He was convinced my name is Roy. My name is not Roy. It was his 21st birthday. The breaker-inner's, not Roy's.
I've been fortunate never to have had my home broken into. When I was a senior some guy came up to my apartment thinking Carlos lived there. There was no one named Carlos in the house, but that's alright I guess.
I broke into someone's house my junior year of high school in order to watch Pink Flamingos. No one wanted their parents to know they were watching the movie so we broke into our friend's place because his parents were out of town. He wasn't home either. When he came home he rushed downstairs to find us watching chickens being fucked.
My girlfriend had her home broken into when she lived on the Reservation. This was before I lived with her. They threw her bras around the bed and wrote gang symbols on her walls and stole all the batteries and battery chargers from the house. That battery schtick is from a Dane Cook routine. I want to write Dane Cook a letter letting him know that he has fans on the Rosebud Rez. I wonder if he will be happy to know that.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The cows got out
After not even being there for five minutes, my grandpa's cows somehow ended up in the soybean field. From there they got into the corn. I've never had to chase cows before, let alone out of a cornfield in October when the corn is at full height. You can't see the cows in the field but they're all trampling over the corn and it sounds like a waterfall. So you go into the cornfield, trying to find where the waterfall is, and then you turn around and the cow is there.
Cows are massive fucking animals, but all you need to do is make yourself big and shout "HEY" and they spit out what they're chewing and run. If you tried to pull that crap on a pig the pig would be all "what the fuck" and then charge at you. Pigs are not that fucking dumb.
After the cows got back in we ate pizza.
Five years ago I spent the night at grandpas. I woke up to a shadow moving across my wall. It was early in the morning. I opened the shades and there was a llama looking at me. A fucking llama. I opened the door and Grandpa's wife was there. She told me they had a llama - its name was Tony and he was a sheep-guarding llama. I just went back to sleep at that point. Then I was woken up to shouting - grandpa's wife was shouting something about the bulls fighting. I went down to the kitchen and I saw that Grandpa, who is 73, was running full sprint towards the sink. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a bullwhip. Why my grandpa kept a bullwhip underneath the sink I will never know. Then he ran outside, jumped over the fence into the pasture, and started whipping two bulls. My Dad, my little brother and I watched grandpa, who is 73 and about 5'6'', whip the fucking shit out of two bulls. We looked at each other and decided it was time to leave.
Cows are massive fucking animals, but all you need to do is make yourself big and shout "HEY" and they spit out what they're chewing and run. If you tried to pull that crap on a pig the pig would be all "what the fuck" and then charge at you. Pigs are not that fucking dumb.
After the cows got back in we ate pizza.
Five years ago I spent the night at grandpas. I woke up to a shadow moving across my wall. It was early in the morning. I opened the shades and there was a llama looking at me. A fucking llama. I opened the door and Grandpa's wife was there. She told me they had a llama - its name was Tony and he was a sheep-guarding llama. I just went back to sleep at that point. Then I was woken up to shouting - grandpa's wife was shouting something about the bulls fighting. I went down to the kitchen and I saw that Grandpa, who is 73, was running full sprint towards the sink. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a bullwhip. Why my grandpa kept a bullwhip underneath the sink I will never know. Then he ran outside, jumped over the fence into the pasture, and started whipping two bulls. My Dad, my little brother and I watched grandpa, who is 73 and about 5'6'', whip the fucking shit out of two bulls. We looked at each other and decided it was time to leave.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
"Do you have any oil balls?"
On Sunday night someone tried to sell me a washing machine. The line was about 4 people deep and he announced to everyone that he had a washing machine. Then later he tried to sell me an aquarium. He was wearing a slipknot shirt and a starter jacket. T
A coworker of mine from Fairfield (which is a story in of itself) told me that a lot of the houses in the countryside around him are routinely robbed of copper. Give some methheads two hours and there won't be a single copper penny left in the joint - they'll even neglect to rob cash and jewels like traditional burglars. No, only copper. The same coworker from Fairfield had a friend who built a life-size, fully-operational Roman ballista for a 4-H project.
Sometime a few years back someone came into the wine department asking if we sold any "oil balls." When asked what that was, he said that "it was like an oil pipe, except it was a ball."
People sometimes slam a thirty pack of Lacrosse Light onto the counter, and then immediately say "I'M SO EMBARRASSED TO BUY THIS," or, "I SWEAR IT'S NOT FOR ME," or "DON'T JUDGE ME." No, there is no reason to be embarrassed. You are buying beer. We work in a liquor store and are not judging you. We will judge you when you ask to buy an "oil ball;" we will judge you when you come into the store scratching your arm asking if we sell cigars in glass tubes; we will judge you when you defecate in front of a steak display; we will judge you if you get a blowjob on a dirty used kig sitting the alley; we will judge you if you pee on the dumbwaiter; we will judge you if you bleed hepatitis-c tainted blood onto a bag of potato chips, but we will not judge you for liking Lacrosse Light. Seriously dude, you're cool. Have a great evening bro.
A coworker of mine from Fairfield (which is a story in of itself) told me that a lot of the houses in the countryside around him are routinely robbed of copper. Give some methheads two hours and there won't be a single copper penny left in the joint - they'll even neglect to rob cash and jewels like traditional burglars. No, only copper. The same coworker from Fairfield had a friend who built a life-size, fully-operational Roman ballista for a 4-H project.
Sometime a few years back someone came into the wine department asking if we sold any "oil balls." When asked what that was, he said that "it was like an oil pipe, except it was a ball."
People sometimes slam a thirty pack of Lacrosse Light onto the counter, and then immediately say "I'M SO EMBARRASSED TO BUY THIS," or, "I SWEAR IT'S NOT FOR ME," or "DON'T JUDGE ME." No, there is no reason to be embarrassed. You are buying beer. We work in a liquor store and are not judging you. We will judge you when you ask to buy an "oil ball;" we will judge you when you come into the store scratching your arm asking if we sell cigars in glass tubes; we will judge you when you defecate in front of a steak display; we will judge you if you get a blowjob on a dirty used kig sitting the alley; we will judge you if you pee on the dumbwaiter; we will judge you if you bleed hepatitis-c tainted blood onto a bag of potato chips, but we will not judge you for liking Lacrosse Light. Seriously dude, you're cool. Have a great evening bro.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The doctors'
The doctor's office was in a postwar brick turd on the corner of Jefferson and Governor. They were called "Medical Associates" and were wholly friendly and midwestern and the receptionist talked like Sarah Palin. I went home sick today for the first time in about two years.
I haven't been to a doctor's office for a long time because I haven't had insurance for a long time. Or rather I did have insurance, but it was Aetna, so in other words I had no health insurance since Aetna doesn't cover shit in Iowa. I would need to drive to Ohio in order to see a physician.
The last time I had extended run-ins with doctors was during my hernia surgery period of 2002. I like to refer to it as a "phase." The hernia phase. About a week after surgery I went the doctor's office. The stitches on the wound had dissolved, but the surgeon needed to check on the wound, which at this point was swollen and oozing brown stuff. It was covered by a transparent adhesive bandage. When I walked into the office the doctor told me to drop my pants and remove the bandage. I was peeling it off slowly. He got impatient, slapped my hand away, and ripped it off. RRRRIIIPPP. The wound swelled more. Than he shoved a large syringe into the wound, and extracted about a half cup of brown ooze from my surgery scar. From the table he shot the syringe's brown contents about 6 feet away, straight into the sink like a stream of brown viscous urine. The whole time he was yelling "looks like we struck gold." Apparently it's normal to swell up with brown stuff after a hernia operation. I also had an oxycontin prescription.
I haven't been to a doctor's office for a long time because I haven't had insurance for a long time. Or rather I did have insurance, but it was Aetna, so in other words I had no health insurance since Aetna doesn't cover shit in Iowa. I would need to drive to Ohio in order to see a physician.
The last time I had extended run-ins with doctors was during my hernia surgery period of 2002. I like to refer to it as a "phase." The hernia phase. About a week after surgery I went the doctor's office. The stitches on the wound had dissolved, but the surgeon needed to check on the wound, which at this point was swollen and oozing brown stuff. It was covered by a transparent adhesive bandage. When I walked into the office the doctor told me to drop my pants and remove the bandage. I was peeling it off slowly. He got impatient, slapped my hand away, and ripped it off. RRRRIIIPPP. The wound swelled more. Than he shoved a large syringe into the wound, and extracted about a half cup of brown ooze from my surgery scar. From the table he shot the syringe's brown contents about 6 feet away, straight into the sink like a stream of brown viscous urine. The whole time he was yelling "looks like we struck gold." Apparently it's normal to swell up with brown stuff after a hernia operation. I also had an oxycontin prescription.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
GET OUT THE WAY LET CASPER DRIVE
I need to share this. You notice at the 1 minute mark there is a fire in the background from which the hummer is driving away.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Here's how I plan to prepare for the 2nd Holocaust
I plan to pose as a trappist monk. And then I will shoot wolves from an airplane. I will be a monk who shoots wolves from an airplane and I will skin those wolves and sell them to other wolf-hunters.
When I was living in South Dakota, working at the paper, these guys came into the office looking for plat maps. Their RV, which they parked in front of the office, was almost as long as a city block and blocked any sun from getting into the office. They had thick southern accents. "We wonna hunt some prairie dawgs," they said. And they were wearing head-to-toe forest camo, which is weird because 1) South Dakota isn't forested, and 2) they are hunting fucking prairie dogs. Prairie dawgs. It's glorified target practice. Those little fuckers are teeming with weird ass viruses, so you can't eat the meat (all the 1/2 pound of it), or even touch the fur, and if you do you will vomit so hard your asshole will shoot out your mouth. You can hunt prairie dogs from your front porch in SoDak. Prairie Dog hunting makes farting look like a sport. Even after I showed these hunters that we had no plat maps which denoted prairie-dog-hunting safe grounds, they lingered. They had hunted for years here. "We been coming to South Dakota all these years to shoot prairie dawgs," they told me. They recalled their favorite times of shooting, which I can't recall the specifics of, because I was waiting to leave so I could get some damn natural light back in the office.
Sometimes I think this country deserves a President McCain.
When I was living in South Dakota, working at the paper, these guys came into the office looking for plat maps. Their RV, which they parked in front of the office, was almost as long as a city block and blocked any sun from getting into the office. They had thick southern accents. "We wonna hunt some prairie dawgs," they said. And they were wearing head-to-toe forest camo, which is weird because 1) South Dakota isn't forested, and 2) they are hunting fucking prairie dogs. Prairie dawgs. It's glorified target practice. Those little fuckers are teeming with weird ass viruses, so you can't eat the meat (all the 1/2 pound of it), or even touch the fur, and if you do you will vomit so hard your asshole will shoot out your mouth. You can hunt prairie dogs from your front porch in SoDak. Prairie Dog hunting makes farting look like a sport. Even after I showed these hunters that we had no plat maps which denoted prairie-dog-hunting safe grounds, they lingered. They had hunted for years here. "We been coming to South Dakota all these years to shoot prairie dawgs," they told me. They recalled their favorite times of shooting, which I can't recall the specifics of, because I was waiting to leave so I could get some damn natural light back in the office.
Sometimes I think this country deserves a President McCain.
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