Dammitall, I am surrounded by Retards
Well, the weekend has rolled around, and as promised, more enlightening character assassinations are up on the block. But before I do so, I feel I've gotta say somethin'; though I make fun of this collection of gomers, retards, and habitual dog-fuckers, they mostly know how to do their jobs. And so what if the job isn't complicated, and could easily be done by well-trained chimpanzees or especially chatty orangutans? Until we get over our misplaced fears of a Planet of the Apes-like scenario, we'll be stuck hauling dangerous shit from one place to the other. (EvilMister now has a hole in his hand, cuts across most of his fingers, three bruises on one shin, a gouge taken out of one ankle and a series of callouses that have replaced other ... callouses on my hands.)
The first new guy is Mr Stinky, nee Gordon. The Stinkmeister is a nice guy. He works really fuckin' hard at his job. Shit you not. He's ready, willing, and able to get right in there and throw his back into lifting up a two-ton trailer if need be. He's friendly, and since he likes CSI, he's all right by me. Unfortunately, as you might've surmised from his monniker, he stinky. Come off it, Evil, you're saying, we've all smelled stinky people before. How bad can it be, really. I'd swear on a stack of bibles if my hands wouldn't burn off that he is, without a doubt, the smelliest human being I've ever come across. I've been in locker rooms. I've been at the gym. I've been downtown where Woolworth's used to be. I've been in the rooms of hippies who don't believe in deodorant and I've, sadly, wallowed in my own vomit. All of those things have got the Big Stink Seal of Nasal Damage written all over them, but goddamit, this motherfucker brought tears to my eyes in seconds. It's the pervasive kind of odor you get when you wear the same kind of clothes all the time, eat lots of garlic and drink all kinds of weirdness, lock yourself into a hyperbaric chamber and stew in your own juices until morning. It doesn't go away. And since we work in an environment that demands a lot of physical activity, it actually gets worse. I swear to christ it'd make someone with no sense of smell ask what the fuck was burning his nasal passages. But Monsieur Stinky works hard, so he's okey-dokey.
Next is Hoody with a Habit. His real name is Zack. I have a catfish named Zack, and the similarities between Hoody and the bottom-feeding fish are funny. Hoody with a Habit is, for lack of a better word, sketchy. He's got the attendant twitchiness, facial ticks, slurs, weird walk, and vernacular of a dood who's got a Jones. The first day he came in to work was at noon some time last week; the Guys in Hardhats expect anyone they call in to stick around for an eight hour shift. This makes utter and total sense to me. Hoody likes to wear his headphones while 'working', operating under the illusion that he will be totally safe in a work environment where people are balancing 300 lbs of wall unit on one corner and bombing down an aisle no wider than the one Indiana Jones walked across in Indy III. Hoody spends most of his time looking for a place to sit down. He sat down on counters, on clothing racks, piles of wobbly pallets and once, even the floor. Each of the times he was ass-sittin' (don't get me wrong, EvilMister likes his ass to sit whenever and wherever possible), he was doing so in front of one of the Guys. Quittin' time rolls around, me and some of the other Retards (Look at that Sexy Bitch and Gomer with Ass Outside of Pants) are waiting for the bus to take us out of Purgatory when Hoody shows up. Hoody doesn't want to work an eight hour shift his first day because it's too late in the evening. I was for sure convinced that Hoody had fucked himself out of work, but he showed up again on the Monday, during which time I learned that he, like Fucktard with Hat, is a Victim of Global Conspiracy. The Phone Company, The Cable Company, indeed, the entire Canadian Government is out to get him. Oh, Hoody with a Habit, donchaknow that's just yer Jones talkin?
Third is Ancient Chinese Secret, aka Jonas. As you may've guessed, Jonas is Asian. It's not some kind of opposite nickname like callin' a fat guy Slim or a short little monkey Stretch. He's Asian, and I'm not bein' disrespectful. Jonas might not be able to speak English very well (in point of fact, it's even hard to understand his broken English, and I worked at Starbucks for 5 years, where I learned that shrr ratuh is short latte) but he understands every fuckin' thing going on there. Point to a shelf, tell him you want it put together, and goddamnit if it ain't put together. He, like Stinky, is a go-to-guy, putting his time in with actual results. We don't know where ACS got his shit together, but I gotta say, he's one awesome motherfucker. I'd take him over any of the regular Retards.
Next is the Old Codgers from Manpower. This is more of a primary grouping than an individual. There is Stoic Motherfucker, who is old and as far as I can tell, as cranky as a person can get without actually having a crank in his ass. I've heard him say three words the whole time I'm around. I think he's an android, but since I'm kind of afraid he'll drop a KungFu grip on me, I'll avoid his silent ass. There's The Leninist, who looks exactly like someone from a Commie-Pinko terrorist cell should look, from his thin metal framed glasses to his ever-durable second hand Spetsnaz workboots. He also doesn't like to work too hard, and has been known to vanish like my good intentions after a few rum and cokes. The Leninist has many good ideas on how to do stuff, and is more than willing to give you pointers on how to do them, and he also pushes a pallet jack everywhere. Sometimes it even has stuff on it. I can't forget SaltandPepper, a guy who, from a conversation I overheard in the lunch room one day, has been all over Europe more than once. Don't know much about SaltandPepper except for that, but I do think it's fucking hilarious that a guy so well traveled (if, indeed, he is) finds himself stuck working with a bunch of Retards and making sub-par wages.
That's all for the Retards and the Codgers. Now on to other employees of the place where I am 'working'.
The only one I'm gonna mention is Sexy Chick from Cosmetics, and for all the reasons you think. She's young, she's blonde, she's got tattoos. And, for some reason, is perfectly all right with being in earshot of some of the comments that only Look at that Sexy Bitch and MiniSpaniard can come up with. Let me tell you, there is no one more creative than two kids that're higher than kites and under the age of 22. Sexy Chick is very pretty, but not really my type; I only mention her because she checked me out. Why is that important, you ask? Well, 1) I can count the number of times I've been ogled on one hand with three fingers cut off, 2) I was gross, stinky, and covered in sweat and drywall dust. How do I know I was being 'checked out'? Ah. 1) I was checking her out, 2) She walked by me, looked me up from head to toe, smiled and said 'see ya later' and smiled, 3) I am single and incredibly horny, and as a result I tend to think any woman looking at me for more than three seconds is giving me the green 'go'. Since our initial meeting, she witnessed me seconds after my Amazing Assplant, and has asked me how my back is more than once. I won't crassify our encounters any more than that, but if she even gave me a wink, you'd be seeing my behavior on security footage uploaded to Limewire faster than Paris Hilton can say 'are you sure that camera's off?'
And now, for the story you've all been waiting for........
I might've mentioned it before, but I'll cover this again. The place I'm working in right now has had an entire additional store built around the one that currently exists, both on the first and second floors. For some reason I can't fathom, the second floor was done first. All of the new fixtures (and there are enough of them to furnish a major department store, which translates into something like a trillion pounds of wood and chrome, all designed to hit you on the most unprotected parts of your body like laser-guided smartbombs) were loaded onto the second floor. All. Of. Them. Naturally, this means that sooner or later, as the first floor area is completed, at least half the shit we hauled up has to get hauled back down. Yeehaw.
We were told to move some shelves. Now, in direct opposition to the entire design scheme of the rest of the fixtures, the shelves we were to move downstairs were not a) mysteriously top heavy, b) possessed, c) intent on drawing blood, or d ) just plain awkward to manipulate.
They were just really high. Fifteen or so feet tall. After consulting Norad, NASA and the ThinkTank at MIT, we got the answer; we were gonna have to use one of the useless four wheeled carpet dollies that, like the pushcarts at Safeway, all have one demented wheel intent on making a run for the border. That's fine. No sweat. It did take eight of us to keep it on the crafty little fucker, and to make it over and around the various hurdles in our way (Bluehaired Bargainhunters and Painfully Gay Menswear Employees) and over to the freight elevator.
Don't forget, EvilMister is not a spring chicken. In point of fact, he could be considered a slightly less overweight George Costanza with more hair. The muscles in my legs, back, arms, chest and head started to protest midway through the venture, but dammitall, I refused to be shown up by a bunch of gomers who refuse to wear belts, who comment on the titties of every woman he sees and who complain about how God is out to get him (HE is, Fucktard, just you wait). Downstairs proves to be vastly more complicated.
The uncarpeted, untiled floor is littered with drywall dust and sawdust; the offal from Dusty Drywallers and Maniacal Carpenters. I am in charge of steering, which means I am walking backwards, gripping the shelving unit. I can't really see where I'm going, and so must trust Mr Stinky and Oldie. The carpet dolly doesn't really like the spoor of contractors, and as soon as the front wheels cross over from tiles to flat concrete covered with dust particles, they lock up quicker than a priest during interrogation.
I haven't fallen yet. Having encountered this already, the answer is to lift and hold in traditional weightlifter position until Oldie can move the dolly into a more appropriate place. The sides of the shelves are very smooth and also covered in a thin layer of dust. My muscles, soft from habitual disuse, are protesting. The floor is slippier than an Entertainment Lawyer's client list and my legs think it's time to
just
give
up.
Rather than fall right over, I lurch to a semi-stand in a desperate effort to relieve myself of energy once expended into keeping the shelves in place that is now rocketing through my displaced center of gravity. My arms are windmilling around like I'm tryin' to take flight, I'm lurching around like a drunk who's been pepper sprayed until finally gravity gains the upper hand; all the force I'm trying to get rid of shoots right to my ass and Boom!! EvilMister hits the ground like I've been kayoed by that ballet dancer from Roadhouse.
Not to be outshone, by arms continue to spin around, whacking an aluminum ladder right beside me. I lurch to get out of the way, but my legs hit the side of the ladder as it's comin' down, actually causing it to land no less than three inches from my head. I bruised the hell out of my tailbone.
The pain and indignity of losing my balance and damned near killing myself was nicely ameliorated by Sexy Chick from Cosmetics asking me if I was all right, which is why I have included her in my list.
That's it for now!
The first new guy is Mr Stinky, nee Gordon. The Stinkmeister is a nice guy. He works really fuckin' hard at his job. Shit you not. He's ready, willing, and able to get right in there and throw his back into lifting up a two-ton trailer if need be. He's friendly, and since he likes CSI, he's all right by me. Unfortunately, as you might've surmised from his monniker, he stinky. Come off it, Evil, you're saying, we've all smelled stinky people before. How bad can it be, really. I'd swear on a stack of bibles if my hands wouldn't burn off that he is, without a doubt, the smelliest human being I've ever come across. I've been in locker rooms. I've been at the gym. I've been downtown where Woolworth's used to be. I've been in the rooms of hippies who don't believe in deodorant and I've, sadly, wallowed in my own vomit. All of those things have got the Big Stink Seal of Nasal Damage written all over them, but goddamit, this motherfucker brought tears to my eyes in seconds. It's the pervasive kind of odor you get when you wear the same kind of clothes all the time, eat lots of garlic and drink all kinds of weirdness, lock yourself into a hyperbaric chamber and stew in your own juices until morning. It doesn't go away. And since we work in an environment that demands a lot of physical activity, it actually gets worse. I swear to christ it'd make someone with no sense of smell ask what the fuck was burning his nasal passages. But Monsieur Stinky works hard, so he's okey-dokey.
Next is Hoody with a Habit. His real name is Zack. I have a catfish named Zack, and the similarities between Hoody and the bottom-feeding fish are funny. Hoody with a Habit is, for lack of a better word, sketchy. He's got the attendant twitchiness, facial ticks, slurs, weird walk, and vernacular of a dood who's got a Jones. The first day he came in to work was at noon some time last week; the Guys in Hardhats expect anyone they call in to stick around for an eight hour shift. This makes utter and total sense to me. Hoody likes to wear his headphones while 'working', operating under the illusion that he will be totally safe in a work environment where people are balancing 300 lbs of wall unit on one corner and bombing down an aisle no wider than the one Indiana Jones walked across in Indy III. Hoody spends most of his time looking for a place to sit down. He sat down on counters, on clothing racks, piles of wobbly pallets and once, even the floor. Each of the times he was ass-sittin' (don't get me wrong, EvilMister likes his ass to sit whenever and wherever possible), he was doing so in front of one of the Guys. Quittin' time rolls around, me and some of the other Retards (Look at that Sexy Bitch and Gomer with Ass Outside of Pants) are waiting for the bus to take us out of Purgatory when Hoody shows up. Hoody doesn't want to work an eight hour shift his first day because it's too late in the evening. I was for sure convinced that Hoody had fucked himself out of work, but he showed up again on the Monday, during which time I learned that he, like Fucktard with Hat, is a Victim of Global Conspiracy. The Phone Company, The Cable Company, indeed, the entire Canadian Government is out to get him. Oh, Hoody with a Habit, donchaknow that's just yer Jones talkin?
Third is Ancient Chinese Secret, aka Jonas. As you may've guessed, Jonas is Asian. It's not some kind of opposite nickname like callin' a fat guy Slim or a short little monkey Stretch. He's Asian, and I'm not bein' disrespectful. Jonas might not be able to speak English very well (in point of fact, it's even hard to understand his broken English, and I worked at Starbucks for 5 years, where I learned that shrr ratuh is short latte) but he understands every fuckin' thing going on there. Point to a shelf, tell him you want it put together, and goddamnit if it ain't put together. He, like Stinky, is a go-to-guy, putting his time in with actual results. We don't know where ACS got his shit together, but I gotta say, he's one awesome motherfucker. I'd take him over any of the regular Retards.
Next is the Old Codgers from Manpower. This is more of a primary grouping than an individual. There is Stoic Motherfucker, who is old and as far as I can tell, as cranky as a person can get without actually having a crank in his ass. I've heard him say three words the whole time I'm around. I think he's an android, but since I'm kind of afraid he'll drop a KungFu grip on me, I'll avoid his silent ass. There's The Leninist, who looks exactly like someone from a Commie-Pinko terrorist cell should look, from his thin metal framed glasses to his ever-durable second hand Spetsnaz workboots. He also doesn't like to work too hard, and has been known to vanish like my good intentions after a few rum and cokes. The Leninist has many good ideas on how to do stuff, and is more than willing to give you pointers on how to do them, and he also pushes a pallet jack everywhere. Sometimes it even has stuff on it. I can't forget SaltandPepper, a guy who, from a conversation I overheard in the lunch room one day, has been all over Europe more than once. Don't know much about SaltandPepper except for that, but I do think it's fucking hilarious that a guy so well traveled (if, indeed, he is) finds himself stuck working with a bunch of Retards and making sub-par wages.
That's all for the Retards and the Codgers. Now on to other employees of the place where I am 'working'.
The only one I'm gonna mention is Sexy Chick from Cosmetics, and for all the reasons you think. She's young, she's blonde, she's got tattoos. And, for some reason, is perfectly all right with being in earshot of some of the comments that only Look at that Sexy Bitch and MiniSpaniard can come up with. Let me tell you, there is no one more creative than two kids that're higher than kites and under the age of 22. Sexy Chick is very pretty, but not really my type; I only mention her because she checked me out. Why is that important, you ask? Well, 1) I can count the number of times I've been ogled on one hand with three fingers cut off, 2) I was gross, stinky, and covered in sweat and drywall dust. How do I know I was being 'checked out'? Ah. 1) I was checking her out, 2) She walked by me, looked me up from head to toe, smiled and said 'see ya later' and smiled, 3) I am single and incredibly horny, and as a result I tend to think any woman looking at me for more than three seconds is giving me the green 'go'. Since our initial meeting, she witnessed me seconds after my Amazing Assplant, and has asked me how my back is more than once. I won't crassify our encounters any more than that, but if she even gave me a wink, you'd be seeing my behavior on security footage uploaded to Limewire faster than Paris Hilton can say 'are you sure that camera's off?'
And now, for the story you've all been waiting for........
EvilMister's Amazing and Prolonged Ass-Plant, complete with Aluminum Ladder Almost Killing Him
I might've mentioned it before, but I'll cover this again. The place I'm working in right now has had an entire additional store built around the one that currently exists, both on the first and second floors. For some reason I can't fathom, the second floor was done first. All of the new fixtures (and there are enough of them to furnish a major department store, which translates into something like a trillion pounds of wood and chrome, all designed to hit you on the most unprotected parts of your body like laser-guided smartbombs) were loaded onto the second floor. All. Of. Them. Naturally, this means that sooner or later, as the first floor area is completed, at least half the shit we hauled up has to get hauled back down. Yeehaw.
We were told to move some shelves. Now, in direct opposition to the entire design scheme of the rest of the fixtures, the shelves we were to move downstairs were not a) mysteriously top heavy, b) possessed, c) intent on drawing blood, or d ) just plain awkward to manipulate.
They were just really high. Fifteen or so feet tall. After consulting Norad, NASA and the ThinkTank at MIT, we got the answer; we were gonna have to use one of the useless four wheeled carpet dollies that, like the pushcarts at Safeway, all have one demented wheel intent on making a run for the border. That's fine. No sweat. It did take eight of us to keep it on the crafty little fucker, and to make it over and around the various hurdles in our way (Bluehaired Bargainhunters and Painfully Gay Menswear Employees) and over to the freight elevator.
Don't forget, EvilMister is not a spring chicken. In point of fact, he could be considered a slightly less overweight George Costanza with more hair. The muscles in my legs, back, arms, chest and head started to protest midway through the venture, but dammitall, I refused to be shown up by a bunch of gomers who refuse to wear belts, who comment on the titties of every woman he sees and who complain about how God is out to get him (HE is, Fucktard, just you wait). Downstairs proves to be vastly more complicated.
The uncarpeted, untiled floor is littered with drywall dust and sawdust; the offal from Dusty Drywallers and Maniacal Carpenters. I am in charge of steering, which means I am walking backwards, gripping the shelving unit. I can't really see where I'm going, and so must trust Mr Stinky and Oldie. The carpet dolly doesn't really like the spoor of contractors, and as soon as the front wheels cross over from tiles to flat concrete covered with dust particles, they lock up quicker than a priest during interrogation.
I haven't fallen yet. Having encountered this already, the answer is to lift and hold in traditional weightlifter position until Oldie can move the dolly into a more appropriate place. The sides of the shelves are very smooth and also covered in a thin layer of dust. My muscles, soft from habitual disuse, are protesting. The floor is slippier than an Entertainment Lawyer's client list and my legs think it's time to
just
give
up.
Rather than fall right over, I lurch to a semi-stand in a desperate effort to relieve myself of energy once expended into keeping the shelves in place that is now rocketing through my displaced center of gravity. My arms are windmilling around like I'm tryin' to take flight, I'm lurching around like a drunk who's been pepper sprayed until finally gravity gains the upper hand; all the force I'm trying to get rid of shoots right to my ass and Boom!! EvilMister hits the ground like I've been kayoed by that ballet dancer from Roadhouse.
Not to be outshone, by arms continue to spin around, whacking an aluminum ladder right beside me. I lurch to get out of the way, but my legs hit the side of the ladder as it's comin' down, actually causing it to land no less than three inches from my head. I bruised the hell out of my tailbone.
The pain and indignity of losing my balance and damned near killing myself was nicely ameliorated by Sexy Chick from Cosmetics asking me if I was all right, which is why I have included her in my list.
That's it for now!
posted by Unknown @ 1:43 PM
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