EvilMister Meets New Forms of Life, Wants to Kill Everyone Who Looks At Him Funny

Well, I am still hauling shit from point A to point B, although I am now no longer under the direct command of Guys In Hardhats. I am now, nominally, ordered around by a five foot tall man with a San Franciscan accent. (what does that mean? think about it for a moment ... what species of man seems to populate San Fran more than anyother ....?) We'll call him Mighty Mouse, on account of the fact that he's everywhere. He's a driven man, and his department is Menswear. The jobs he gives me are both easy and amazingly frustrating; he will say 'move clothing racks from here to there', and then, ten minutes later, he'll say 'lift this solid oak table onto your back and walk down the aisle backwards.' I swear to Christ that when I'm done this job, I'll be like Ed Norton in Fight Club. From Cookie Dough to Jack's Invigorated Abdomen!

All the fixtures that are on the second floor are the same, with the exception of those belonging to Jewelry and Cosmetics. This means that Mens, Womens, Lingerie, Shoes, Torture Devices, and Gomorrah's Diarama are all fighting for the same fixtures. They have maps, and diagrams, that show where everything is s'posed to go, and how much of it's s'posed to go there. All last week, I took this shit off trucks, hauled it up freight elevators, navigating my way around the other Retards, Spastic Contractors, Deliberate Time-Wasters and Bluehair Bargainhunters, and piled it into one or two spots.

Following Mighty Mouse's orders, me and another dood move things called 'hang folders'. These were not designed for clothes, though that is the use they are being put to; they are, in all reality, three hundred pound slabs of pressed particle board that can, will, and have toppled over at the drop of a hat. They're like wooden lemmings.

In the grand scheme of things, Mighty Mouse's direct opposite, the woman in charge of Womens, is named Joy.

Let me tell you something.

She is not joyful. She is the antithesis of joy. She is the absence of all things bearing happiness. If the position of Evil wasn't already filled by yours truly, she'd fill in without missing a beat.

She hates me. I am used to people not liking me. I am loud, my voice carries through airplane manufacturing plants and has been known to make small children cry uncontrollably until I am out of range. My sense of humor is not for everyone, generally involving boobies, zombies, complete with liberal lacings of 'fuck', 'shit', 'asswipe' and/or 'cockmonkey'. As I am a Retard who Cannot Keep a Job, I've toned my natural persona down (at greatest personal risk). She hasn't heard anything inappropriate coming out of my cakehole.

And yet, dear readers, I am somehow the Harbinger of Doom. I am the reason table legs fall off, why crappy castors either roll in one direction or no directions, why delivery trucks are late, why Mighty Mouse has somehow managed to claim all the 'good' fixtures. She gives me a dirty look every time she sees me, and I am, at last count, 6' tall and 250 lbs. Tack on the voice, and dammit, people in Paraguay know where I am. I get dirty looks every ten minutes. This pisses me right the fuck off, but again, I am a Retard, so I chew my tongue and hold my demonic rage.

I hate her. Just yesterday, Vinnie (the dood who has a job) and I moved a mountain of nine million pound pieces of wood wrapped up in plastic and metal to where Mighty Mouse told us. It took a lo-o-o-o-ong time, and by the end of it, I was more out of breath than Jake Steed after a day of filming. AntiJoy comes up with her blueprint, looks at it, asks why we're putting things where we are as if we snuck over to Womens and stole them in the middle of the night. She looks at me with this look of utter accusation; since I am older than Vinnie and also a Retard, I am somehow to blame, most likely because I have been dropping a commando version of the Vulcan Mindmeld on this kid all day, every day, and he is at my beck and fucking call. We straight up tell her Mighty Mouse told us to haul that crap, and again, the look says 'you're a lying motherfucker, but I'm going to let this slide for now, but you fuck with me again, and I will boil your balls in soup and call it Tastee Tots.' She walks away, clearly plotting my demise. What she doesn't know is I've already charted hers up using three-dimensional graphs and a fucking slide rule. Soon as the moon is in alignment, she'd better avoid Hardware, or it'll be Maximum Overdrive, and Emilio Estevez won't save her bitch ass, 'cuz he's busy being a has-been.

Bitch.

Also, tomorrow or the next day, I will let you know about Mr Stinky, Hoody with a Habit, Ancient Chinese Secret, The Old Codgers from Manpower and the Sexy Chick from Cosmetics (there are many sexy chicks, but this one is special)

And also as well, I will cover EvilMister's Amazing and Prolonged Ass-Plant, complete with Narrowly Having His Head Staved In By An Aluminum Ladder.