wizards living in America ever mentioned? Is it because Mrs. Rowling has some pro-Anglo agenda she is pushing? Probably not. It's more likely that wizards in America are way cooler. They're too busy riding around on flying jet skis and manipulating the stock market to deal with the trivial concerns of lame wizards in England.
Yeah, Harry Potter might just be a book, but I like to critically analyze things that are made up. Why? I dunno...I just feel like it. I've written J.K. about my concerns regarding the Harry Potter universe, but she has yet to get back to me. She is probably shitting her pants because I saw all the gaping holes and now she doesn't know how to feel. Personally I think her sending me a millions dollars would make her feel better.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Food Monster
A few days ago I spent the afternoon in the company of an old friend, Mr. Matthew "Midnight" Serverster. He has recently moved back to Scranton after a stint of substitute teaching in Delaware. He's a good man and will make some lucky fella an excellent wife some day if he manages to get his rampant body hair problem under control. (You see, the joke is that I implied that Mr. Midnight is a homosexual--and it's funny because homosexuality is morally wrong and socially unacceptable).
There are many interesting things about Mr. Midnight besides his uncontrollable man-loving and his thick matte of ape-like, full-body bristle. For instance, he is well known amongst our group of friends for being an impressive eater of foodstuffs. "An 'impressive eater?'" you may ask, "What does that mean and why might that be even remotely interesting?"
Well, first off, fuck you says I. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is truly incredible--incredible in the proper sense of unbeleivable, in that you can witness him eat something and literally be unable to process what you have witnessed. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is not just limited to quantity of food ingested, but also the food itself. He can, and does, eat things that would cause decent, church-going cardiologists to rip off their doctoring hats and stomp on them in impotent rage.
It should not be inferred that Mr. Midnight is unhealthy or morbidly obese or any such thing. It is simply that, on occasion, he seems to get considerable amusement from eating the most disgusting things possible in front of horrified villagers and making them lose their faith in God, reason, and basic laws of physics. It is because of these unholy proclivities that he has earned the title of "Food Monster."
One of the tales surrounding Mr. Midnight's obscene abilities is that he has--on more than one occasion--consumed something called a quad stacker from Burger King. A quad stacker is a hamburger that has four beef patties, four slices of something similar to cheese, topped off with bacon and what might be thousand island dressing. I ate three quarters of a double stacker once and for the rest of the night my stomach felt like it was trying to forcibly secede from my body. But, as if to prove something I never asked him to prove and never would, Mr. Midnight decided to show me that these legends of him eating a quad stacker were true.
The quad stacker is not even on the god damn menu anymore. That's how terrible this thing is. He had to order off-menu to get it. It felt like we were not only doing something biologically wrong but also morally and legally wrong.
Watching Mr. Midnight eat at least for years of his life away without struggle or difficulty is something that will stay with me for some time. By the time he effortlessly popped the last bit of burger into his mouth I realized that I had only eaten half of my pitiful chicken sandwich and no longer desired to finish it or any other kind of food for some time. But Mr. Midnight simply smiled and asked if he could finish my fries. I stared at him in astonishment. He just kept smiling at me like a retard who has just killed a small animal and doesn't understand the horror of the situation.
"I'm going to shit my pants," he said, finally--still beaming with delight.
"There's a bathroom ten feet from us," I replied.
"It's not close enough. I'm going to shit my pants. We need to leave."
"I don't want you in my car if you're going to shit your pants."
"Then I'll just have to walk home."
In the end he didn't have to walk home, nor did he shit his pants. After leaving burger king we went to Target. We were standing in the electronics section talking about Bioshock or something when he cut himself off mid-sentence to declare, "Oh God. I have to go." He then walked very quickly to the unisex bathroom.
An uncomfortably long time after this he returned, smiling again, only to declare, "That was actually pretty painful. A woman walked in after me and I actually heard her say 'Good Lord!.'"
This was my day, ladies and gentleman. This is a day in Scranton. Long live the Food Monster.
There are many interesting things about Mr. Midnight besides his uncontrollable man-loving and his thick matte of ape-like, full-body bristle. For instance, he is well known amongst our group of friends for being an impressive eater of foodstuffs. "An 'impressive eater?'" you may ask, "What does that mean and why might that be even remotely interesting?"
Well, first off, fuck you says I. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is truly incredible--incredible in the proper sense of unbeleivable, in that you can witness him eat something and literally be unable to process what you have witnessed. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is not just limited to quantity of food ingested, but also the food itself. He can, and does, eat things that would cause decent, church-going cardiologists to rip off their doctoring hats and stomp on them in impotent rage.
It should not be inferred that Mr. Midnight is unhealthy or morbidly obese or any such thing. It is simply that, on occasion, he seems to get considerable amusement from eating the most disgusting things possible in front of horrified villagers and making them lose their faith in God, reason, and basic laws of physics. It is because of these unholy proclivities that he has earned the title of "Food Monster."
One of the tales surrounding Mr. Midnight's obscene abilities is that he has--on more than one occasion--consumed something called a quad stacker from Burger King. A quad stacker is a hamburger that has four beef patties, four slices of something similar to cheese, topped off with bacon and what might be thousand island dressing. I ate three quarters of a double stacker once and for the rest of the night my stomach felt like it was trying to forcibly secede from my body. But, as if to prove something I never asked him to prove and never would, Mr. Midnight decided to show me that these legends of him eating a quad stacker were true.
The quad stacker is not even on the god damn menu anymore. That's how terrible this thing is. He had to order off-menu to get it. It felt like we were not only doing something biologically wrong but also morally and legally wrong.
Watching Mr. Midnight eat at least for years of his life away without struggle or difficulty is something that will stay with me for some time. By the time he effortlessly popped the last bit of burger into his mouth I realized that I had only eaten half of my pitiful chicken sandwich and no longer desired to finish it or any other kind of food for some time. But Mr. Midnight simply smiled and asked if he could finish my fries. I stared at him in astonishment. He just kept smiling at me like a retard who has just killed a small animal and doesn't understand the horror of the situation.
"I'm going to shit my pants," he said, finally--still beaming with delight.
"There's a bathroom ten feet from us," I replied.
"It's not close enough. I'm going to shit my pants. We need to leave."
"I don't want you in my car if you're going to shit your pants."
"Then I'll just have to walk home."
In the end he didn't have to walk home, nor did he shit his pants. After leaving burger king we went to Target. We were standing in the electronics section talking about Bioshock or something when he cut himself off mid-sentence to declare, "Oh God. I have to go." He then walked very quickly to the unisex bathroom.
An uncomfortably long time after this he returned, smiling again, only to declare, "That was actually pretty painful. A woman walked in after me and I actually heard her say 'Good Lord!.'"
This was my day, ladies and gentleman. This is a day in Scranton. Long live the Food Monster.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Burned. No pun intended.
The after school program I worked for this past year was one where I found myself dealing with children peeing in bottles and fighting over rocks. Still I had a good time and got to spend time with children who possessed excellent senses of humor. Z, was one of those children.
My usual afternoon routine at Kids Club was one of settling arguments in two square, finding someone's lost gold bouncy ball and distributing snack to a pack of ravenous children with poor table manners. As the day drew to an end I generally found myself playing some relaxing game with the few remaining kids, on this day I was playing Uno with Z when the topic of "boyfriends" and "girlfriends" came up. Feeling the need to probe and "josh" with Z I asked her about having a "boyfriend."
Me: "So...Z, do you have a boyfriend?"
Z: (smirking and fiddling with her cards) "Yes."
Me: "Really? Does he go to this school? What is his name?"
Z: "His name is D, and he's in fourth grade."
Me: "Well...does he go to this school? Do I know him?"
Z: "No, he's from a few towns over. We went to kindergarten together."
Me: "Wow. A long distance relationship. Must be tough, do you hang out a lot?"
Z: "I haven't seen him in three years."
Me: "What! Z! How can you date someone you haven't seen in three years! For all you know he is hideously burned!"
Z: "So he looks like you?"
Zing! I had nothing to respond to Z with, so I did the only thing I could. I gave her a high five.
My usual afternoon routine at Kids Club was one of settling arguments in two square, finding someone's lost gold bouncy ball and distributing snack to a pack of ravenous children with poor table manners. As the day drew to an end I generally found myself playing some relaxing game with the few remaining kids, on this day I was playing Uno with Z when the topic of "boyfriends" and "girlfriends" came up. Feeling the need to probe and "josh" with Z I asked her about having a "boyfriend."
Me: "So...Z, do you have a boyfriend?"
Z: (smirking and fiddling with her cards) "Yes."
Me: "Really? Does he go to this school? What is his name?"
Z: "His name is D, and he's in fourth grade."
Me: "Well...does he go to this school? Do I know him?"
Z: "No, he's from a few towns over. We went to kindergarten together."
Me: "Wow. A long distance relationship. Must be tough, do you hang out a lot?"
Z: "I haven't seen him in three years."
Me: "What! Z! How can you date someone you haven't seen in three years! For all you know he is hideously burned!"
Z: "So he looks like you?"
Zing! I had nothing to respond to Z with, so I did the only thing I could. I gave her a high five.
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