My wife and I were driving around the big city on a Sunday morning. It was almost lunchtime. We had skipped breakfast.
“I could go for some kibble,” I said.
“Actually,” she replied. “Me, too.”
I was a little surprised but excited, too. We were going to eat out. But where? We took out our daggers and prodded each other, as we are often wont to do.
“Wherever you want,” I said.
“No,” she replied menacingly. “Wherever you want.”
Clink. Clink. Clink. The cold steel of our daggers danced their elegant dance.
“Let’s go to the bar you wanted to try. The one with the fried chicken.”
“The hell you say!” I turned the car around. “We’re going to that coffee shop you mentioned the other day.”
“All they got is coffee and baked goods.”
“Excellent,” I emoted, channeling Commander Kruge, the asshole Klingon from Star Trek III: The Search For Spock. “Perfect. Then that’s the way it shall be.”
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You Ate What?
Whenever someone relates to me a harrowing experience, I strive to look interested and engage them in conversation. To feign interest I’ll often ask thought-provoking questions like, “Did you live?”
It can be a lively conversation booster.
Spoiler alert: In the story I’m about to share, I lived. Or, as Nethack might put it, “You survived that attempt on your life.”
But perhaps I’m relating things out of turn. It all started when I met my wife for lunch…
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On The Street Where You Shiv
I suddenly find myself pondering a move to someplace like Islamabad so I feel safer about my neighborhood.
A few weeks ago my street (which is a short one) was mentioned in the local newspaper’s police blotter for break-ins. Then, last weekend, our car was ransacked by, I assume, the local unsupervised miscreants who use our neighborhood as their own personal clubhouse.
Then, a couple nights ago, two of our neighbors (about four houses down) got into a disagreement about kids playing ball. Words were exchanged, they met in the street, and there was a fight that ended up with one of them dead. If I understand the story correctly, a father of three is now in jail facing murder charges.
I guess this proves the old adage, “Never bring your asshole parenting skills to a knife fight.”
Since then traffic on our cul-de-sac street has picked up considerably. There has been a marked increase in cars slowly driving down the street, turning around, then slowly driving out. I assume these are “scene of the crime” lookie-loos.
Suddenly our quiet little neighborhood isn’t so quiet any more.
Anyone know a good Pakistani travel agent?
Fight Back Club
My fellow employees (aka compatriots or victims or cohorts or The Cabal) and I have, quite by accident, I assure you, formed an informal association of which we are all now members. Management is, of course, by definition, excluded and not even allowed to know that our little group exists.
We’re calling our little ragtag band of rebels Fight Back Club.
Like any effective club, we have a few simple rules.
- The first rule of Fight Back Club is never share personal information with management.
- The second rule of Fight Back Club is never share personal information with management. Seriously. If you do they will save it up and use it against you. Someday. It will happen. That’s the way management is.
- Club members will alert each other when management is near, usually within hearing distance. Our code for this is “tippy toe.” (A tip of the hat to our honorary member, George Costanza.)
- Our dead brothers and sisters shall be made into bars of soap.
- When a manager does something dumbass the incident must be shared with all other club members.
- Fight Back Club will exist as long as it has to.
- If this is your first time being employed at the Shit Hole, you have to fight back.
- Club motto: “This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.”
- Secondary motto: “Only after disaster can we be resurrected.”
- Club mission statement: “Fuck off with your sofa units and string green stripe patterns, I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let… lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”
- Club pledge of allegiance: “Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else.”
- Club Charter (in entirety): “You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.”
- Club Aliases: We also informally use the club names “Island of Misfit Toys” and “The Wretched Refuse.”
Membership has its privileges.
Okay, it’s game on. The makers of the movie Despicable Me stole the name of my memoirs. 🙂
Based on the commercials I’ve seen the movie is about two Twinkie treats who get into a fist fight. One is a cyclops and the other has two eyes. What does this tell us? At least one of them is a freak within his own kind. 🙂
The point of today’s post is about the humor of this scenario. How many jokes can you crack about the commercial based on the premise that the characters shown are Twinkies and are engaged in a fist fight?
Here’s my entry:
What could have started the fight? One Twinkie said to the other, “Your mother is a Ho Ho who eats Ding Dongs!”
Trust me. There is plenty more where that came from!