Dark Room of Doom

While updating the bulletin board in the driver break room, I just eavesdropped on a 20 minute long convo about “jungle juice" between the group of dreads at the table behind me. Apparently, it’s making a big comeback in the black community. I really wish it were the Rick James geri curl and the Jazzy J flattop that were making their comebacks instead. Now I’m back in my cubicle listening to Twitchy ask how to make a PowerPoint. You type words into the slides. They’re even labeled indicating what to type where. Title=title, And so forth. How did you manage to pass the 6^th the grade? I have the strong urge to whip out my BEDINTRUDER SOUNDBOARD app and hit him with the “YOU ARE SO DUMB” sound bite so Antoine Dodson can tell him how I really feel. It’s difficult but I’m fighting the urge and the imminent termination that would follow.

I decided the other day the Gold’s Gym is PRIME TIME people watching. I could treadmill it up all day just eyeballing crazies and making hasty judgments and assumptions about their lives. I mean you’ve got anything from the black dude that stills wears his Lebron James Cavs jersey even though he ripped off LBJ’s number and name off of it (clearly in a fit of rage during “The Decision”) to the 90 lb offspring of Richard Simmons and a Leprechaun that ellipticals for four hours then transitions to the stationary bike where he pedals at a velocity so violent that the floor shakes and his ginger perm blows delicately to and fro from the bursts of wind his speedy feet create.

But the Gold’s in Tally can be a dangerous place if you aren’t aware of Gold’s etiquette 101/ haven’t taken a Krav Maga self defense class. First off, if you’re planning on doing anything that involves bending over, don’t wear spandex. Leppy with the Perm violates this rule daily. Spandex are a magnet for old men that pretend they’re lifting those 5-lb weights and not trying to channel their inner X-Ray vision while staring at my ass. Yes, dirtballs, we see you congregating around the butt blaster machine, and I’m well aware you aren’t waiting to use it next. And you would think it would be the roided out meatheads that are peep-tomming behind the stairsteppers, but they’re too busy making gorilla noises on the bench press, ‘stealthily’ using the tanning beds (we see you) and snorting protein powder in the locker room to notice female presence. Yeah, you go ahead and establish dominance lifting massive dumbbells then go home and watch Sex in the City and blow dry your hair for Mandatory (no one is going to)Makeout(with you) Monday's. Personally, I’m more worried about the overweight old guy in the sweatpants and undershirt sweating profusely while doing nothing or the scrawny Mexican man in the wifebeater and Jynco jorts than the calfless juice machines. I always wonder if the aforementioned subjects are actually working toward a healthier lifestyle or if they just spend 30 bucks a month to creepily watch college chicks jog in sports bras and shorty shorts. Yeah, that’s a real brain buster.

Another thing that makes me nervous is why some dumbass building designer suggested the circuit room be completely dark with solely black lights illuminating the awful neon graffiti murals on the black walls. I understand you are easily amused by bright colors and shiny things, but I am a bit frightened that there is a large chocolate man living in the corner that periodically grabs women who become lost forever in the dark abyss. Kind of like the Bermuda Triangle without the water or ships or pirates… okay that was a terrible comparison. But my harmless ab routine could easily become the next FSU Crime Bulletin.

“Victim was unaware of suspect’s presence until she heard the sound of heavy breathing coming from the set of neon purple teeth floating behind her. No, it was not the Cheshire Cat on a sexual crime spree, some idiot put a pitch black hole of doom in a gym and invited young college girls to get sweaty in it. Suspect description: see previous Crime Bulletin emails.”

Solid interior design plan. Make a super dark room and put all the machines girls use in it. Safety first! 

My First (and LAST) Moon Mission

Yesterday at the Bus Depot we had a field trip. Unbeknownst to me, we were heading downtown to the “Challenger Learning Center” where they take mass crowds of screaming dirty mulch eaters to learn about space and shit... and then wreck the gift shop. My boss tells me we’re going to do a “team building” exercise with the planning department. a.k.a. the three other people in the cubicles around me that I ignore daily via headphones. SO FREAKING EXCITED.

By team building exercises, I’m picturing the scene from mean girls where the crowd of girls is supposed to catch each classmate as they fall backward from a step. Clearly in this scenario I’m the girl everyone moved out of the way for so her ass could eat some floor. But what we actually did was much, much worse. First, we got to eat. I like eating. Obviously this isn’t the terrible part. Before the meal, a woman comes in and introduces two asian men as “delegates from China here to sit in an American meeting” (speaking very slowly as if we were her first grade class). This isn’t the terrible part either. And what were my new Asian friends’ names? Not Yao or Wong or MeiMei. Nope, their names were Mike and Jason. Mike was the stereotypical tiny Asian man and Jason was created by the breeding of Sloth from the Goonies and an Asian woman with a Mr. Ed grill. Mike sits down next to me, introduces himself and tells me he likes sweet tea.

“in China I always like ahh hotta tea… but hea in Meryca.. I always like ahhh swit tea, swit tea!”

Then he took a photo of me with his Nikon. Then he took photos of every other person. Then he took a picture of Jason eating his sandwich. Then he took a picture of himself eating his sandwich. Then he walked out of the room. Then he took pictures with his iPhone. This continued throughout the entire meal.

 In the middle coneheading my wrap, a grown man and woman come in dressed like astronauts. The man stands in front of the room and speaks about some space shit. I am not listening to him because I am busy trying to decipher whether his horrible accent is Mexican with a lisp or Russian with a stutter. Regardless, the little fat astronaut was giving us directions about what we were going to have to do next. If I had paid attention at that time, I could’ve realized what I was getting myself into and faked an asthma attack.

The astronaut with the ponytail comes up to me and hands me what appears to be either a pair of blue footie pajamas or a prison uniform. I was hoping I would get to play astronauts and convicts or adult daycare and Twitchy could be the pedophile in the onesie while I pretend the video camera I’m holding isn’t going to be sent directly to producers at Dateline… but no dice. I looked around the room and discovered that while I was stuffing my face fulla turkey sammy, that AstroMex had placed cards at each table that read things like: medical, communication, navigation, engineering, etc. Mine read: ISOLATION. Fitting, although I was hoping to be at the PROBE station. Because, well, who doesn’t love a good probe? (insert winky face) I am instructed to put the NASA costume on and zip it up. I laugh. No one else does.

We put on the effing costumes and I think we’re at least going to ride like a space shuttle simulator or something. No, we’re going to pretend to be a space team and simulate our own moon mission. Okay… so does the ground at least shake? No. It doesn't. 

Were taken to a little room and they make me sit down on a stool and play with robotic arms. Not the worst thing in the world. Yeah, until RussiMexiFattykins comes over and shouts that I’m supposed to use the arms to pick up the metal plates in the corner and count the holes in them then write it all down. Each plate has what appears to be 3789467298472 holes in it. F THIS SHIT. I hate math. And counting. And the rash I’m getting from this stupid ass polyester suit that probably housed a naked fat man playing dress up before me wearing it.

A buzzer goes off and we are all told to get in a glass room together. I’m pressed up against the window so I don’t graze asses with Twitchy. Another buzzer. Now we each have to “duck and cover” under our stations because there’s a meteor shower. Twelve grown adults in the fetal position underneath tables meant for small children. COOL. In the end, the “team building” exercise built nothing but my hatred for space and my coworkers. And I used to want moon shoes. 

Raise Your Hand if You're an Idiot!

Today a dude deader than a clubbed baby seal named Jesus (Heysoos for you Spaniards) popped up in his cave grave and went high in the sky to that place where Morgan Freeman wore white linen suits in that Bruce Almighty movie. (Heaven, ya A-holes) ...so I went to the church for the first time in like a year. We went to a college oriented church that I had heard good things about. We were pleasantly surprised when they played Ke$ha, signaled the beginning of the service with a fist-pump worthy techno jam (courtesy of the in-house DEEJ at the back) and the pastor made fun of guys that shave their arms and discussed his Beyonce obsession. All-in-all the place was pretty sweet and I felt really comfortable and good about going. I even promised myself that I would try and go more this summer. And then, Christ Jesus, holy awkward situation batman. 

At the end of the service, the pastor tells the congregation to bow their heads, close their eyes and pray. He proceeds to speak very fast and then says: “okay in a moment I’m going to say 3-2-1 and then if” ..blah blah horse nebula blah blah… “you raise your hand.” He goes on to speak more about the reason for the hand raising but apparently I had already zoned out and heard: “WHEN I SAY 3-2-1 THE FIRST PERSON TO RAISE THEIR HAND GETS FREE PIZZA AND A CAMEL RIDE!” So I hear the count down and my hand shoots up faster than a family of heroin addicts at a pity party. I open my eyes and notice that myself and two other people are the only ones with our hands up. One of them is crying. The pastor is surveying the room and smiling ear-to-ear when he sees our hands and Princess Sniffles in front of me. 

I begin to sweat profusely as he proceeds to say that these people with their hands up have at this very moment accepted Christ into their lives as their savior and that this Easter will never be the same for any of them. And as if that wasn’t enough, he shouts that these people should take it a step further and find one of the church members wearing one of the (semi-obnoxious/semi I want one) “I <3 my church!” shirts and tell them that you’ve accepted Christ and want to take the next step. And then we could receive our free bible and a life of salvation. I lowered my hand and my eye begins to twitch as I wonder how I managed to have a monumental Jesus revelation on accident.  

We are seated in the back row and I turn around to see a group of blue “I <3 my church!” shirts all smiling back at me. Fuck. I turn to my friend next to me and tell her what I did. She begins laughing uncontrollably. No, I say. What. Do. I. DO. 


“Just tell them you didn’t mean to.”

Oh yeah. SORRY, I didn’t actually mean to accept Christ's love and salvation into my life. I thought you were giving away free TCBY gift cards and all the shouting made me trigger-happy. I knew it was one of those churches where the pastor and every other staff member lines the exits and shakes your hand with brute force while smiling uncontrollably at the happiness of life as you exit and begin sinning in the parking lot. As the band plays the last song I begin to eyeball all of the exits. No dice. One way in, one way out. Thankfully, it being Easter Sunday, there were like 1500 people in pastel gunning towards the lobby to sprint home before the oven turns their Easter ham into a giant bacon bit. So I ducked and covered and made it out alive without having to either lie about my salvation epiphany or just be honest and tell them I have a serious case of alcohol induced Parkinsons’ disease. But I did find time in my Alcatraz escape to make a pit stop at the free t-shirt station. Apparently no one had to raise their hand for those. Maybe I should’ve taken two. 

WHERES DA BABY

Newsflash: if you're a pedophile/ thief posing as a pool man make sure that the neighborhood you are lurking in actually has a pool. What is it about creepy Hispanic men in white vans that makes my skin crawl? I mean, there's a good chance he's just an undocumented worker on his lunch break, but then again he could have an entire preschool hogtied in the back of that van. See I think of these things. Probably why I asked for a tazer for high school graduation. But once again my mom only hears what she wants to hear and I got a microwave and some stationary that I did nothing with other than doodle frogs on. I'm just hoping not to burn a hole in my grad gown this year. 

Evidently I’m the only asshole that wasn’t aware of the fact that graduation gowns are composed of like 75% plastic and tried to iron it. Midway through mom comes in yelling “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WE HAVE A STEAMER!” Too late. Bahaha good thing I could care less if anything I wear is wrinkled, stained, riddled with holes, especially some hideous shiny yellow moo-moo that made me look like Big Bird’s Grandma. It doesn’t matter anyway considering Mom straps that giant effing lens to her camera and refuses to take photographs other than intense close ups of my face. So I’m thinking we just recycle the pics from my high school graduation and call it a day. Helicopter mom probably wont go for that thouhg. She’s called me five times this week asking for me to send pictures of my friends and a list of my favorite songs to her ASAP. I get it—you’re making a “surprise” slideshow of my life thus far. It would probably be more of a surprise if she hadn’t also done it for my middle school and high school graduations and forces friends and family to awkwardly sit through it while she commentates/intermittently bursts out in tears.

Looking forward to that again. At least I’m not being forced to have a graduation party. It freaks me out that when my youngest brother graduates college I’ll be 36. I still remember when he was a little tot with a Spanish accent. His nanny was a Colombian lady named Carmen who spoke zero English and had a daughter that so closely resembled Dora the Explorer that her little cartoon face haunted my dreams. Not to mention she had the voice of a Colombian drug trafficker. She would run into the house—her lovely bowl cut blowing in the wind—skip up to me, lowering her eyes and ask (in a voice too deep for a child let alone the Scream guy):

“WHERE’S DA BABY?”

I mean she didn’t know English so it probably came out a little differently than if she had, but at the same time, I was a little terrified to let her near my infant brother for fear that she would devour him on one of her cartoon adventures with that weird monkey. Thankfully, she never did. I sometimes wonder if today she looks like a middle school version of Dora. I sure hope so. Thinking about my brother as an infant with an inexplicable Spanish accent makes me wish I had a time machine. He’s still cute but now he can talk and that changes things. Other than his douche-in-training friend that told me I look like the dinosaur from Land Before Time and the fact that Matthew tells me daily that my voice sounds like a boy’s, he’s still a pretty cute kid. I do like the little shit’s honesty. I’m aware I have a very long neck and a man voice, but then again you pick your nose and eat it and your voice doubles as a dog whistle. So we’re even.

I was good at being a kid. I’m still good at it. But I’m beginning to fear I may suck as an adult. It occurred to me when I received my Easter basket from my stepmom and looked through it that other people may think the same. What 22 year old would be thrilled to obtain an egg that you put in water and it grows into a creepy rubber chicken? This guy. And it probably doesn’t help that in an actual internship interview this past year, one woman asked me to tell them something surprising about myself… that most people wouldn’t know. Clearly I thought deeply about the question before blurting out this moronic answer:

“Whenever I go into stores I always have to go down the toy aisle!”

Good one dipshit. Maybe that answer would’ve worked if I were applying to be the WalMart greeter or going door-to-door selling kindermats. Sometimes I wonder why I speak at all. Well I should probably get started on the three papers I have due this week.  

AND YOU KNOW THIS...MAAANNNN

There should be a rule against whistling in the work place. I know Snow White’s dwarves have another take on the matter, but they clearly weren’t sharing a cubicle with a boy-shaped canary. I’m not sure if he’s shooting me a mating call or doing research for a role in the remake of Hitchcock’s film about a bird-driven apocalypse. Regardless, it’s irritating and I wish I could channel my inner Hulk strength to crush his windpipe. Okay, that may be a bit drastic. He’s a nice kid. And considering he weighs less than an empty Styrofoam cooler, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He just pulled trail mix out of his backpack. I always wondered what that thing stored. Apparently it’s snacks. Next time he goes to the bathroom I’m diving face first into that bag of trail mix. There should also be a rule that says if you’re going to continue whistling you have to share your snacks with my bleeding ears and hungry tummy.

Sadly, my lesbian coworker has found employment elsewhere and I really can’t blame the broad. Maybe all of her dreams have come true and Dockers finally called her up asking her to be the spokesmodel for their new line of stain-proof khaki work pants. On the upside, her replacement is an awesome black lady. And since the other cool black ladies don’t want to be my friends, I’m going to make her love me. She’s like Martin Lawrence trapped in Precious’s body—and I dig it. Yesterday, I even took my headphones out to chat with her. Other than myself, she’s the only human in this office I would choose not to hog tie and hang over a spitfire.

Sometimes I wish I were black. Actually, make that way more often than I should. I know that’s not a fair wish because I’ve never experienced the prejudices against minority races, but at the same time they always look like they’re having SO MUCH FUN doing nothing at all. It's like a secret society of killer dance moves. You never see a group of whiteys standing outside a gas station and dancing and carrying on for hours at a time. No, we go to the gas station for gas, maybe some snacks… but never dancing. And that’s probably why my go-to move is the robot... I haven’t had the same practice that I would if I were black-- and my gangly appendages may need some WD40. I’m not throwing all black people into one category because that would be irresponsible. The mean lady down the hall with the beehive weave wouldn’t be caught dead dougie-ing at a gas station. I think this black people obsession stems from my mom’s affinity for black music and culture. I’m pretty sure I was conceived to KC and the Sunshine Band or Marvin Gaye. I remember Montell Jordan bumpin through the house and the whole family dancing while dad was at work. My dad doesn’t dance. He wears 80s style white jeans and tucks his NASCAR t-shirts into jorts. Mom belongs in Compton and Dad belongs in Dothan, Alabama. Not surprised that marriage didn’t last. That’s like mating a chinchilla with a greyhound.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately—considerably more than the fact that I’m jobless and graduating in less than three weeks. I’m glad I’ve got my priorities straight. I watched the movie Friday the other night. And, no, not that brainless twat Rebecca Black’s idiotic excuse for a music video—the classic cinematic genius starring Ice Cube. For those of you who don’t watch black movies, I suggest you start. From what I’ve observed as an outsider, black people are no-nonsense individuals. You can be a gangbanger from the Bronx but when you visit your momma’s house you wear a tie and bring a casserole or you get an ass whoopin’. In my next life I’d like to be a big black woman like Madea from the Tyler Perry movies. I think I’d be a pretty good addition to the black community. I can rap, I’m honest to a fault, I love neon high tops and I consider basketball to be the best sport ever invented. Not to mention I make a mean mac-n-cheese and the only other continent I’ve been to is Africa. Then again maybe I need to focus on more realistic aspirations… or just pull a reverse Michael Jackson on everyone's ass. 

Take Your Paycheck and Shove It

Yesterday, I went on my first set of interviews for “real-life” jobs and I emerged with a new hatred for the corporate world, business suits and hair gel. I couldn’t be more wrong for the jobs I interviewed for. The first interview lasted a total of ten minutes and ended with the woman telling me she needed someone now, not in May when I graduate. Well broad, when you looked over my resume and saw that my graduation date was May 2011, did it not occur to you that maybe I wouldn’t enjoy driving 4 hours to Tampa to sit in your ugly office for 5 minutes so you can tell me you need someone now. I should’ve junk punched you in your unfortunate looking grill. My next interview was even more frustrating. In their defense, I did apply for a position in the sales industry—an industry filled with money hungry grease balls on power trips. But my friends were applying, it’s in Tampa and I figured they would hire me.

Before the interview, the hiring manager in Atlanta called and gave me some last minute advice. His advice? Energy. His solution for getting energized? “Go to the nearest gas station, grab like 3 Red Bulls and chug them in the parking lot.” Don’t worry dude, I got it covered. I scored some meth downtown before coming. I’ll walk in there with more energy than a kindergarten class snorting Pixie Sticks. He then describes the type of energy I need to have as “the energy like in sorority rush. You know, the fake energy!” Fake energy? Well is this a fake job? Am I going to walk in and sitting at every desk is a blow up doll with his/her hands strategically positioned on a computer keyboard? Should I walk in shouting “PEEL BANANA, PEEL, PEEL BANANA” and start spraying bystanders with a squirt gun labeled “HAPPY SQUIRTS!” In the end, I declined to shotgun any battery acid and just decided to put on the best cracked out cheerleader performance since Kirsten Dunst in Bring it On.

I walked in and was directed to a small conference room where I waited for a few minutes. The hiring manager asked for my resume and began to look it over. The first thing he noticed? Not my three internships or my achievements in my chosen field. Nope. He first notices the fact that it reads “Zeta Tau Alpha Sorority” on the bottom of the page. Anyone that knows me knows I dropped Zeta my Freshman year because 1. it was too expensive and 2. I am the exact opposite of a sorority girl. Yes, I still go around Zeta and have friends in Zeta, but I am far from involved. But you should’ve seen his face when he read that… you would’ve thought it said I had a novel on the New York Times Best Seller’s list. But I nodded and smiled like a cheerleader with a concussion. We talk for awhile. He seems nice and is an FSU alum. Then he mentions that he and his wife sometimes playfully argue about a class at FSU that she aced and he got a C in. Playful banter. Until he states his rebuttal: “And then I’m like yeah you got an A but you’re a teacher making 31,000 while I’m a successful businessman.” If I were your wife at that point, I would tie a chum bag to your feet and throw you into a pool filled with man-eating sharks. Yeah you make money while your wife goes to work every day and molds the minds of our nation’s future leaders. Jackhole.

The next guy was a real treat. He looks like a 12-year old used car salesman wearing blush and smells like an Axe factory. Much like the other chap, he fails to recognize any noteworthy accomplishments on my resume. Instead, he asks me about the current bar scene at FSU, because he too is an alum. I describe some popular spots and he describes company life for employees in one sentence: “we all like to party.” Well you guido wanna-be with the inability to grow facial hair, I wasn’t aware I was applying to be a bartender. He asks if I have any questions for him. I ask what part of this brainbusting job surprised him most. He leans back in his chair and folds his hands like a skeezy defense attorney about to tell his client he just got him off for murder and gives me the most passionate and meaningful answer I could’ve ever imagined: “How much money I could make.”

I really hope he wallpapers his bathroom with the dollar bills he makes from being a complete toolbox all day every day. I’d rather work at McDonalds as the designated toilet scrubber than ever work for that man. Actually, I’d rather beg outside McDonalds with the dirtiest bum in all of Frenchtown than work for that man. Some people may be able to sell their soul to the corporate devil, but I definitely can’t. I hate the real world and I hate that I will be a part of it in three weeks. 

Push Pops... TO THE FACE!

I’m beginning to wonder if this whole job thing is as overrated as it seems. I’d much rather spend my days hanging upside down on the monkey bars eating popsicles and wiping snot on my shirtsleeves (mom always hated that). I don’t even care if I’m the sweatiest, dirtiest, most disgusting recesser on the block—complete with a fruit punch stache and mulch permanently adhered to my shoelaces. I would take my homemade cape and scepter and stand atop the jungle gym like Dumbledore. If any of my playground minions step out of line, I will promptly punish them with a hose shower out back. Kids hate showers more than they hate vegetables. I should know because I still hate showering but I’ll eat lima beans any day of the week.

My Peter Pan complex gets a little worse every day. Actually, it’s becoming less of a complex and more of a reality-crippling ailment. I would much rather color and finger paint all day than write press releases and create marketing plans. Actually, I’d rather stick crayons up my nose and finger paint in my eyes. I’ve sat at a desk for the past 17+ years of my life, why would I want to spend the next 40 at one?  Not to mention I think staring at a computer screen has given me a lazy eye, so marrying for money is going to be out of the question once the Cyclops look ensues.

Some people are perfectly happy sitting at a desk all day staring into space and wondering what fascinating topics they can conjure up to discuss at the office Christmas party. Frankly, I’d imagine my role at the office Christmas party as being the drunken Santa Clause going around, kicking people in the shins and dispersing dreidels and other religious holiday-inappropriate gifts. I would be exponentially happier creating chaos within the workplace than controlling it. I sound a little like a sociopath version of Michael Scott, but I’m okay with that.

Parked in the Employee parking lot today is a pink ice cream truck. I’d like to know which MacGyver bus driver moonlights as an ice cream man (a.k.a. Dreamweaver) and how I can be a part of this lucrative business. I’m going to print out my resume and tape it to the windshield after work… along with a picture of me dressed in full ice cream woman uniform. I imagine a large black man idling the ice cream truck through Frenchtown playing “Do Your Ears Hang Low” while I stand on the roof making it rain with Push-Pops, Chocolate Éclairs, Spongebob Pops and skittles—just because I’ve always wanted it to actually rain skittles. I wouldn’t give two shits if I wasn’t paid for the products, the mere joy of seeing small African American kids catching packaged ice cream treats in their mouths would be enough. Hopefully DJ Ice-ee agrees with my business practices. If not, I’ll have friends in Frenchtown by then that can take care of him. 

Bum Depot

This past weekend I decided that homeless crazies are geographically dispersed in a surprisingly methodical and organized way. I’m not sure if the nation’s city planners got together and played a few games of poker and instead of chips, they threw a bunch of insane bums in the middle and winner gets all. I’m guessing the people with the worst poker faces have the best advantage in this case. Regardless, the urine smelling nutbags seem to all congregate in the same concentrated area, so I figured there has to be a method to keep all the crazy contained in specific areas.

I’m not sure why I’m so fascinated by the homeless community. I always wonder if they misplace their marbles before or after life on da streetz. I mean I know plenty of crazy people that have nice homes and no holes in their socks. Case and point: my late grandmother that drove on sidewalks and gave biker gangs the finger, God rest her soul. My favorite part of going to big cities is the crazy bum watching. It’s similar to people watching with an element of risk. People watching is usually a spectator sport, however, crazy bum watching is similar to killer whale watching. Yes, usually the whales are far off in the distance swallowing sea kelp, but there’s always that chance that one will mistake a ferry full of Asian tourists for sea lions with camcorders.