Monday, October 23, 2006

A place where murder is born

Yeah the picture is from Disneyland. The happiest place on earth. For retards and children. That's the ride "Small World" in the background. It goes about 1 mph and is for retards and children. I think if you play the song "Its a small world" backwards, the voices tell you to go molest little jew boys. I don't know thats just what I've made up.

Let me tell you something Mr. Disney. If you think i'll subscribe to your notion of happiness by letting my ears be violated by shitty jingles you have another thing coming. Because trust me, some day a man just like me but with more violent proclivities will step on that ride, and he will hear the song "It's a Small World", and he will be pushed to murder. He will murder every soul on that boat. Because for some people, Mr. Disney, obnoxious happiness in the face of a cynical world is maddening, not infectious. Fuck you Mr. Disney. Fuck you and your theme park. You're lucky I got in for free, otherwise I'd unfreeze your corpse and skull fuck you myself.

Actually I would never do such a thing. I'm not so into skull-fucking. Call me a-sexual. But moving on. I was fired from my job. They fired me on monday. The reason for this was my habitual lateness, which I'll attest to. I'm always fucking late. I'm late for everything. It runs in the bloodstream. No literally there's this sign that says "late" and it has legs and it jogs laps inside my actual bloodstream. He's real fit, real skinny.

They pulled me aside because on Sunday I called sick a half an hour before my shift started. Hahahaha isn't that shit funny? I was so hungover from the night before. I woke up feeling great, too. It wasn't till I got out of bed and nearly fell over that I realized I felt great because I was still drunk, so as soon as that wore off I was pretty much in hell. I nearly vomited about 10 different times that day. Ironically if I had just gotten drunker to the point of actually vomitting, i would have felt a shitload better. Did I mention that's ironically?

So now I'm jobless. And I don't know where I want to work. Whenever I ask, everybody always says the same thing. Starbucks. Which is totally an unoriginal answer not to mention shitty job. I refuse to serve people their coffee, they get way too specific with it. Plus they're bound to fire me because I'm peeing in someone's drink, it's just a question of who the lucky asshole will be that was mean to Greg when he was hungover. It's bound to happen I have a very small weiner and I can pee very quickly. I've had enough with customer service.

Speaking of which I will have the second part to my short story up soon. It's not due until the end of my semester so I've been slacking on it. And I've been tagged a few times too. Eh, I fucking hate tag.

Monday, October 09, 2006

First Short Story (rough)

The grocery scanner beeps twice, indicating a double charge. I don't so much notice. A woman with big breasts just entered the store. I trace her movement with my head and shove groceries across the scanner like Stevie Wonder at an autograph signing. She's curvy and nubile, like the perfect high school teacher. Or the perfect World War II nurse. I watch her white sun dress dance like curtains around tan silky legs; I throw her telepathic vibes, telling her come to register six when she was done shopping.

It's a busy afternoon in the market. I'm feeling horny and hungover. I tend to get exceptionally horny when I'm hungover, something about a night's worth of vodka leaking from my pours. Don't ask me what it is. She leans over to study the chocolate rack. Her milky breats cling to her body for survival, prompting me to imagine ways of luring her into the meatbox for some prime cut-

“Excuse me", a voice of gravel kicks in. "I think you double-charged me.”

I look up at my customer for the first time. She's ancient, with hair that looks like it was cut by a parakeet.

“I think you double charged me on the prune juice" she goes on. "You see, I bought ten bottles but I count eleven on this screen..."

She points at the screen.

"I apologize ma'am. Let me take that off "

"And could you make sure my bags aren't too heavy? Here let me show you.... This will be one bag right hereee."

She scoots a bottle of prune juice over to a pack of gum.

"Anything for you ma'am..."

She nods then returns to reading a magazine she props against my register. One of the captions reads "Sixty is the new Fifty". Now Courtney is coming over. Courtney is a new hire, which means she still smiles.

“Courtney, could you come here real quick?”

She smiles and hops towards me like a posterchild for ritalin.

“Yes Mike?”

“I'm gonna piss, do you know how to work the register?”

"Well I've watched a few-"

"It's easy, you'll be fine."

I walk away. I don't need to pee at all to be honest, I'll just be damned if stood bagging ten bottles of prune just for some weathered old tree when I could be working my youthful charm on a beautiful woman. Because of course, my supermarket encourages all its employess to give only the finest customer service.

I've been working at this grocery store, Overpriced Healthy Shit, for about four years now. I know all our little secrets. For instance, I know our trademark protein powder actually substitutes portions of higher quality whey protein with less effective casein proteins, passing it off as being more effective, when it’s really like mixing beer with champagne. I also know if a customer's cherries end up on our backroom floor they'll go right back on the shelf, because only dumbasses don't wash their fruit.

I follow my afternoon cupcake into the cooking aisle. I stalk casually behind. She pauses at our selection of syrups. She scratches her leg and her dress rides up a little. I sweat. I watch her pluck a bottle of chocolate syrup off the shelf and place it into her cart. What a kinky little kitten. I knew where I could pour that syrup and it didn't involve mil-

"Excuse me", a voice breaks in, "do you work here?"

I turn around to face a considerably large African American male.

"I was wondering if you had any blueberry preserves" he says. "I always get them here but I don't see any today."

"The blueberry preserves are temporarily out of stock sir. Something was wrong with the crop. We should have them back within the next two weeks".

In philosophy and science there are holy grails of things. The holy grails of logic, the holy grail of the universe - simple pieces of brevity that hold everything together and spell things out for us. In a grocery store this is a holy grail of an answer. Answers like these are what scientists get when they split atoms.

"Well maybe then you could explain to me," he goes on, "how you could carry blueberries in your produce section, frozen blueberries in your frozen section, but have no blueberry jam in your preservative section, if the crop so bad this year, or so you say".

I look past the man towards my chocolate feline, as she moves towards the produce. I see her eyeing the bananas. In my head I'm bending her over them.

"Sir", I respond, "The blueberries used for the preservatives come from Mexico. I don't know what the Mexicans are doing, or how the weather is over there, but they haven't sent us any jam".

"So you're telling me you guys are out."


"You have no more blueberry preserve"

"That is correct"

"Could you check the back for me?"

"There's nothing back there"

"You can't be sure of that if you haven't checked"

"I'm sure of it sir, I was just back there"

"If you were just back there then how come I saw you on the register when I wal-"

"Look at this" I say pointing at the shelf. "We have raspberry and strawberry jam sir. They're from the berry family."

At this point my afternoon cupcake picks up two cantaloupes and holds them both in each hand. She jiggles them up and down, trying to guess which is the ripest one.

"Are you trying to joke with me?"

"Do you want to pray with me sir?”


“Do you want to pray with me? Because I was thinking that maybe if we held hands and prayed hard enough, God will hear us and send us your blueberry jam.... on the back of goddamn unicorn."

He looks at me in disbelief.

"That's it kid" he says, finally raising his voice. "I'm telling your manager about you. I'm a teacher and never in my 15 years of teaching have I ever been so disrepected by someone so young. You need to learn some mann-"

"Mr. Abbot?" a voice calls out.

The man turns around.

"Mr. Abbot, oh my God it is you! I could never forget your voice"

"Cynthia! My God Cynthia look at how you've bloomed! And what did I tell you about calling me Mr. Abbot. You can call me George."


Cynthia, as I now knew her by, looks at the cantelopes she held in each hand.

"Mr. Abbot... I mean George, do you know how to pick a ripe cantelope?"

"Of course I do dear. Whichever one is the softest. Let me take a look at those..."

The man looks at me one last time.

"Forget about the jam"


Back at the cash register I stare at the grainy peices of dry skin that hang from the elbows of the lady in front of me. I shove bags of dried fruit to Courtney on my right. I convinced her to stay at my register to help bag.

"Young lady, do you think you could help me to the car with my bags?"

"Yes of course I will!" Courtney replies.

"No Courtney", I interject. "Allow me." I wink at the old lady.

Courtney and I trade places.

"Oh my, I wish all the cashiers here were as polite and as handsome as you, young man."

"You flatter me ma'am. I'm afraid if you inflate my ego anymore, I just may float into the ceiling!"

We all laugh.

At the lady's car I finish loading the last grocery bag into her trunk. She smiles at me and tells me I would make an excellent construction worker. I tell her I worked out. I open her door and help her climb into her car, shutting it behind her. She rolls down the window.

"Young man, my eyes are a bit weak. What is your name? Ike... Tyke...?"

"It's Mike ma'am."

"Mike, you have just made my day. I will remember you."

She starts her engine and backs up, almost hitting another parked car. She straightens up and looks at me in her rearview mirror. I look back. She smiles and waves. I wink again, slowly waving my hand at her. And with that, the old hag was off.