Everybody Poop
The biggest improvement to the new Condomania HQ is the addition of a second bathroom on the other side of the building. A small leak in the basin created a cesspool in the expanded office, causing the entire shipping department to smell like dead fish. While I’m fortunate enough to have a suite on the corporate side, this means everyone is forced to use the facilities located in my division. After some questionable Chinese food for lunch, a line soon formed.
"They totally need to fix the bathroom in the slave quarters." I said to Ernie in disgust. "Everybody’s taken a dump in this one already."
"Oh, I know. I did."
"Me too."
The toilet is officially on lockdown for the remainder of the day. Since I really have to wee, this means I get to leave early and go back to the apartment so I can use my own potty. Hopefully I won’t soil myself on the way home.
Genius
I’ve been meaning to bring mini along with me in the morning so I can take a picture of the large blinking sign hanging over the south lane of Venice Blvd. that reads, "Watch the Road."
There’s no end to the advances of technology. Thank G-d for the brilliant safety committee that came up with this stellar idea. I hope our tax dollars paid them a huge salary; supremely intelligent displays of such forward thinking are difficult to find in the public sector these days. This could really help people, if only there were millions of signs like this littered across the entire United States. It could mean the end of traffic accidents altogether.
I would suggest a slight alteration to the sign, though. I think they should use an aggressive Vegas style campaign that forces attention to its message. Something like: Careful!—Warning!—Beware!—Hey, you!—Yes, you! You really shouldn’t be paying attention to this giant flashing sign, you know. Taking your eyes off the road for just a few seconds can cause an accident
For more information, please visit our website at
www.WatchTheRoadInsteadOfReadingThisStupidSign.org
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Random question from Quizzla...
Is it better to be:
A) Smart & Ugly
or
B) Beautiful & Stupid
A. You can get a makeover, but you can’t fix stupid. If you're C. Smart & beautiful, you always have the right answer. Even in those circumstances when there isn't one. There are natural advantages being attractive provides any species. Intelligence, however, almost always seems to win out in the end.
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Car Hit House
This morning I was a little late to the office because some idiot ran his car into a house. Of course I discovered this just after I’d turned down one of the secret little side streets I take into Hollywood, a moment too late to change direction and use an alternate route. Now, I can understand hitting a telephone pole; but jumping the curb, flying past the sidewalk, skittering up a small flight of stairs, and crashing through the porch and into the living room is taking things too far in my book. That moron should never be allowed behind the wheel of a car again.
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Porn of the day. No, it's not me...and no, I've never tried to tie my dick in a knot.
Now I want a pretzel for lunch.
Too cute for that.
I saw a really hot homeless guy on the street today. He had a beautiful olive complexion, flawless skin, and gray eyes with messy sandy blond hair. Although he didn’t ask for anything, he effortlessly caught my attention with those steel eyes. Way too cute to be homeless, I thought, as I pictured taking him home and popping him in the shower. I’d get it on with a transient, but he’d have to wash first.
Then I thought, man, that’s really mean. Even for me. Still, I don’t do dirty. Showers are mandatory.
lost/found
I lost my keys and found them in my pocket half an hour later.
Don’t challenge me.
I don’t pretend to be butch or act straight. Even the ever-present gay term “straight acting” implies that one is conducting themselves in an intentionally false manner. Like it or not, I don’t front who I am. I'm real, like Jenny from the block.
This doesn’t mean I’m a screaming queen [except when I’m screaming], a sissy boy, or that I can’t shoot a gun or play sports. When an ex-boytoy once challenged me on this point, the only thing I could do to prove myself without question was to pick up a round candle and toss it at him. Turns out he couldn’t catch, and the candle hit him smack between the eyes, knocking him off his feet. I laughed so hard I almost pissed myself. Then I dumped him.
The timing seemed right. He was in too much pain to get emotional. These days when I’m about to break-up with someone, I incorporate this tactic and slap them across the face before dropping the bomb. It’s effective, and they don’t call back.
Good things come to those who hide alcohol in their trunk.
Discovering a liter of Stoli in the trunk of your car is almost as good as finding money tucked away in a pants pocket. Actually it’s better, because then you don’t even have to go to the store. Except to buy mixer, if you bother with that sort of thing.
I was going to congratulate myself for not buying a pack of cigarettes all week, but then I realized it was only Tuesday. While I’m certain that I’ll bitch and moan every step of the way, I will not take a pill, slap on a patch, or chew asphalt flavored gum in an attempt to replace willpower. I will, however, steal cigarettes from co-workers and strangers in clubs until I get sick of other people controlling my nicotine intake and completely abstain from all tobacco products purely out of spite.
Cat Dusting
Even though kitty reigns over her kingdom from the comfort of the couch, fleas are an unfortunate reality for her majesty. Poor kitty. I humbly suggest she shouldn't venture out onto the balcony, but cats that follow human commands are dogs.
I made a tactical error this morning when setting off several bug bombs around the apartment and barely escaped with limited lung capacity. I almost fell over dead. Instead, I just fell over from the fumes and crawled to the door. Survival training as a child has really paid off. I may continue to sustain mild injuries from sheer stupidity, but at least I’ll never be a recipient of a Darwin Award.
Three years ago, friends were flying from New York to Los Angeles when hijackers took over the plane and crashed it into the World Trade Center. They were intending to visit family and friends to formally announce wedding plans. Their unborn child died with them that day.
Still reeling from that one. We all are in some way, and it’s far from over. Life in the US continues to exist under the shadow of history.
What will we make of our future?
ps - It's difficult to type with a bandage on the index finger.
Word of advise to anyone thinking about sticking their hand in a copy machine: Don't do it. Bad things happen.
Meltdown
The circuitry in my brain has melted. Take, for example, the following examples.
...Actually allowed some whiny crybaby to call me back [I’d hung up on him] and tell me I was rude, after he’d insisted for personal information about a former associate. I didn’t even tell him to fuck off as he hung up the phone after telling me off.
...Later, I stuck my finger in a jammed copy machine. The smell of burning flesh alerted me to danger. Now my left index finger is swollen, red, and blistered.
Meanwhile, I’m going to have to quit smoking [again] because I’m running out of SPF 50 to cover any exposed skin when I slip outside for a cigarette break. I’d save a ton of money by not buying either and ordering lunch in.
Heat Wave
It’s so damn hot I can’t even think without sweating. There’s a small pool of excreted moisture in the heel of my Kennith Cole sandals. I guess that’s what I get for living in a concrete oasis.
It’s supposed to be in the mid-to-high 90s all week. Scorch marks on the pavement indicate that any foolish pedestrians have spontaneously combusted. Another reason nobody walks in LA.
Find the nearest emergency exit.
As previously stated, I found myself sitting next to a nasty old man on the flight home from Vegas. I don’t mean to discriminate, being old does not make one a nasty old man. Greasy hair, pasty white arm blubber, shifty eyes, shallow breath, square gold framed glasses; these are the traits of a dirty perv. I don’t make the rules, it’s an unspoken code of conduct passed down from previous generations of perverted dirty old men.
Honestly, I’m fine with it. Be a perv. There’s a market for it. Live your life be free, but do it on your own time. Not when you’re crushed up against an unwilling participant in public transport. That would be me, the six-foot tall white boy with the thirty-inch waist. Oh, I know how they see me, but that's not what they're getting.
Everyone knows the seats are small, and we’re all used to brushing against our fellow passengers. This was not that. Even before we took off, the NOP [Nasty Old Perv] had made permanent leg contact at the thigh while holding position on the armrest. Least I move in his side and we’d not only be touching, but I’d be rubbing up against him.
Call me a crybaby, "Oh, wah, some gross old man touched me." Maybe this post will evoke another self-righteous idiot to send me a rabid email. In that case, consider this a pre-emptive "I couldn’t fucking care less about some idiot’s opinion but will rip said letter to shreds anyway" clause. I have some control issues that are brought on by deep-rooted emotional scars. On top of all that, being a prettyboy doesn’t mean I have to put up with stupid bullshit from nasty old men. I’ve learned to graciously turn even the most overbearing and touchy of would-be molesters, but there are some people I just don’t want to fucking deal with.
The NOP began moving his leg up and down, rolling onto the ball of his foot. He’d sit still for a minute or two, then slowly bring his heel back down, rubbing against me each time. This was while we were still on the runway. I wasn’t going to jerk my leg away; one thing the NOP thrives on is freaking someone out. When the boy comes around later in the NOPs fantasy version, it’s even more exciting. Not wishing to star in re-occurring j/o sessions because this encounter, I quickly put a counter attack into play.
I lazily tipped my hat forward, leaned my head back against the seat, and closed my eyes. The NOP was still, waiting to see if I’d fall asleep before take-off. I’d quickly deduced that being an inactive participant meant the NOP could have his way, so to speak. It was a free pass for some high-flying rubbing action, a gold ticket, and all he had to do was wait until after take-off. If I slept through our departure from the earth then nothing he did could wake me. We were coming back from Vegas, it was the final morning flight, and I’d had a beer for breakfast. To the novice player, the odds favored the NOP.
Until we hit the runway. The first time my body moved naturally due to the increased speed, I bobbed my head down and sprung it back up again, snapping my eyes open. I watched out the window as the plane took off, tucking my hip on the other side, moving out of NOP range. The kimono jacket I’d brought was smartly wrapped around my waist, which I then removed and put over my shoulders like a blanket.
Jackpot. We were in the air. I meditated for an hour, sobering up before landing back in LA and heading into the office.
Though far from wise, I know an old nasty pervert when I sit next to one on a plane. By that time it’s too late. Thankfully, the trip back from Vegas is only an hour flight. Trust me, there's more on this later.
PS - HAPPY B-DAY Ed-D!!
© copyright Wes Ferguson
2001-2006