“I will double-knot your sneakers.”

“I will re-sort your Tupperware.”

“I guess its time to potty-train the monkey.”

“Got your co-pay ready?”

“Paper or plastic?”

“I am the Sun and you are the Moon.” (just keep repeating this)

“I am the Gatekeeper, are you the Key-master?”

“I am not gonna pay allot for this muffler.”

I am not sure that any of these work as I haven’t been in a fight for 20 years. Having said that, I would think twice if a confrontational person uttered any of these lines as they squared of with me.

I had just moved into my new house and all the lifting really tweaked my back. I’m not sure why, I was keeping my legs locked and lifting with my groin as I was taught. I took a hand full painkillers and still could not sleep, I needed a heating pad. I was not feeling pain but I knew I had to fix my back or I would pay for it in the morning.

Looks like I was heading to Walmart as it was 4 am.

Walmart at its best is a nightmare, the shallow end of the gene pool laid bare for all to see. At it’s worst its akin to a Fellini movie starring the cast of Deliverance. As I walked in I was accosted by some twenty-something stoners driving the Walmart scooters in circles. The scooters are for the elderly and disabled not banal hipsters that are on the pot with their Rock and Roll music (get off my lawn!-God I’m old). Cheech and Chong over there seemed to think that the carts were meant for them and not the elderly lady walking in the door. After a few moments of this lady waiting for the stoners to get up and offer her a cart she started to hobble into the store.

I saw this and as I had already reached my limit of rudeness and bullshit for the day and took action.

I walked over and yelled “Hey, jackball. Get of the cart”. His reply was that there were other carts available and then he questioned my parentage. I tend to act rashly at times and my tolerance for jackassery is very low. I leaned back a bit, raised my knee to waist height and loosed a vicious snap kick to the scooter seat. The desired effect was realized as the hippie went flying. His buddy got of his scooter and I walked the scooter over to lady. She said she was fine and I insisted that she use the scooter that she obviously needed. She thanked me and I wished her a good day.

The moral of my story should be obvious by now, I am a complete tool with poor impulse control.

That and I think I’m a superhero.

A Walmart Superhero

2. A ponytail makes one look like less of a bad ass and in no way deflects really bad acting.

3. There is a limit to which wearing black can hide your pot belly and wearing it in every scene kinda gives away the the fact that you are wearing it because you are fat.

4. Even though you look like an Asian mongoloid Hollywood might hire you.

5. Hire a body double for every scene that doesn’t show your face. Even the scenes where you are doing anything mildly athletic.

6. Most people fold their arms across their chest in a pseudo manly gesture, don’t rest your girly arms on top of your pot belly thereby drawing attention to said pot belly.

7. A halting delivery when speaking made William Shatner and Christopher Walken famous men, you just sound like a dumb ass that cant recall your lines.

8. When Googling your name the word douchebag comes up in every 3rd result.

9. One does not need to be proficient at martial arts to be billed as knowing same. For example if you can spell Kenpo I guess you can proclaim to be a master.

10. If you weren’t famous you’d be know as “that creepy guy”.

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.

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. My friend 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 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.