Ko-Fi

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Man ISO Infectious 24-hour Disease

I'm looking to contract an infectious disease that lasts for 24 hours, maybe 36, that has relatively minor symptoms.  Itching, eye-boogers, or maybe the trots.  I don't mind pooping, it lets me know the plumbing is still working.  This disease could also produce hallucinations or random and unpredictable erections.  Pain is acceptable only if doctors prescribe good drugs to go with it.  No frothing at the crotch, vomiting or tooth-loss, please.  A nice, puss-dripping rash might work as long as it clears up eventually.  Nobody wants scars all over their body.   

See, here's the problem--I need a good excuse not to go to work tomorrow.  If I call in and tell them the real reasons I'm playing hookey, I might get into trouble.  But if I have an infectious disease, I have a legitimate excuse and I can share with my friends so they can avoid work, too.

Why go through all of this?  Have you looked up at the sky in the past few nights?

Working in customer service during a full moon is like riding a steam locomotive through hell.  You see all kinds of crazy fuckers fly past you as they run around on demented missions concocted by hormonal bursts.  Lunacy in its most literal terms. 

Some people can handle their full moons.  Maybe they recognize the moon's influence and they adjust themselves accordingly.  Or maybe they just are not influenced at all.  Some folks are like that.  But for others, it is like a new form of PMS, complete with reality shifts and temporal paradoxes.  And those of us in customer service are stuck in the maelstrom as if Dr. Who just emptied the septic system of the TARDIS onto our plane of existence.  It's poo, but it's temporally distorted poo, and it's everywhere. 

I work in a call center.  The details are boring, but it's a place where people call in about certain promotions.  I'm not Customer Service, I'm not tech support, I'm not billing.  If you call me, I'm going to get you into a new promotion.  That's it. 

You would think this point would be clear to folks.  But during full moons, nothing is clear, and if you scream crazy shit into a phone loud enough The Magic will happen. Last night I spoke with some real winners. 

I shouldn't say that.  I'm sure that on any other day of the month these waterheads would simply be a minor annoyance.  As I slide down the bannister of life, just another sliver in my ass.  It's not like I have total contempt for humanity--there's a couple of people I like. 

But no, the folks I dealt with last night were a breed unto themselves.  It was as if each of them watched their favorite sports team lose a close game because the ref got a handjob by a cheerleader from the opposing team.  One woman, from Tom's River, New Jersey, was so furious that I was going to save her $80 a month she blew up and forced her cuckolded husband to hang up the phone.  I normally don't feel sorry for cuckolds but in this case, I couldn't imagine how horrific it was to live with such a monster, a mush-mouthed New Jersey stereotype so aggravated by a handjob that all logic became invalid. 

Full moons make people snap.  How this poor, spineless bastard in Toms River avoided bashing his wife's head in with a frying pan I'll never know.  The urge was there--it had to be.  I was over 1000 miles away and I wanted to...well, it doesn't matter what I wanted to do.  If I felt something, he must have, too.  

For legal reason I'm not allowed to record the calls myself and post them online.  I've tried to figure out a way around this and I simply cannot afford the equipment to make this possible.  But if I could, I promise you the craziest calls are always during a full moon.  And for somebody like me it's like being a grizzly bear tied to a tree with toilet paper--the only reason I'm not verbally flaying your skin off is because I choose not to. 

However, sometimes a few things slip out.  Like the time during another full moon years ago when a man called me a psychopath because of the way his bill had climbed.  I asked him if he knew my psychiatrist.  Or the Indian lady who gave me a long-winded lecture about prices and then asked how people pay for their cable.  I said, "Oh, you know...money." 

But no, full moons are not fun to work during if you are dealing with the public.  And this particular full moon has been horrid.  The Full Pink Moon.  I think it is called that from all the blood-tainted flood waters this time of year. 

Last night a drunken old lady called me a "pompous ass."  It's a fair cop.  And I'm guessing that when you're in Washington, drunk off your ass and pissed off about being alone in a condo, I would sound like a pompous ass.  I wanted to correct her and say, "no ma'am, I'm an asshole.  Ask my mom."  She said she was going to call our competition.  I was going to suggest she sober up a bit first so the agent could understand her better, but I had to refrain because I can't get caught snapping at a customer.  (Again.  *ahem*)  

The Pink Moon will be at its fullest tomorrow, which means I have to avoid going into work, because I just can't subject myself to more of this insanity.  I know insanity and this is it.  And the company I work for has these stupid rules about sobriety on the job and how I can't do shots in my cubicle.  It's my goddamned cubicle!  I should be able to do shots if I want!  Vodka helps me resist the evil bastards that find their way onto my phone.

So, I need a disease.  You don't even have to kiss me to give it to me.  We'll work something out.   

 

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

I'm Just Here to Help


Children's books have always been about forming the young and impressionable minds of our youth.  Sometimes it was teaching kids to be brave, responsible, honest or accepting of others.  There has always been a social agenda.  When I was a kid we read books about brushing our teeth, cleaning our rooms and how to use the bathroom properly.  Messages were sent about respecting our teachers and older people, or how important it was to assist those who need our help. 



It is now time to advance this further.  I believe it is time for a series of children's books about consensual incest. 









Since children's books now cover such topics as homosexual relationships and single-sex parents, it would only seem logical that books about consensual incest should be next. 

Why?  Because no child should be left to ponder why their mother and father were the only ones at the family reunion. 





Children from incestuous families need to feel more accepted in today's society.  It's unfair that some kids will make fun of them and how they look.  Genetic mutations from inbreeding are a terrible thing for a child to deal with.  First the kids make fun of the drooling and next that dead, vacant stare.  It's terrible! 

As a caring American, I feel that it is my obligation to help these families find acceptance. 





Incest always raises a lot of questions.  And we as a society need to come together to help answer these questions for the children.  We do it all for the kids. 

When will we, as a country, come together and embrace this life-choice?  We are far too judgmental and harsh.  And who pays?  The children! 

Children from consensual incestuous relationships are just like anybody else.  Once you get past the hump on their back and tendency towards violence, they become fine neighbors and janitors. 



Even Game of Thrones has gotten into the trendy Children-of-Incest market.  I'm sure there are a lot of fans of Team Lannister out there. 













There is a huge market of children who are not represented in the popular Children's Literature section of our bookstores. 

And how do you explain parole to a 7 year-old?  With a special book all about it! 








I'm totally smelling Newbery Award already! 

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Nightmares Welcomed, Sleep Included

Just about half the people I know, including the folks posting on Twitter, have said they aren't sleeping very well.  I'm not sure if that's from anxiety, the weather, or just plain too much caffeine.  Either way, it seems like none of us are able to crash when we need it. 

Recently I had to declare war on my insomnia.  I resorted to chemical weapons. 

I love chemical weapons.  I wage chemical warfare on head and chest colds all the time.  My favorite weapon is a spicy soup with several kinds of peppers.  Habanero, jalapeno, thai red peppers, and sometimes serrano peppers.  This concoction goes on a Sherman's March through my system and kills every fucking cootie it comes in contact with.  Sometimes I can hear them scream as they run for their lives before the tsunami of hot acid smothers them to their deaths. 

So insomnia is no different.  I have waged chemical war on this affliction.  Sometimes a little herbal remedy helps.  I tend to avoid that because I hate smoking and I don't like the lag it creates over a period of time.  Nothing really gets accomplished. 

And I have to be careful about mixing because I like having my heart beating.  Yes, I do have a heart.  And while I love tell folks it is of a child and I keep it in a jar under my bed, the truth is my physical motion-lotion pumper needs to keep working.  How else would it keep the bacon flowing? 

One night, after a series of very bad attempts at sleep over several days, I resorted to a cocktail of various pills and hard alcohol.  I slept extremely deep and when I woke up there was a dart in my ass, a tracking collar around my neck, a bright orange tag in my ear and numbers spray-painted on my side.  The only thing I remember was running through a field and some big object in the sky chasing me. 

But I need my sleep.  I need the nightmares.  Nightmares are like seeds for stories and full of great images. 

I used to have terrible nightmares.  The earliest re-occurring nightmare I can remember was of being tied up with rope and under a wooden-hulled ship in the water.  I dreamed of this a lot as a child.  I was about four years old. 

I didn't know what keel-hauling was at the time.  I chalk it up to my past life and how I died.  I won't go into that here, but there is a reason why I'm terrified of the hulls of boats.  I refuse to be in the water with one, I refuse to be next to one on land or on a dock, and I don't want to be on a big ship in case I end up in the water next to one.  Nope. 

The next re-occurring nightmare I had was about my dad.  He would crawl on his hands and knees towards me, but his body would be elongated and serpentine.  He would chase me through the house.   

When I was in high school and college, I had a re-occurring nightmare that always messed me up and caused a lot of trouble for me over the days following.  It was a stupid dream.  In this dream I would meet a woman, we would fall in love, have a great life together and be totally happy.  And then she would die.  Sometimes I watched her die, sometimes I would be told by somebody.  Every single time. 

I hated those dreams.  It was all so real and amazing.  I would be happy and then everything would be taken away. 

The next series of nightmares happened when I began to sense the nightmare coming on so I would wake up.  If I wasn't in the mood for a nightmare then I simply wouldn't have it.  So my brain, being out to kill me, came up with a great idea--the Surprise Nightmare. 

The Surprise Nightmare is just as it sounds.  Everything would begin with a nice, simple scene--just like a Stephen King novel.  Pastoral, tranquil, serene.  And then suddenly all hell would break loose and something horrific would happen.  It would come on too fast for me to wake up so I had to deal with it. 

And to prove a point, my head made these dreams the worst it could concoct.  Dead babies, people close to me dying, monsters from nothing.  Imagine having just a few seconds to terrify somebody--how would you do it?  My brain is good at this game. 

The very worst re-occurring nightmare was of my family.  I was separated from my wife and daughter because of economic and various other problems.  We wanted to be together, we couldn't.  And I was taking this failure badly.  So, every year around my daughter's birthday, Christmas and my anniversary, my brain decided to twist the knife.  I would dream of my daughter and how my failures were the reason she was upset and crying, exposed to all the dangerous crap in this world a father is supposed to protect his daughter from. 

One night I woke up and felt so broken I wanted to eat my pistol.  I was tormented by these nightmares.  It was so bad I was afraid to go to sleep because I knew something was lurking for me in dreamland and it didn't like me at all. 

I have often said my head would kill me if it didn't need me for transportation.  But since it does need me around, tormenting me will have to do. 

Not all of my dreams are bad.  Like most folks, I have re-occurring dreams that are wonderful and full of amazing visions.  My favorites are the ones about lights in the sky, clear nights and UFOs visiting Earth en mass. 

But none of this can happen without sleep.  So, I take various helpers.  Melatonin and half a pharmacy when I can get my hands on it.  One time I took a handful of Ambien, with some muscle relaxers and vodka.  I went down hard but I woke up having to pee really bad.  I was so dizzy and messed up I couldn't walk and damn near fell down on my way to the bathroom. 

I think writers tend to have a love/hate relationship with sleep and their own dreams.  We love them and use them, but they are like having badgers as pets--they bite hard and don't let go.  Even on the best days they're not our friends but on those days they tolerate us, it's a wonderful feeling. 

I have some goodies recently given to me by a friend.  This giant chemical war I have going on inside of my body is going to see a new weapon tonight.  I hope the dreams are good.  I could use some entertainment.