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.
They won’t let my son drink in this bar because his ID is expired by eleven days. That’s water he’s having and he is not amused. We’re fucking outta here.
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!”
There’s only two types of men left in this world. Lumberjacks and Liam Neeson. — 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….
Today, the last original member of the Ramones passed away. Johnny, Joey, Dee Dee, and now Tommy.
RIP Tommy Ramone :(
Thank you, all of you, for existing briefly and making me happy with your music. I couldn’t have done it without you guys.
which is kinda funny cuz it is practically outta gas and the power steering is broken. you need muscles to drive it. additionally, the ignition is fucked up and it’s tricky even turning the key, which is why i never bothered takin’ it out.
i only ever used it to haul things to the dump: yard waste, broken furniture, dismembered corpses.
i can’t believe someone actually stole it. weird. next thing you know, i’ll come home and all the trash in my dumpster will be missing.
awaiting the cops….
I am a victim of auto theft!
My dad threatened to take me to Disneyland if this post got one million notes, so please do not like.
If I wanted any artificial sugar, I’d just have a diet fucking Coke.
Like any American town, we have dozens of Starbuckses. There’s a Starbucks over by the mall that even has another Starbucks inside it. It’s located in the bathroom. You go in to tinkle or leave a deposit and, lo and behold, there’s another Starbucks.
“Hello, sir. Would you like a Mocha Java Latte Grando Supremo Machismo for $47 while you take a dump?”
“Well, I’d rather have a little privacy, what with having ate Taco Bell earlier, but sure.”
The one I’m talking about is on Mt. Rushmore Road, for any of you locals who might be reading this.
I went over there last evening and got an iced tea. I was sitting outside pretending to write because HELLO I’M A WRITER. Actually, I was downloading a bunch of episodes of the tv show Storage Wars and playing computer Go (and getting my ass kicked even though I had it set on level completely fucking stupid). It was a lovely evening.
Closing time rolled around and the manager, a rotund man about 50 with salt-n-pepper hair and glasses, came out.
“Hello, sir,” he says to me. “We’re about to close, but I don’t want you to think you have to leave. Our wi-fi is on all night long. Camp out till sunrise if you like.”
“Thanks, but I was about to head out anyway.”
“Oh, no, no, stay as long as you like. Please don’t feel rushed.”
He proceeded to clean up the little outdoor cafe area where I was sitting, which, by the way, was already completely spotless. Then he went back inside. Some of the lights around me went off and it got darker, which I liked. I clicked over to porn and pulled out my junk.
Haha—just kidding. Maybe.
About ten minutes later, the manager popped out again. “Would you like another iced tea or a glass of water?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He popped back in again, only to pop back out a few minutes later. “Last chance for some more iced tea. It’s a warm night. I don’t want you to get thirsty.”
“Ok, sure. I’ll have another iced tea.” He popped back in again.
I pulled a five from my shorts (which may or may not have been around my ankles) to pay for the tea, but when he popped back out with it, he says, waving a hand, “Oh, no, no, it’s a freebie. Our registers are already cashed out for the day.”
“Holy shit, really? Well, thanks a lot.”
“No problem, sir. And, again, stay as long as you like.”
“Have a good night!”
“You too and thanks again.”
More lights went out and, apart from a nearby streetlamp, I was in complete darkness. I heard cars leaving from behind the building and I was finally alone. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the Wet® strawberry flavored lubricant I kept for just such occasions. My breathing became heavy.
It was going to be a good night.
You know how you can tell when a moth farts? He flies in a straight line. — George Carlin
A girl at work the other day asked me if I was going to keep growing my beard and moustache till Christmas. That way, she said, I could be Santa at the office Christmas party.
First of all, I told her, Santa doesn’t have a big black beard. And second of all, even when he was younger and just starting out and went by Chris, his beard was red. Maybe, though, I told her, I will go as Hairy Hanukkah.
Who’s Hairy Hanukkah? she wanted to know.
Nevermind, I said, and pulled down my pants and boxers and began chasing her around the warren of cubicles where we “worked”.
Her screams brought the boss out of his office where he was no doubt getting a tug job from his secretary, Steve.
What the hell’s going on? he demanded.
Fuck you! I bellowed at him, waving my penis in the air like I just didn’t care. I’m Hairy Hanukkah! I can do anything!
Ok, none of this really happened, but wouldn’t it have been funny if it had?
I drank an 8-pack of Bud 16 ouncers while listening to Devo.
You know, I have all Devo on vinyl. Cool, huh? I am a lucky man.
So what did you guys do???
Some people are in the business of being offended, just as Campbell’s is in the business of selling soup. — Thomas Sowell