"Apparently Manipulator leaked today, which is good news for the Universe. I don’t feel bad about downloading it because I pre-ordered it on vinyl."
—Hadrian Kindt (my son)
Here is more Ty Segall
sparkgrrl658 said: drinking most booze with a mixer (other than water/ice, or a few olives) these days is largely unappealing to me, but this sounds rather good.
It’s not bad, I tell ya. Can’t directly pick up the vanilla but it’s better than whiskey and coke alone. Hmmm. It ain’t my choice, but my son’s. He has a bottle of of Ancient Age and the only pop I got in the house is vanilla coke. Thus, a drink was born. Me, I think I’ll run get a 6 pack. It’s the last night he’s in town, the last night of my vacation. I HAVE to drink, right? It’s, like, the rules.
— Clarence Darrow
It’s a standard celebrity nose now, all angular and thin, like something you find on a mannequin, which, I guess, is somehow appropriate. A popup on Bing told me to go and look at some new photos of her, using the words “sexy” and “cleavage”, so I did. These days I wouldn’t classify half naked women as sexy in and of themselves. They have to be at least dancing or eating a banana or something. Britney’s cleavage was perfectly fine. it was airbrushed to perfection and the right and left matched up in a stellar feat of symmetry. But I couldn’t get passed her new nose. Are her boobs plastic, too? it made me wonder.
Now I question everything about Britney. Is she all plastic? Is she even real? Seriously, has anybody ever seen her up close in real life? I bet she’s just an animated image, totally CGI—Britney the hologram!
Help me Obi-wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope!
I just attempted listening to that album now and, maybe I’m getting old, but she sounds like my cat does when I accidentally step on its tail.
Fingers across a chalkboard…shiver.
Had to shut it off.
I’ve reached the Loretta Lynn stage of life, apparently. No more Alanis for me, I guess.
Next time I want to hear a woman wail annoyingly about a man doing her wrong, I’ll have call up one of my ex’s.
Ha ha. Get it?
But seriously, there was a guy leaving a horrifying mess in the toilet at work, one and sometimes even two times a day. On Employee Appreciation Day awhile ago when corporate provided everybody with free food, he did it three times!
I worked produce, man’s work, unpacking pallets of bananas and yams and potatoes and whatever. The employee johns were right there next to us. We weren’t allowed to use the customer johns, though the baggers had to clean them. Another guy in produce, Tanner, brought it up first.
"Who the hell is always leaving shit in the toilet?"
"Yeah, really. I’ve been noticing it for, damn, weeks now."
Heath, a guy who worked meat and who was standing just outside our door, overheard us. “Are you guys talking about the Mad Shitter?” he asked, coming in.
Me and Tanner laughed.
"Yeah, that’s what we’ve been calling him over in meat—the Mad Shitter."
"The Mad Shitter," I said. "That’s a good one."
"It’s been going on for months," Heath said.
"Really?" I said. "Months?"
Heath shrugged his shoulders. “Well, whoever comes across it flushes it down. You guys do, right?”
Me and Tanner nodded.
"That’s why you sometimes miss it."
"I wouldn’t say I miss it, Heath," I said.
"We’ve been keeping track in meat. It’s an everyday occurrence."
Obviously, the guys in meat were weirdos. We in produce always suspected and now here was undeniable proof.
"Who the hell drops the kids off at the pool, wipes, and doesn’t flush?" Tanner wondered. "That’s fucking sick."
"We think it’s Carl in dairy," Heath said.
"He’s the the squirrelly-lookin’ guy," I said. "Right? That guy who can only look at you with one eye at a time?"
"I didn’t know he was in dairy. I thought he was a bagger."
"He’s not mentally challenged, though," Heath explained. "Just looks it."
All the baggers in the store were mentally challenged. Company policy. One time, we were really slammed and the Big Boss asked me to work up front for a few hours, bagging and wrangling carts. Man, I felt smart that day, let me tell you. It was like I was Einstein or something.
"But you don’t know for sure it’s Carl, though, do you?" Tanner asked.
"No, it’s just a theory."
"Based on what?"
"The fact that he’s squirrelly-lookin’," I said and laughed.
"Pretty much," said Heath. He got an intercom for customer assistance in the meat department and scurried away.
"We need to find out who it is," Tanner said, "then kick some ass."
I shrugged. “Can’t. I’m a pacifist.”
"You know what I mean. It’s fucking gross walking in there. The fan’s never worked in the men’s john and it reeks. Sometimes, I can even smell it before I open the door."
"Yeah, me too."
"What if that smell wafts out onto the floor?" Tanner said. "Who wants to be squeezing an avocado while the faint smell of shit floats past their nose?"
"Well," I said indignantly, "certainly not me!"
"There’s gotta be something wrong with a person who leaves a big pile of shit for everyone to see, over and over again. Something wrong, like, psychologically."
"Maybe he should be a bagger after all," I offered.
"I don’t think it’s Carl, though," Tanner said. "I’ve gotten high with him before out by the dumpsters. He’s a pretty cool guy."
"I don’t really know him."
"He’s pretty cool."
"Maybe it’s you, Tanner," I said, nudging him. "Maybe you’re the one leaving all the shit."
"Fuck that! You’ve seen how often I wash my hands!"
"You do wash your hands a lot. Almost like there’s something wrong with you, like, psychologically."
"I gotta wash my hands a lot. It’s all those chemicals they spray on the fruits and vegetables. I don’t wanna get cancer."
Just then Tanner began washing his hands. We were standing in “the back”, the non-public area of the produce department. Stacked around us were boxes of bananas, squash, and potatoes. We were by the sink, obviously, which was right by the door. Past the bananas, squash, and potatoes was another door that led to the large produce cooler. There was a plastic window in the door by which we were standing. Through it we could see the entire produce area of the store—our jurisdiction, so to speak. Also, whoever had to use the employee bathrooms had to walk right by this window. We were in a prime position to conduct an investigation.
"You know," I said to Tanner looking out the window, "we’re in a prime position to conduct an investigation."
"Into the identity of the Mad Shitter? I say we totally do it."
"We have to be diligent. We may even have to take notes."
"So? I’ve written before."
We went to the paper goods aisle and got pocket notebooks and Bic pens. These we marked off as “store use” and from that point on we wrote down the name of every male employee who went to the bathroom. Not only that but after they were done one of us checked to see if there was unflushed shit in the toilet. it was a strange investigation, but still kind of fun. It took our minds off the monotony of our job anyway.
"I feel just like James Bond," Tanner said three days into the investigation.
It wasn’t until about a week and a half in that we cracked the case, and it wasn’t squirelly-looking Carl. Nor was it Heath, who had become me and Tanner’s main suspect simply because he knew so much about the Mad Shitter.
"I bet it’s that fucking Heath," Tanner had said one day, and it made total sense to me. "You know, one time I even saw him eat garbage?"
"Yeah, in the breakroom somebody had thrown away, like, half a burrito and he fucking picked it up and ate it, right there in front of God and everybody."
"Wow," I said. "Nothing says ‘I like to shit in the toilet and not flush it’ quite like eating garbage."
But it wasn’t Heath. It was James, who worked in pricing. We knew little of him, or anybody in pricing, for that matter. They sat in front of computers, usually, preparing the ads for the papers and making signs for the store. We only saw them periodically, when they emerged to adjust the prices throughout the store. Oh, and when they had to go to the bathroom.
James had entered the bathroom around 3 pm on a Tuesday and had stayed in it for what seemed like a really long time. When Tanner went to see if he flushed (it was his turn to check), he hadn’t.
Tanner walked up to me where I was putting the apples into neat alternating rows and said “Code blue.”
"It’s still smoking, my friend. We have a winner."
"That James guy from pricing?"
"It’s a game."
Now that we knew who the Mad Shitter was, we didn’t know what to do about it. Tanner had talked about confronting him, but Tanner often talked. And what do you say to a guy like this?
"Um, excuse me, sir, but can you stop shitting in the toilet and then, you know, not flushing it?"
Or maybe: “If it’s yellow, let it mellow! If it’s brown flush it down!”
All we knew about James was that he was of medium build, had brown hair, and ate a high fiber diet. Neither Tanner or I could ever recall speaking to him, so we decided to try Heath.
"Yo, Heath," we whispered to him conspiratorially, "ever talk to James?"
"He’s the Mad Shitter!"
"Yep. And we don’t know what to do about it."
"How do you know it’s him?"
Tanner unleashed the notebook from his pocket. “3:03 pm,” he read, “James from pricing enters john. Stays long time. 3:41 pm, James from pricing leaves john. 3:42 pm, I enter john only to discover horrible mess of shit festering in what can only described as an abused and degraded toilet. 3:42.5 pm, I flee bathroom, gasping for air.”
"What the fuck?" Heath said and cracked up. After five or so minutes of laughter, he said, "I don’t know what you should do about it. Man, you guys in produce need a fucking hobby."
"What the hell do you think this is?" I protested.
Over the next few weeks, we did nothing—well, except double-check our findings. Every time James from pricing went to the bathroom, we checked to see if he flushed and, sure enough, never ever did. It was becoming a traumatic experience for us, racing into the the bathroom only to find horrors unimaginable waiting for us, horrors were knew were there waiting for us.
"We must be fucking masochists," I said to Tanner one day as we left the bathroom.
"Of course we’re masochists," he said. "We work in a grocery store."
Finally, the annual outdoor kegger thrown by assistant store manager Jim rolled around. Everybody was there except the Big Boss and the Mormon guy in floral. Even James was there—with a girl, no less. A hot girl.
"You see that girl with James?" I asked Tanner.
"Hell, yeah," he said. "I got wood."
"Don’t stand so close to me then."
"Don’t stand," Tanner sang, dancing away, "don’t stand so close to me…"
After I got 8 or 9 beers in me, I resolved to talk to James’s girl. Maybe I would tell her he constantly shat in the toilet at work and didn’t flush. Maybe she would leave him, all grossed out, and fall in love with me, a guy who always flushed. We would live happily ever after, perhaps, with a clean and frequently flushed toilet.
Keep in mind I was pretty drunk.
I kept my eyes on them, waiting for James to get lost, but he was always hovering around. Finally, FINALLY, he left her alone. Probably went to the bathroom to take a dump and not flush it.
I decided to try humor. I am, after all, totally fucking hilarious. I walked up to her and said, “Got a joke for ya.”
"Oh, yeah?" she said, her voice like liquid honey. "Tell me."
"A rich guy and a poor guy were talking and discovered that their wedding anniversaries were on the same day. ‘What did you get your wife this year?’ asked the poor guy. ‘A brand new Mercedes and a diamond ring,’ said the rich guy. ‘Wow!’ said the poor guy. ‘Yeah,’ said the rich guy proudly. ‘That way if she didn’t like the diamond ring, she could take it back in style. What about you, what did you get your wife?’ ‘A pair of slippers and a dildo,’ said the poor guy. ‘That’s odd. Why those presents?’ asked the rich guy. ‘That way if she didn’t like the slippers she could go fuck herself.’"
"Heh," James’s girl said, and rolled her eyes.
Just then James the Mad Shitter came up. “What’s going on?” he said. “You busting a move on my woman?”
"Busting a move? What time is it, 1994?"
"I was just talking."
"He told me a really stupid joke," she verified.
"This is my woman," James said. "Mine."
"Hey, I was just talking."
"A really stupid joke," she said.
James sat his beer down, unzipped his pants, and began urinating a circle around where she stood.
"Dammit, James, not again!" she said.
"You’re mine," James said, as he peed, "all mine!" He cackled maniacally.
"Well, be careful," she told him. "Last time you got some on my ankle."
At that I turned and ran. “Tanner!” I cried. “Jesus Christ, Tanner, you won’t fucking believe this!”
— Daniel Tosh
Whenever I drink it, it’s like I’m drinkin’ medicine: no flavor, alcoholic taste and finish.
Why am I drinking this? I think. It’s like shooting up or swallowing pills. All effect, no process.
I mix it, with OJ usually, and it makes my OJ taste like shit.
There’s medicine in my OJ! Yuck! I’m not even sick!
The guys who are trying to purify THC out of marijuana must also be Russian. It’s clearly a Russian thing to do. What the fuck, Russians?
I’ll take a punchy whiskey, a tart wine, a fire sweet rum, a scrumptious beer over the devoid personality of vodka any day.
Just sitting around having some drinks. Whiskey sours were invented for summer evenings like this, I believe. There’s a storm over there in the left of the sky and it makes my dog Duke nervous. He can smell it coming, so he’s trying to sit on my lap, but I have relegated him to my ankles because I can’t write with a dog in my lap. The poor thing is scared to death of thunder. By cooing to him and loving on him when he’s scared like this, I only reinforce things, or so I have read in a dog book. I act nonchalant instead. I AM nonchalant. It’s no act. This is the Upper Midwest and this is the summer. Thunderstorms happen nearly every evening. Big whoop.
Tonight is a full moon—a super moon, in fact. Here’s a post I wrote about a previous super moon.
No word on my truck. Everyone’s telling me it’s probably out on the rez by now. Oh well. I guess someone needed it more than I. Dammit, though, my thermos was on the seat! I fucking loved that thermos. Bring it back, whoever you are, and you can just have the damn truck!
Until next time, America….