Before you read this, make sure you're not eating or drinking anything. And if you are easily made to gag or throw up, don't read this. Seriously.
I'm driving home from work and a greasy, nasty-ass-hasn't-shampooed-his-hair-in-weeks guy in the big-ass un-mufflered truck behind me turns and follows me for about 2 miles, picking a winner the whole.entire.way.
Not just a little recreational digging, mind you, but seriously - jamming each finger - on both hands - methodically into his nose, and with metronomic timing. I was so grossed out that I wanted to throw up. It happened so fast - and I will not write it, but yes, he DID do that thing that we hoped and wished that he hadn't.
I switched lanes, he switched lanes. I couldn't get away from him. HOW MUCH CAN THERE BE???? How vile! Were you raised by wolves???
A truly dirty, greasy and disgusting specimen of humanity.
Shouldn't we be able to soap his windows or deflate his tires for that? Not to mention hose him down in Handi-Wipes?
Scream with me, won't you???
Monday, September 21, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
You Down With OCD?
I live next door to a strange older man with a seemingly incurable case of OCD. His car must either be his prized possession, or he's been vandalized. (Been there.) God help you if he sees you out walking anywhere near his car. And by near I mean within 30 feet.
It's just your run of the mill family-style import, really non-descript but he pays a lot of attention to it. I don't mean he keeps it sparkling clean and rubs it with a diaper, I mean he runs out many times, constantly checking the door handles and locks and I guess inspecting the paint job for bumper kisses. Um, if you locked it 2 hours ago, wouldn't it still be locked?
About a week ago I was washing my windows and I noticed him checking out his car. He's still neatly pressed from work and has his necktie fastened tight around his collar. He did his typical circle-about-the-car, inspected it as always, but then started to measure the space in steps. Like march out there 20 paces and draw, partner!
He went back and forth, methodically, counting steps from bumper to bumper. He got in his car, unfasted "The Club" and moved his car back about 3 inches, got out and measured again. Yeah, still seven paces. Wow. Dude. Get a hobby. Three whole inches... which is a lot if you're not a very well endowed man, but in a parking space? Puh-lease.
I've seen this guy around the neighborhood since I moved in years ago, on the El and in Jewel. I've said "good morning" or some type of friendly greeting and he shoots me these wildly bewildered and somehow angry looks. Who shit on your parade? Yeah. I know - the pidgeons.
It's just your run of the mill family-style import, really non-descript but he pays a lot of attention to it. I don't mean he keeps it sparkling clean and rubs it with a diaper, I mean he runs out many times, constantly checking the door handles and locks and I guess inspecting the paint job for bumper kisses. Um, if you locked it 2 hours ago, wouldn't it still be locked?
About a week ago I was washing my windows and I noticed him checking out his car. He's still neatly pressed from work and has his necktie fastened tight around his collar. He did his typical circle-about-the-car, inspected it as always, but then started to measure the space in steps. Like march out there 20 paces and draw, partner!
He went back and forth, methodically, counting steps from bumper to bumper. He got in his car, unfasted "The Club" and moved his car back about 3 inches, got out and measured again. Yeah, still seven paces. Wow. Dude. Get a hobby. Three whole inches... which is a lot if you're not a very well endowed man, but in a parking space? Puh-lease.
I've seen this guy around the neighborhood since I moved in years ago, on the El and in Jewel. I've said "good morning" or some type of friendly greeting and he shoots me these wildly bewildered and somehow angry looks. Who shit on your parade? Yeah. I know - the pidgeons.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Tank Johnson Stole My SIM Card
I had a dream. Tank Johnson stole my SIM card. And I needed to kick his ass.
It was the typical dream thing where you need to kick ass but you feel like jello and no matter how hard you punch, you're just not effective. Your voice won't rise above a hoarse whisper and no one seems to give a rusty rat's ass that you need help.
In my dream, I had parked my car on the beachside drive of my hometown for a party. I remember several people from both my present and past life being there and for some reason, when it was time to go, I had to catch a train to get back to my car.
My boss offered to drive me to the station, but she kept saying "My car is a two-seater." We got to the station and I boarded the train but the inside was a cabin of a plane. I remember stowing my bag in a compartment that had floaty toys for a swimming pool.
When we reached my station, I was somewhere on the southside near the airport. Quite a haul from where I left my car, but somehow I made it back.
My doors were open and two men were in my car, going through my glove compartment and taking my cellphone apart. It was Tank Johnson and his very short, skinny partner. I began to yell and swing at them, but given the size difference plus the jello-esque factor, I was not making an impact.
I was yelling for the sheriff who was stationed closeby, but he insisted he couldn't help me because he was on a break.
Tank and Shorty got out of the car and started to walk away. I jumped on Tank's back and was trying to claw him and kick - anything to get my stuff back. I ended up getting my phone back but the SIM card was gone and he just kept walking away and laughing.
I know of people who say they can control their actions in their dreams and defeat their dragons but I never somehow can. Any tips on how I can do this? I want a rematch. Tank, your ass is mine.
It was the typical dream thing where you need to kick ass but you feel like jello and no matter how hard you punch, you're just not effective. Your voice won't rise above a hoarse whisper and no one seems to give a rusty rat's ass that you need help.
In my dream, I had parked my car on the beachside drive of my hometown for a party. I remember several people from both my present and past life being there and for some reason, when it was time to go, I had to catch a train to get back to my car.
My boss offered to drive me to the station, but she kept saying "My car is a two-seater." We got to the station and I boarded the train but the inside was a cabin of a plane. I remember stowing my bag in a compartment that had floaty toys for a swimming pool.
When we reached my station, I was somewhere on the southside near the airport. Quite a haul from where I left my car, but somehow I made it back.
My doors were open and two men were in my car, going through my glove compartment and taking my cellphone apart. It was Tank Johnson and his very short, skinny partner. I began to yell and swing at them, but given the size difference plus the jello-esque factor, I was not making an impact.
I was yelling for the sheriff who was stationed closeby, but he insisted he couldn't help me because he was on a break.
Tank and Shorty got out of the car and started to walk away. I jumped on Tank's back and was trying to claw him and kick - anything to get my stuff back. I ended up getting my phone back but the SIM card was gone and he just kept walking away and laughing.
I know of people who say they can control their actions in their dreams and defeat their dragons but I never somehow can. Any tips on how I can do this? I want a rematch. Tank, your ass is mine.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
The Girl Treatment
This morning I set out to either buy a tire or patch the one that's slowly leaking, if it's not beyond salvation. Of course, when I walked out today, it was completely flat. Crap.
So...after many years of being lucky enough not to have to change a tire, I set out to take charge and get the job done. It's not hard, from what I remember.
Unless you can't get the bolt that cements your tire jack to the trunk to loosen.
I am not a weakling, but I had my entire weight behind this and I could not get that bolt to budge. I tried for about 15 minutes, scraped the hell out of my knuckles, which bled a nice shade a red, exactly matching the red and white outfit I had on.
Finally, a knight on a silver and black horse stopped and asked if I needed help. He freed the tire jack and even completed the tire changing process. Thank you, thank you so much!
It turns out he's a neighbor I've never met in all the years I've lived in this neighborhood. What a nice guy. I do plan to do something nice to say thank you, like bake cookies or send over a nice bottle of my favorite Spanish wine. Although, my pal Tuga says I should give him a hummer.
Had it been raining when the flat was changed, maybe.... no!!
So off I go to get the tire patched. A long, long time ago, a nail punctured my tire when I was driving on the always-under-construction expressway from hell, and the older gentleman at my neighborhood Shell station patched the tire quickly and not even for a second did he give me, what I like to call, The Girl Treatment.
When I pulled in, both car bays were occupied, so I pulled up along the side behind another car. The mechanic walks over and asks what I need, so I tell him I want my tire patched and proceed to get it out of the trunk.
Now the tire does have some wear on it, and within the next few weeks I do plan to buy a new set of tires. I just need a little fixit until then.
The mechanic and his boss, who looks tan rico with his cursive text neck tattoo, proceed to launch the "buy my $130 a piece tires or you'll die on the highway" speech. Hey, I completely agree with road safety and the upkeep of a car to protect myself and others on the road, but I'm already planning to buy a set from someone I know I can trust, so back off, Jack. Just fix the tire and don't give me The Girl Treatment.
The boss walks away and Rainman the mechanic looks at me and says, "Are you going to cry?" with so much disdain the words hanging in the bubble dripped like soaking wet laundry just out of a machine who's spin cycle was cut short.
"Do I look like I'm going to cry?" Let's not get into a pissing match, ok?
He proceeds to patch the tire and smugly asks, "Do you want me to put this back on the car?"
"That would be nice," I replied.
"Then bring the car up here, that would be nice," he sarcastically snorts.
You don't have to talk to me like that. Fix the damned tire and shuuuuuut up!!
I pay the bill and tell the boss at the register, that while I agree with his opinion about road safety, I find it offensive that he and his mechanic speak to their customers like that.
Jerky Station Boss: You ever been downtown?
So...after many years of being lucky enough not to have to change a tire, I set out to take charge and get the job done. It's not hard, from what I remember.
Unless you can't get the bolt that cements your tire jack to the trunk to loosen.
I am not a weakling, but I had my entire weight behind this and I could not get that bolt to budge. I tried for about 15 minutes, scraped the hell out of my knuckles, which bled a nice shade a red, exactly matching the red and white outfit I had on.
Finally, a knight on a silver and black horse stopped and asked if I needed help. He freed the tire jack and even completed the tire changing process. Thank you, thank you so much!
It turns out he's a neighbor I've never met in all the years I've lived in this neighborhood. What a nice guy. I do plan to do something nice to say thank you, like bake cookies or send over a nice bottle of my favorite Spanish wine. Although, my pal Tuga says I should give him a hummer.
Had it been raining when the flat was changed, maybe.... no!!
So off I go to get the tire patched. A long, long time ago, a nail punctured my tire when I was driving on the always-under-construction expressway from hell, and the older gentleman at my neighborhood Shell station patched the tire quickly and not even for a second did he give me, what I like to call, The Girl Treatment.
When I pulled in, both car bays were occupied, so I pulled up along the side behind another car. The mechanic walks over and asks what I need, so I tell him I want my tire patched and proceed to get it out of the trunk.
Now the tire does have some wear on it, and within the next few weeks I do plan to buy a new set of tires. I just need a little fixit until then.
The mechanic and his boss, who looks tan rico with his cursive text neck tattoo, proceed to launch the "buy my $130 a piece tires or you'll die on the highway" speech. Hey, I completely agree with road safety and the upkeep of a car to protect myself and others on the road, but I'm already planning to buy a set from someone I know I can trust, so back off, Jack. Just fix the tire and don't give me The Girl Treatment.
The boss walks away and Rainman the mechanic looks at me and says, "Are you going to cry?" with so much disdain the words hanging in the bubble dripped like soaking wet laundry just out of a machine who's spin cycle was cut short.
"Do I look like I'm going to cry?" Let's not get into a pissing match, ok?
He proceeds to patch the tire and smugly asks, "Do you want me to put this back on the car?"
"That would be nice," I replied.
"Then bring the car up here, that would be nice," he sarcastically snorts.
You don't have to talk to me like that. Fix the damned tire and shuuuuuut up!!
I pay the bill and tell the boss at the register, that while I agree with his opinion about road safety, I find it offensive that he and his mechanic speak to their customers like that.
Jerky Station Boss: You ever been downtown?
Me: Yeah. Have I been downtown? What the hell are you thinking?
Jerky Station Boss: You know about Ed Debevic's?
Me: Yeah. You've got to be kidding me.
Jerky Station Boss: You know how the waiters talk to the people? That's what we do here.
Me: People are prepared for that at Ed's. This is not Ed Debevic's. This is a gas station and you shouldn't talk to you customers like that.
Jerky Station Boss: Then maybe you shouldn't come here.
Me: Great. I'll remember that when I need to fill up the tank or I need my car serviced.
With that, I turned and walked out the door. What a fuckhead. He's ten kinds of asshole.
Ed Debevic's? What are you, 19? Obviously this guy's never been to a restaurant that doesn't serve dinner in a plastic basket.
I am never going back there, and I'm considering writing a complaint letter to the owner and the BBB.
After that I headed to the car wash down the road and the boys really took care of my atrociously dirty car. It sparkles!! See? Treat me nice and I'll be back.
I wrapped up the afternoon with a mango smoothie and a phone call to my pal Tuga, and of course, he laughed at my getting a dose of TGT. He's such a honass, but that is a story for another time.
Vannessaaa!!!
About two weeks ago I decided to go to bed early instead of staying up late, as is the norm. I was awakened by a man on his cellphone having a loud argument with his girlfriend outside my window. It was obvious he'd been drinking, as the words slurred together like vodka and slushy juice in a blender.
Mmmm. I could be thirsty. No. Close the ojos and stay in bed. For once.
He was asking his other half some hypothetical questions that must have related to earlier events in their day, such as, if they had an eight year old daughter, and if she played in dirt, would that be bad? Children do occasionally play in dirt, after all.
Jesus Christ. All the nights I'm up til whenever and it's lights out. Not even crickets chirping.
Apparently he didn't like the response because he began to raise his voice and throw in some peppered words. Their fight escalated for about 15 minutes before I had had enough.
Alright. That. is. it!
I got out of bed to yell, "shuuut up!!" Brooklyn style. I peered through the blinds just in time to hear the last "Fuck you!" and see him spike his cellphone into the sidewalk as if it was a football and he just scored the winning touchdown.
Then he turned around and raced into the courtyard, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Vannessa!"
How very Brando of you. Too bad her name isn't Stella.
A microsecond later I heard a thunderous punch and the shattering of glass.
Oh yeah, and more yelling.
I called 911 and so must have several of my neighbors. The police and an ambulance arrived in about two minutes. Not too shabby.
They led him out of the courtyard with his hand wrapped in a reddening towel and his girlfriend was apparently going to the hospital with him. I don't know how their story ends.
In the morning when I was leaving for work, I saw how bad he must have hurt himself. There's a blood trail from my door where he punched a hole (why'd you punch my door, you big jackasshole? I didn't start the fight) that ends in a huge red puddle at her door. My neighbor, Sadie Mae Horowitz, couldn't even walk out her front door without feeling nauseous.
Sadie, I still think we should've taped the outline of a body on the sidewalk.
Mmmm. I could be thirsty. No. Close the ojos and stay in bed. For once.
He was asking his other half some hypothetical questions that must have related to earlier events in their day, such as, if they had an eight year old daughter, and if she played in dirt, would that be bad? Children do occasionally play in dirt, after all.
Jesus Christ. All the nights I'm up til whenever and it's lights out. Not even crickets chirping.
Apparently he didn't like the response because he began to raise his voice and throw in some peppered words. Their fight escalated for about 15 minutes before I had had enough.
Alright. That. is. it!
I got out of bed to yell, "shuuut up!!" Brooklyn style. I peered through the blinds just in time to hear the last "Fuck you!" and see him spike his cellphone into the sidewalk as if it was a football and he just scored the winning touchdown.
Then he turned around and raced into the courtyard, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Vannessa!"
How very Brando of you. Too bad her name isn't Stella.
A microsecond later I heard a thunderous punch and the shattering of glass.
Oh yeah, and more yelling.
I called 911 and so must have several of my neighbors. The police and an ambulance arrived in about two minutes. Not too shabby.
They led him out of the courtyard with his hand wrapped in a reddening towel and his girlfriend was apparently going to the hospital with him. I don't know how their story ends.
In the morning when I was leaving for work, I saw how bad he must have hurt himself. There's a blood trail from my door where he punched a hole (why'd you punch my door, you big jackasshole? I didn't start the fight) that ends in a huge red puddle at her door. My neighbor, Sadie Mae Horowitz, couldn't even walk out her front door without feeling nauseous.
Sadie, I still think we should've taped the outline of a body on the sidewalk.
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