| Random dribblings of a minimum-wage pizza drone, part 1. |
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| 07:42pm 13/03/2006 |
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Today D posed the question of what it would be like to wake up as a parasite.
I didn't know exactly how to respond to this, because it completely caught me off guard. I was chopping tomatoes, slicing them in half and then slamming them through a sharp metal grid, when he asked me. I just responded with, "I dunno, It'd be kind of weird. Probably." and went quickly back to my trance of chopping.
I didn't want to consider this. Especcially not after having a dream about a worm that oozed disgusting yellowish opaque goo from it's mouth and asshole. It lived in my room, and the horrible shit-smell of it drove all my friends away from me. I wanted to kill that worm. All it did was flop around in this hammock bed-thing and sing showtunes in a horrible, nasal voice. And ooze. And stink. Somehow I wasn't allowed kill it though, instead I was forced to accomidate it amiably, and bend to it's every will. This infuriated and frustrated me to no end.
That dream has nothing to do with my job however, unless you consider the fact that a disturbingly large portion of the customers I deal with on a daily basis are very similar to the worm: pointless, disgusting, infuriating, and I have to be nice to them.
In this journal, where I keep the rest of my vile typings, I will also attempt to document my life in retail hell, as it happens. I will discuss the woman with the porno fingernails who pulled a wad of chewed-up gum off of a hot sauce bottle she (for whatever reason) kept in her purse with her teeth, people who order pizza with three servings of ground beef on it and nothing else, the guy who wanted exactly 5 slices of pepperoni on his pizza, and the lecherous, rheumy eyed old black man who blatantly stares at my tits for a good five minutes everytime he comes in.
Also to be cronicled: "Parades of Obesity: Fat Fucks With No Personal Hygiene." "Salmonella Panic in the Midwest." "What to Do in Case Nobody Cares." and the ambiguous "Sleep Sandwich."
Stay tuned, children. |
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Read 2 - Post |
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| yeah yeah hey hey |
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| 10:01pm 12/01/2006 |
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all entries now tagged for easy access!
Burbling up the tube:
+Monk and/or Law and Order: SVU and/or Steely Dan fanfiction
+Some random musings
-Kelsey |
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| Gordon |
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| 08:05pm 08/01/2006 |
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mood: bored music: snowbound - donald fagen
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"Hello Gordon."
Gordon looked up from his lukewarm paper plate full of gray and tannish noodle cassarole.
"Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm a pineapple."
Well that much is obvious. Thought Gordon, but he didn't express this out of fear of what the pineapple would do. He had already been sexually humilated by a turnip this week. Vegetables and Fruits did not take kindly to sarcasm. They also did not like to be looked in the eye. Gordon looked back down at his plate and poked at a flake of tuna idly.
"Who sent you?"
"Tony."
Tony. Tony the balogna. That dago bastard!
"I told him, I'm not interested."
"That was a month ago," the pineapple was begining to morph and twist on the kitchen table disturbingly. It sounded and looked a bit like Robert DeNiro.
"... and besides, I have a touch of business of my own to take care of. Remember this guy, Gordon?" The DeNiro pineapple spat out a poloroid of a papaya, slightly pulverized on what looked to be fresh asphalt.
"That's not a guy, that's a papaya. But yes I do remember 'him' ... he fell out of the grocery bag in the Walmart parking lot. Pissed me off. It's hard to get good papaya in January ... in Iowa." Gordon eyed the pineapple carefully as he shoveled a forkful of cassarole into his mouth and swallowed without chewing. Mastication wasn't really neccesary.
"Pissed you off? He 'pissed you off' Gordon?! YOU KILLED HIM!! YOU RAN HIM OVER WITH YOUR FUCKING ALL-WEATHER SUPER TRACTION MICHELINS YOU SICK SON OF A-"
"WAIT! I DIDN'T KILL NOBODY!" Gordon rose from his seat, spitting chunks of overdone noodle and canned mushroom as he screamed back at the pineapple, who drew a luger and aimed straight between Gordon's eyeballs.
"You might wanna calm down, Gordon. We don't want anything to happen here. We just wanna have a nice chat. We just wanna settle some SHIT, OKAY GORDON? Now sit the FUCK down or I'll blow your FUCKING brains outta your FUCKING skull and all over the FUCKING blender behind you, alright ASSHOLE?! CAPICHE?!"
Gordon hesitated before sitting down slowly. This obviously was not a pineapple to be reckoned with.
"I-I didn't know-"
"BullSHIT!" The pineapple's gun-toting little pineapple hand shook with rage, "You had it out for Larry from the fucking START!"
"WHO THE FUCK IS LARRY?!" Gordon shouted, visibly frustrated.
"MY FATHER! THE PAPAYA YOU KILLED!" the pineapple screamed, "I've HAD it with your BULLSHIT, GORDON, THIS IS FUCKING IT!"
"NO, WAI-"
Gordon's protest came too late. A loud bang, and a bullet sliced the air, Gordon's ribcage, pericardial sac, and pulmonary artery, in that order. The chair fell backwards and hit the floor, Gordon clutching his chest and grimacing in pain as blood pooled around his lungs and heart. Gordon was dying at the hands of an angry pineapple.
As the darkness began to close in around him, however, a final thought sparked in Gordon's fading brain. Painfully, he gurgled a "hey."
The pineapple hopped to Gordon's side, saying nothing.
"If ... your father was a papaya ... then .... how come ... you're a fucking pineapple?" And, his last words spoken, Gordon expired with a sigh.
The pineapple was taken aback, and left to contemplate his own existance. |
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Read 6 - Post |
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| 07:56pm 12/10/2005 |
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Raoul slapped Terry hard across the face. "You have a package." Raoul left the room.
Terry, rubbing his reddened cheek with a look of disdain, picked up the corrugated cardboard box that his partner had tossed carelessly onto the folding cardtable and examined it nonchalantly. He heard Raoul yelling "Fuck!" in the living room and kicking the wall with his heavy rubber boot.
"Raoul?" Terry implored casually, glancing into the living room where Raoul was currently taking a considerable shit smack in the middle of the muddy carpeting. He grunted in response.
"Where'd this come from?"
"The mailman."
"So do the bills that you so blatantly refuse to pay."
"Fuck you, you little piece of cattle fuck." Raoul stood up, examined his turd proudly, and began fastening his pants, "Read the fucking return address."
Terry did. It merely read "Brehnhartner."
"Raoul?"
"What?"
"It just says 'Brehnhartner.'"
"Great." Raoul lit a cigarette and left the house, letting the flapping screen door swing frantically on it's remaining hinge.
Terry sighed. He grabbed a bloody steak knife off the card table and jammed it into the side of the box, sawing it open with aimless rage.
I call upon ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) benchilada to finish this. |
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| 10:12am 09/10/2005 |
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Dave Wang sat at the counter of May's diner on a cracked vinyl seat that squeaked and rotated marginally under his girth. He dipped his spoon into the cream gravy bowl, retrieved a large, gelotinous dollop, and slopped it on top his scrambled eggs indifferently.
"Maybelle."
The robust woman behind the counter looked up from her tax returns and stared vacantly at Wang, whose watery eyes reflected his dull need for attention.
"Coffee." He grunted, and returned to his gravy and bacon-fat soaked eggs.
Maybelle eased off of her seat, turned toward the coffeemaker, and dropped dead. |
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Read 6 - Post |
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| Let's do the timewarp again |
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| 02:50pm 02/10/2005 |
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Whenever I enter the Champaign Public Library, I feel as if I've stepped back into 1992.
Nothing is up to date in this place. Chunky plastic cages still envelop CDs. The ancient videotape selection outweighs the DVDs by tenfolds. Dirty boxy shelves contain beat up and badly arranged books as little kids and depressed college students loiter aimlessly as if the unfiltered and miserably caustic sunlight has dried up their very souls. It shines through the dingy windows and casts a clinical pallor throughout the entire building.
I feel more unwelcome in this miserable sheetmetal pit than anywhere else in the city. Upon entering you immediately feel like a 72 year old man about to undergo invasive heart surgery with the knowledge that he'll probably die in a week anyway ... |
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| Pigeon Man |
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| 08:21pm 28/09/2005 |
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There was a pigeon crawling across the pavement. It had one functioning leg and its left wing had been mangled horribly. I watched it drag its burdensome body across the hot cement as it stared at me with its beady glass eyes and cooed in a gruesome, gargled tone.
As I sat on the park bench and threw seed aimlessly, I wondered if a cat had gotten to it. When I was a little girl I used to catch the rats that lived in my family's apartment with a improvised shoebox trap. I'd cut a hole in the side, stick a piece of cheese in, and duct tape the lid shut. Then I'd set it on one side of the kitchen and wait in the cabinet underneath the sink. I'd sit there for hours, chin resting on my knobby, brown knees, the door of the cabinet slightly ajar so I could watch for the dirty, fat motherfuckers. They'd come out eventually, gray and filthy. Covered in bloated ticks and sniffing the air with their shriveled black noses. As soon as they crawled into the box, I'd run out, grab the trap and slam it against the doorframe that led out into the TV room as hard as my little arms would let me, just to stun the bastard. I knew when the shrieking ended that it was safe to rip open the box, pick the rat up by the tail and toss it into the backyard.
There were several wiry stray cats in my neighborhood, all of which were constantly hungry and known to tear chunks out of each other for sustenance. So a semi-comatose rat was an easy meal, and I'd watch out the foggy window as they approached. They seemed to fight over the honors of breaking the rodent's neck. I loved to see the red flesh peeled away from the snarling creature's body, its blood spraying diagonally into the air before collecting into a puddle in the snow. It made me feel better about my own life.
Pigeon Man walked up to the injured bird, and cooing gently, scooped it up in his warm, arthritic hand. He sat down cross legged on the sidewalk and stroked its neck with one long, dirty nail.
"Oh pigeon oh pigeon" he murmured, "how'd you get in such a condition? Poor pigeon, poor poor pigeon ..."
Tears were running down his face as he held the pigeon close to his chest and quietly rocked back and forth. I noticed the bird's eyes were closed. It was breathing softly.
"Sharee!" he was talking to me, "Come here."
I slowly stood, my middle aged bones cracking in the late November chill. I crouched beside Pigeon Man and examined the sleeping bird.
"You need to kill him."
I've never seen my friend so forlorn.
"Yes." I nodded, "I know."
Gently he handed the bird to me. I took it in my cupped hands and rose to my feet. Pigeon Man certainly had a way with pigeons, the little creature was passed out. I looked at his mangled, bloody foot and shattered wing and knew my old friend was right. This pigeon was a lost cause.
"Sorry buddy." I transfered the pigeon to one hand, then firmly took the sides of his head in my thumb and forefinger. Bird heads crush, ironically, like egg shells. His tiny pigeon brains oozed out onto my fingers as he quietly stopped breathing.
I wrapped pigeon #656 in a blue handkerchief then crouched back down and handed him back to Pigeon Man.
"Bury him in a nice place, will you Harold?"
Pigeon Man was weeping. I sighed, stood up once more, and walked away. I could use a cup of coffee and a place to wash the bird brains off my hands. |
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| 09:41pm 21/09/2005 |
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It gnawed at my gut like a toothless badger, the fresh vomit stain that was streaked across the side of my car. Harold was laughing, his open mouth a ring of yellow puke that glistened in the early light as we sped down the desert highway.
"What'd you think of that one, Harriet?"
"Fuck you."
"Aw come on baby, that was at least a ten!"
"Fuck you!"
"You wanna laugh, Harriet, I can see it in your eyes."
"I want you to fucking pass out already so I can keep my eyes on the road."
My teeth gritted tighter as I drove, knuckles white on the wheel of the Coup De Ville. Harold was drunk, reeling, spitting, vomiting, laughing. Again and again.
"You're a dumb bastard, Harry."
Harry smiled inanely and toothlessly out the open window. The wind caught hold of a drop of mucousy stomach contents and sent it slapping against the back windshield of the car from the departure point of my husband's smeary lips. It landed perfectly between two of the black defroster lines. |
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