The Spy Who Watched Me (again)

This is an oldie but goody kind of post. One I did a few years back when I was a complete nobody on the blogging scene. Hell, who am I foolin'? It's still that way, isn't it? Anyway, I thought I'd give ya a post that might have not gotten the attention that some of my most recent posts have gotten. Plus, I'm going to be too busy over the weekend to write up anything new. Aren't I the lazy fuck who doesn't give a proper shit? Speaking of crap, I hope you like this tasty offering.

Years ago, I worked at a hair care product distribution center. I'll refrain from giving up the name of this hell hole, not to protect the innocent, but because I don't want to encourage any shampoo/conditioner freaks, reading this, to buy this company's goddamn products.

While there, my co workers and I would pack product in kit boxes for salons, while the conveyor belt ran between the 40mph mark to a thousand (perhaps an exaggeration). If you didn't get your particular thing (shampoo, brush or whatever) in your box in time before it passed your sorry ass you would receive a hostile, verbal thrashing from the line leader, or worse yet, from the one above that position. The head honcho, herself. Nola. She had the pleasant face of a six hundred year old Shar Pei Dog. Wrinkles Ahoy, Matey!

If you happened to be daydreaming on the line about some hot babe and you also happened to be "sporting wood" or "raising the phallic flag" and Nola, happened to come out of the office and you caught sight of her, your wood would melt like butter or fall like a Oak Tree or just disappear, entirely. Poof!

I know from experience.

In one episode, during my time working there, some freak was wiping shit (his shit?) all over the men's restroom walls, stalls, floors and sinks. Most everyone agreed that it was someone that had an unhappy confrontation with Nola- which could have been anyone, actually. This Spreader of Poo made Nola very angry. It didn't really sit well with the rest of us, either. Our bathroom break times were shortened, for one thing. Plus, we were lectured by Nola every day for the next 2 weeks about the juvenile antics that we, supposed grown-ups, were not to engage in. Whoever the Crap Culprit was, he wasn't creative, in the least. He didn't spell his name or draw puppies on the walls with his poop, like some masterpieces I've seen in some gas station restrooms. But, I digress.

Nola's plan was simple and moronic. She instructed her all-too-loyal and obedient assistant, Chris, to remain stationed in the men's restroom to watch, almost 8 of the nine hours of the day, the male employees pee and poo. Of course, we were given a tiny crumb of dignity. When our backs were turned, while pissing in the urinal, Chris the Brown Noser, refrained, thankfully, from peeking over our shoulders. Good thing, too, because it was rumoured Chris might be bi-sexual. He could have been in trouble for sexual harassment if he had done any peeky boo-ing. So Chris did, as he was told, without question. For him, Nola's word was his command. Nola's reasoning behind her plan? She believed Chris would somehow get real lucky and catch some disgruntled, but apparently, non constipated imbecile, painting walls with own excrement.

Maybe the nasty bastard would be caught.... brown-handed.

Moving on in this tale....

Diligently, Chris would watch our backs while we peed and checked inside the toilet stalls, after one of us exited, for fresh shit decor on the walls and so forth.

Being the considerate guy I am, I poked fun at the somber, serious Chris whenever I entered and left the restroom. This seemed to bring about a certain amount of good cheer to everyone who heard my words of wit, during that time. For instance, I would say to Nola's assistant, "Ah, the Poo Peeper, how nice of you to watch me squirt." Chris' face remained the same, showing consternation at my jovial remark.

After all, it was the kind of job one took seriously.

G.I. Joe F*cked My Satellite Dish

G.I. Joe, America's hero, fresh from a tour of duty in Afghanistan, kindly asked if he could stay the week at my place. Since I have the highest respect for our nation's military, there was no way, I knew, that I would turn the poor, traumatized, soldier down. And as a result of shrapnel blast from a roadside bomb, Joe had received many injuries.

After several days, however, I noticed something amiss about G.I. Joe's behavior. One evening, while I had previously been in the living room, I went into the kitchen to retrieve my cup of coffee and was surprised to catch him in the act of fucking it. I shouted, "Stop it, you sick bastard!" Instead of ceasing his actions, he pressed on.

After not finding relief with the cup, the little bugger went after the stuffed gorilla to give him a bit more stuffing. I was outraged. I shouted, "I demand you stop or you will have to leave, immediately!"

He quickly got off the gorilla and ran away to hide. The next day, Joe showed that he was mad at me by taking a dump on my kitchen floor.

Immediately after his bowel movement, Joe quickly sprinted out the door to fuck my satellite dish. I wondered why the reception on my TV was fuzzy.

Unable to find sexual relief with the dish, Joe went to work on a book I had nearly finished. When the bastard was done, he wrote a note and placed it on the last page of the book. It said: Here ya go, Asshole! I finished it for ya!

I didn't see him for almost the rest of the entire day. Then suddenly, he jumped out of nowhere and he hurriedly bound up Piglet's hands with rope and began using the poor animal for his carnal delight.

Curious from hearing the shrieking of a bound Piglet, my innocent feline comes out to investigate the calamity. Joe is rude, as usual.

These words, DO NOT ENTER, mean nothing to that fiendish G.I. Joe. Look at what he's doing to the base of the sign! Oh, the humanity!

Finally, after days of no satisfaction, Joe took matters into his own hands. Being the gentleman, I shall leave it up to your imagination as to how he accomplished his goal. Clue: Look at his hands.

The next day, he left a happier man. Before he walked out the door, he attempted to shake my hand and thank me for putting up with him, but I stepped back and said, "Hey, that's okay, dude. Just try to get your act together and maybe go see a doctor or something." He chuckled a bit at that, then skipped out the door.

I have to admit... I'm glad he found relief, but damn, he created chaos at my place. Never again will I allow him to stay here. I learned a valuable lesson.

Onthophagus Taurus and Dryer Vents

The beetle, Onthophagus Taurus, is an insect that is able to pull 1, 141 times it's own body weight. It is the equivalent of a 150 lb person lifting six double-decker buses. Now that, my friends, is strong.

If I could do that, without pulling groin hernia #3 on myself, I could do some wondrous things. For instance, I could pull myself up from behind the dryer when I get stuck. Every time I clean the air vent behind my dryer I get stuck with no way out, except this narrow three inch gap between the dryer and counter top which rises up past my nipples... almost. Rarely, do I try to squeeze through the three inch gap. I've almost lost my "stick and balls" that way. So there I am, usually, cursing and wishing I had waited on cleaning the dryer vent until the wife gets home. At least she helps to pull me out every so often or feeds me time to time so I won't collapse in a crumpled heap behind the dryer, sucking on dryer lint for nourishment. She's sweet that way.

By the way, you are correct in assuming that the picture above, is one of two Onthophagus Taurus beetles gettin' it on, doin' the wild thing or boning. Looks like a pretty horny situation, if you ask me.

Back to this spectacular, resilient bug: The females bury most of their fecal matter (like cow droppings) instead of carrying them. Sounds practical. The females build tunnels through the shit to lay their eggs in. Sounds disgusting. It's through these tunnels that mating and pre-mating fights between the males takes place. Fighting and fucking in shit sounds like joyous fun for all. Not.

The male beetles, that are hornless, have to rely on strategic trickery when it comes to fighting in the tunnels. Instead of waiting at the entrance of the tunnels, as the horned beetles do, the hornless ones hide out in self-built side tunnels and sneak in to mate before getting caught by a horned beetle.

Horned males, however, combat head-to-head. Their horns kind of meet on their shoulders. They push each other backward and forward, with the male that is being pushed hardest, bracing, as it is being pushed.

Imagine getting into a fight with one of these creatures if it was six feet in length or more. I wonder what kind of fighting that would entail. I do know one thing... I wouldn't follow them back into their shitty homes. And keeping a few as prisoners or slaves wouldn't work for me. I couldn't handle the stench. No, I think I would just leave them be. Maybe give them some kind of hygiene kit from Bath and Body Works for Christmas every other year or something.

Where was I going with this? Hell, I don't know. I've got a dryer vent to clean, damn it. Later.

Happy Goddamn Easter To All

How would ya like to clean up this bunny's shit? Goddamn!

The Spy Who Watched Me

Years ago, I worked at a hair care product distribution center. I'll refrain from giving up the name of this hell hole, not to protect the innocent, but because I don't want to encourage any shampoo/conditioner freaks, reading this, to buy this company's goddamn products.

While there, my co workers and I would pack product in kit boxes for salons, while the conveyor belt ran between the 40mph mark to a thousand (perhaps an exaggeration). If you didn't get your particular thing (shampoo, brush or whatever) in your box in time before it passed your sorry ass you would receive a hostile, verbal thrashing from the line leader, or worse yet, from the one above that position. The head honcho, herself. Nola. She had the pleasant face of a six hundred year old Shar Pei Dog. Wrinkles Ahoy, Matey!

If you happened to be daydreaming on the line about some hot babe and you also happened to be "sporting wood" or "raising the phallic flag" and Nola, happened to come out of the office and you caught sight of her, your wood would melt like butter or fall like a Oak Tree or just disappear, entirely. Poof!

I know from experience.

In one episode, during my time working there, some freak was wiping shit (his shit?) all over the men's restroom walls, stalls, floors and sinks. Most everyone agreed that it was someone that had an unhappy confrontation with Nola- which could have been anyone, actually. This Spreader of Poo made Nola very angry. It didn't really sit well with the rest of us, either. Our bathroom break times were shortened, for one thing. Plus, we were lectured by Nola every day for the next 2 weeks about the juvenile antics that we, supposed grown-ups, were not to engage in. Whoever the Crap Culprit was, he wasn't creative, in the least. He didn't spell his name or draw puppies on the walls with his poop, like some masterpieces I've seen in some gas station restrooms. But, I digress.

Nola's plan was simple and moronic. She instructed her all-too-loyal and obedient assistant, Chris, to remain stationed in the men's restroom to watch, almost 8 of the nine hours of the day, the male employees pee and poo. Of course, we were given a tiny crumb of dignity. When our backs were turned, while pissing in the urinal, Chris the Brown Noser, refrained, thankfully, from peeking over our shoulders. Good thing, too, because it was rumoured Chris might be bi-sexual. He could have been in trouble for sexual harassment if he had done any peeky boo-ing. So Chris did, as he was told, without question. For him, Nola's word was his command. Nola's reasoning behind her plan? She believed Chris would somehow get real lucky and catch some disgruntled, but apparently, non constipated imbecile, painting walls with own excrement.

Maybe the nasty bastard would be caught.... brown-handed.

Moving on in this tale....

Diligently, Chris would watch our backs while we peed and checked inside the toilet stalls, after one of us exited, for fresh shit decor on the walls and so forth.

Being the considerate guy I am, I poked fun at the somber, serious Chris whenever I entered and left the restroom. This seemed to bring about a certain amount of good cheer to everyone who heard my words of wit, during that time. For instance, I would say to Nola's assistant, "Ah, the Poo Peeper, how nice of you to watch me squirt." Chris' face remained the same, showing consternation at my jovial remark.

After all, it was the kind of job one took seriously.

Got Too Much Crap Beating Down On Top Of Me

(warning: This post contains more depressing topics than humorous ones. So please.... enjoy my hell!)



This is what's going on with me that's making me especially crazy these past few months:



* I've been having problems with my patience and my depression concerning my father's newly diagnosed vascular dementia. It falls on my sister and I to take care of him, of course, since our mother died 3 years ago. It's hard to watch him fade like this. He was, and still is, at times, strong of spirit and able to make perfect sense of things. He was always stubbornly independent and had a good sense of humor. These days, many of those traits might not be seen in him. Hard to watch. It's been a struggle getting Dad to do things, too. There's more to all of this, but that's all I'm going to say.



* Had to see a new head shrink for my depression disorder. You ever hear of BumFuck, Egypt. No? Well, ya see, it means a place that's horribly easy to get lost in, forever, while you curse like a pirate, lop off a head and shit down somebody's neck. That's where my psychiatrist has his business set up. And he's the closest one I could nab that my insurance would cover. Before this, I was able to see a therapist, only two miles away. There's more to all of this, but that's all I'm going to say. See a pattern?



* I've had my type 2 diabetes under decent control for the past 15 years. I only had to take one capsule of Metformin, each day, during that entire time. Then, as my depression ( which I have- due to several things) deepened, I let my health go to complete hell. If I lost my feet, hands or life I didn't care. I ate what I wanted, basically. My blood sugar count has been skyrocketing in the last 6 months.



Here's what I got out of that type of attitude, that I still partially have, even now:



I'm pissing every hour or so like a drunk in an ocean of beer.



My brain is sluggish because diabetes causes your blood to have the viscous quality of molasses. Duuuuuuuuuuuh.



The rare cuts and bruises I get (no, not from the wife) don't heal quickly. I've had the same light scratches on my leg from a month ago.



And I have all the energy of a slug on acid.



And so much more.



So the doctor has me on insulin now. What absolute joy to have to inject a needle in your thigh or your belly, forever. Such merry thoughts are pip-popping into mind. You must realize I'm dancing right now, singing and wishing that I stroke out, fall to the floor and flounder like the big goddam fish that I goddam am. Yayhoo and Kiss My Hairy White Ass. Girls only, though. They-are-so-lucky.



Which brings me to this:



* I've got a fat chunky hemorrhoid sticking out of my ass. Have you ever tried to push a granite like turd out of your ass and feel your asshole rip out? Well, I've done that. And now, every time I wipe, I scream. Whenever I sit, I scream. It hurts trying find your anus with the cream or the hard white capsule that's shaped with points at the ends. Why can't an angel suddenly appear and gently rub a dollop of "heavenly whipped cream" or something in my crack every minute or so? Tinkerbell comes to mind.


Yeah, I know. She's not an angel. But I bet her hands are nice and soft.

Remember....

just a reminder because I care

So Would Ya Like Ta Read Some Of My Damned Poems?

Here's a couple of poems I wrote for my underground magazine, Psycho Carnival, in 1998. Enjoy!

CONSUME

You must do
You must obey
Their lies are "truth"
You must consume

Learn the pop trends
and perform them well
Go watch the flick
that was meant to sell

Eager souls can't hide
their pain
Toward pro athletes
Give worshipful acclaim

You must do
You must obey
You cannot choose
You must consume

Spend money on garbage
directed at your demographic
Send a kid to war
For Their greed and Their trick
Swallow your self esteem
and allow censorship to spread
Hide your eyes
and join the dead

Gosh, that was a real hoot. A real pick-me-up, aye?

Here's the other. A much more serious bit of inspiration.

FLUSH

I stand over
to watch the water clear

It is time to unload my inner essence

I sit
I push
I grunt
I fart

Something squishes
and comes forth from within me

plop
plop
plop
plop

Sense of relief
Serenity it brings

Enrichment of the moment
Fulfillment of empty spirit

I stand once more
Look to see my product
Then turn
And wipe away the residue
of my past consumptions

Then flush
and watch all of it swirl away

Heartwarming, is it not?

Crazy Bear and Volcano Butt

At least I'm over the sinus infection and bronchitis. My arms and elbows are still giving me trouble, however. I've been to 2 different doctors who say I've got tennis elbow. I've been taking this, supposedly strong, anti-inflammatory medication for it, since Wednesday but so far, it has been of minimal help with the pain. It doesn't help that I'm in a distribution center where I do a lot of repetitious work.

But, as I've mentioned, I'm not sick anymore. So that's something.

I frequently get sick. It usually takes a strong anti-biotic to knock the shit out of my system. One of the worst times I've ever been sick was when I went camping with a bunch of friends. This occurred about 15 years ago but I remember it with much fondness. I call this unfortunate, true story....

CRAZY BEAR AND VOLCANO BUTT

One night, as I'm walking around with my friends, sister and brother-in-law at a huge flea market out in the middle of nowhere, it is mutually decided that we walk back to our campground, a quarter of a mile away, to do a bit of drinking. It is kind of chilly. About forty degrees. At the time, I was a little sick but not feeling that bad. A sore throat. Some snot in my nose. No big deal. So I believed. I found out my decision to drink would be a poor one, though.

So we get to our large green tent in the primitive area. The "primitive area" means there are no bathrooms or water fountains within a quarter of a mile of the entire site. There's about ten of us. And we're all drinking, having a righteous good time in the middle of no-man's-land. I think I had a couple swigs of peppermint schnapps, along with my one beer. Yum. Several hours later, we turn in and pass out on the canvas tent floor. It's incredibly cramp in the tent, with no space between bodies. When someone belched or farted, you were going to smell it. No way to escape it.

Sure enough, in the middle of the night, I feel the bile rising up in my throat. As I'm struggling to crawl over bodies in complete darkness, pee dribbles down my leg. I panic. Now I'm rushing to get the hell out of the tent, not caring who's head I crush with a kneecap. I barely am able to unzip the tent door and jump out when every human waste liquid known to man gushes forth from every orifice, simultaneously. Fountains of vomit leap out of my mouth like a broken Hoover Dam. Torrents of anus gravy explode out of my butt with such force, I swear the back of my jeans have blown out. My male member unloads two and half quarts of piss as I gargle multi-colored puke out onto the cold hard ground. I'm on my hands and knees, silently begging for death. I try desperately to hold back my enraged fluids but to no avail. I am in hell as I shake, puke, piss and shit like some monstrous human crap sprinkler. Intermittently, as I attempt to stop heaving, a strange, bear-like roar is unleashed from my throat. At least, that's how my sister has described it.

Finally, my sister comes out. I'm surprised no one had heard me before. Later, someone told me that they had heard me but were afraid to come out. They thought they heard a monster. It was me.

My sister, thankfully, brought out some rags and a pair of shorts for me to use. I had to strip off all of my clothes as they were completely soiled. I wiped the various chunks of stuff off of me and then changed clothes, stumbling over a rock, while doing so. Extremely dehydrated and exhausted, I drug my limp, foul body back inside the tent and collapsed. It seemed the good times were over.

In the morning, everyone regains consciousness and begins to rise. When they look at me, they see a pale form lying still on the floor. My arms are crossed over my chest (in burial fashion) and my eyes are swollen shut. They actually thought I was a goner. Luckily, my sister traveled to the parking area and brought my car to me when I resurrected from the grave. I left the campground with a chafed anus, bloody raw throat and pounding grey matter. Hardly able to see through my watering eyes, I made it back home. A miracle.

A day later, either my wife or mother were doing me the favor of washing my jeans. The same jeans that had been so ruthlessly abused during my puking escapade. Feeling something hard in the lower pants leg, she became curious and reached up inside to pull out a dry, foot long solid turd.

What a delightful surprise.

THE END