Project Kickass

I sat in the ER whilst a family member underwent a battery of test to diagnose the acute chest pains she was having. I sat there for hours worrying and could think of nothing else than her well being.

Well that and the fact that a 350 pound man was sitting across from me farting. Not the kind of I’m sorry that I have gas and will try to muffle the sound, no this was full on locker-room farting.

After the doctor assured me she was fine but they would have to run more tests I settled in for another 3 hour wait. That is when I took pen to paper ( really crayon that I took from the children’s play area and a brochure that spelled out the dangers of the Swine Flue or Monkey Pox or something animal-bore illness) and started naming your farts.

The list that follows is only partial as I got a late start in the flatulence nomenclature cycle.

The chippy

The gutbuster

Zig Zag

The horn o plenty

El Tootaroo

Sphinctorus Maximus

Poop Shute’in Boogey

Achey Brakey Fart

The Three Tenors

The Terd Burglar

They Took Our Jobs

Touching Cloth

The Snorlax

If you happen to be in the John C Lincoln ER you might just find this list as I tucked it back in the middle of the other brochures so that the names that I gave your farts can be enjoyed by future ER dwellers.

Why is it that every conversation that two men have ends up in a competition more times than not? I know that we are competitive creatures but what leads us to make bets and argue about inane and trivial happenings?

This was not one of those times, this was about pirates!

I was having lunch with a co-worker and we both mused how the majority of adults that come to work in Halloween costumes do so as pirates. Sexy pirates, mean pirates, angry pirates and comical pirates. Oh and the pirate from HR. He thought he would make a good real life pirate and when asked why “cause I have a bird at home”.

“You have a bird? That is your CV for piracy? You are not 1/10 the pirate I am” I said.  That was the genesis for the duel, a new battle, who is the most pirate. The game needs to be played with a referee to make the final call and we chose the HR guy and the prize was a bag of Skittles and the pride of making a nickname for the looser that can and should be used at the most embarrassing times.

The rules are very simple, list 3 reasons why you would make a good pirate.

He started

1. Has a bird who often sits upon his shoulder.

2. Knows how to sail.

3. Has black leather pirate boots that he purchased at the Renaissance fair.

After I finished laughing at him it was my turn.

1. Because of partial facial paralysis I don’t close my right eye fully when I sleep so I wear an eye patch when I sleep and have for years.

2. My right leg is has some nerve damage and when I am tired I walk with a limping gate almost as if, wait for it, I had a wooden leg.

3. I can wear the shit out of a pirate hat! (I tossed a softball on the last one as I was sure that I was way more pirate).

The vote was closer that I thought it would be but the outcome was what I thought it would be.

I sat eating my candy plunder in front of my buddy turned nemesis turned purveyor of Skittles. He rose to leave and tipped his cap. He got ten feet away before I bellowed “well played princess sailor boots, well played indeed”.

Brandon! Brandon! Brandon, come here!

That is what I heard for five minutes while we were in the Quicky Mart. Your 3 year old was running all over and knocking stuff down while you and your Whiskey Tango (white trash) wife were getting your post methadone clinic Big Gulps. You would yell every 30 seconds “Brandon come here” like an hillbilly fog horn. I wanted to yell “turn your fat jowls and watch your crotch fruit, yelling Brandon every thirty seconds does not make up for your lack of parenting “.

I chose not to as I just wanted out of there.

I paid and left and I guess you paid as well as you came out of the store as I was unlocking my car. Brandon came running out of the door and straight towards the open traffic. At 2 foot tall he would run right by me and not be seen by the oncoming car.

I glanced at you hoping to see a look of horror as you realized the impending impact but no, you were busy playing with a coupon for Skoal Bandits. I grabbed the kid with my free hand and jerked him back from running in front of the car speeding through the parking lot and then walked him over to you for what I thought would be a hero’s welcome.

Not so much.

You just squared off and said that I should get my hands off of your son. I asked you if you were sure he was your son because your wife looks like a real goer, know what I mean? Say no more. Nudge nudge, wink wink.

I have since found out that Monty Python references seem to make white trash confused and upset and want to fight.

You raised your fists, started to say something and I kicked you square in the nuts. I’m not a fighter, I’m not a lover either but what I am is a cheap bastard and I didn’t want to spill the soda in my right hand. So in retrospect I am sorry I kicked you in the balls but I felt threatened and reacted.

I hope Brandon is ok and you are feeling better.

The soda was delicious.

I wish to take this opportunity and apologize. I try to make our shared workplace a fun and exciting environment to come to. I do realize that some of the things I do may seem off putting and a bit repetitious but I come from the school of thought that states that things are most funny around 255th time that I do them. With that said let me list a few of my oddities and lay bare my secret shame.

I can see how it might be startling that at 12:45 every day I announce to all those within ear shot that I am going to lunch by bellowing that I am, indeed, hungry like the wolf. A few of you giggle and ask if I am going to see Rio as she dances on the sand and one of you even asked if I had a date with a West End girl. I laughed at both and to the latter I made sure you knew the difference between the Pet Shop Boys and Duran Duran.

As far as my standard “Thats what she said”  line that I say at every opportunity I have opted to go with with the HR friendly acronym TWSS.

As far as nicknames go I will apologize for any offense but still use the nicknames. Please dont attribute any malice to these names I just have a poor memory and don’t wish to rock the boat at this late date.

The guy with the huge scar on his forearm from a recent dog bite with still be known as Shark Week.

The gentleman with the very Irish appearance and surname to match will still be known as  Boondock.

The young lady with the pony tail that is an accomplished practitioner of Kenpo karate and boxing will still be know as Million Dollar Baby.

The very nice young man who has numerous body modifications and a shaved head will still be known as Sloth and I will offer you a Baby Ruth daily.

To my 6 foot 7 inch 250 pound amateur MMA friend, I will still call you a big monkey and tell you to go back to Skull Island daily.

To the young man with fully grown Grizzly Adems beard, I will still  call you Beardo.

Deal with it.

I hope that you all forgive my sporadic robot dancing and the fact that I tend to make up songs that seem to make no sense and have no relevance to what we do. Who can forget that haunting melody “I like pumpkin pie, bla bla bla, blu blu blu”?  How about the dulcet tones of  “Send a survey….Survey sent”?

So, once again I am sorry. I wont stop, but I am sorry all the same.

I should have know better. I only had one item to get, I knew it was close to the cash register and I would get out of there relatively unscathed.

Effing Walmart!

I wasn’t going to fight rush hour traffic just to go to the real-people store, I just needed a case of Diet Coke.

I walked in and was immediately hit with the familiar smell of dirt, BO and fat. I was 10 seconds in and had my Coke and was in line. I checked my 6 for carnies and the ambulatory half-dead that inhabit this place, nada. I was out in less than 3 minutes.

I walked to the far corner of the parking lot where I always park, this gives me 3 clear egress points where I have no traffic to impede my quick get away.

I see a car has parked next to me. Was it a nice car  parked there so it remained unmolested by the meth-addled denizens of this low priced nether world? No, it was a ford POS with the widows rolled up and dog tied to the wheel.

It is a very warm 97 degrees out today, not bad for a dog laying in the shade but in a car with the windows rolled up it,s about 120 degrees.  The dog is panting and howling as it scrapes the widows. There is no one  coming soon and judging by the fact that car wasn’t here 4 minutes ago and now is,  I thought the owner might be in Walmart for a while.

There is shade in the spot directly in front of the car and I look inside the car to see if its a stick. I could pop it neutral and push it to the shade, no such luck. I get in my car, throw it in reverses and pull up to the rear bumper of the POS. I give it a little gas, no good, I drop the Road Warrior (really a 2000 Toyota Camry) into 2nd and punch it while playing the theme song from Cops in my head. I hit reverse again and the swing into the space next to the car. The tire marks that are left are heavy and black, and dare I say, totally boss!

I pull out my Mag light as I exit my car and smash his left rear window, the dog jumps a bit but is other wise happy about the fresh air. I walk around to the right side and, after a few hits, take care of the driver’s widow. The odd thing here is that I didn’t break the window I just hit it a few times and it dropped into the door well. I gave the dog some water that  I had, filled up the cup holders and then took the 64 oz soda I had with me  and dumped it in the passenger seat. The liquid soaked through and the dog ate the ice.

The dog was now in the shade with proper ventilation and I had to run.

Sir, I am sorry that you will have to replace the widows but  judging by the $2000 rims and wheels  that you have on a $800 car you might want to consider a new car instead.

Besides your whole tail light assembly is smashed all to hell.