as i sit here in the early hours of my work schedule, i think about all that needs doing...all that needs to be done. i think of the purposelessness of writing sheer babble...drivel...banter. alas, i care not. i work in a job that demands 5% of my brain-power. i work in an open field with a wall and my job is to get to the other side of that wall. i spend my days walking around the wall, backwards even, so that i can get a glimpse of my coworkers feverishly tying knots and splicing together crude segments of rope using whale bones from a kill they made in order to splice rope. i just don't understand it. i don't understand all the fuss, the commotion. i remember being a small child, or even a teenager, and looking at adults as if they somehow had it all together...as if they represented accomplishment and ingenuity. now that i'm an adult, i look around me and realize 90% of these people are retarded.
i digress.
i come here to discuss hands. women's hands. the thought crossed my mind the other day as i was sitting in traffic, and i realized what a difference a woman's hands can be. now, there are a number of misconceptions women have about what makes women beautiful. many a time, you'll see a woman sporting 2 pounds of clown paint on her face, zebra stripes in her hair, and burnt skin nothing shy of an overgrilled ballpark hot dog. yuck. worse yet, there is a demographic of men that cater to this particular look, perpetuating its existence. perhaps this is a subject for another discussion.
i speak today regarding the delicacy of a woman's hands. chances are, if you are into the women i mentioned above, or you love the short, prepubescent-looking girls, you'll have no idea what i'm talking about. when you experience a woman's sleek, thin, and delicate hands, there is no comparison. the long, sloping fingers. the aerodynamic shape. the gentle curves. i can imagine those hands running through my hair and i get goose bumps!
on the contrary, if you've been wading through landfills, you probably spend quite a bit of time with pudgy, bloated looking hands with half-crusted orange nail polish falling off the ends of her fat, sausage like fingers. these are the hands that look like the top of a mcdonald's hamburger bun that's been sitting too long in the heater...a soggy, bloated bun with 5 lil' smokies shoved into it. next time you are getting some lovin', take a moment and analyze the woman you're with. does she have hamburger bun/lil smokies hands? do her fat fingers smudge your face when she's trying to be delicate? does she bat at your face with her chubby paws when she's trying to be romantic?
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Escape From Beardy
He knew. I knew he knew. And I knew he knew that I knew. I could tell by that look in his eyes. And it was probably apparent given the swiftness of my feet and the look of panic across my sweat-ridden face...not to mention the cacophany of my digestive tract as I barrelled down the hallway.
Any other day, any other situation, and this wouldn't matter much. The problem was that he was lingering at the corner of the hallway that crossed the main hallway. And the cross-hallway provided the wall against the bathroom I called my own secret haven. It was ideally a place of solitary confinement...a place I could poop in piece, left to my own organic smells, tapping away at my phone, searching for 100+ point words in Scrabble. At least, that's what this place was intended to be. Since discovering my underground oasis, it's peace and purity have become defiled by the carelessness and putrid dirt stars of what I could only assume to be washed out degenerates. I say "assume" because I have never laid eyes upon these foul perpetrators; the closest I have ever come to seeing them was through the slits between the stall doors.
As I raced toward the door, the thoughts of these imposters lingering in my secret bathroom crossed my mind. But more importantly, the thought that Beardy knew exactly what I was going to do was weighing on my mind. His face ruddy and worn, presumably from the long summers he spent shucking corn and tending to the hens out in the stable. His flannel echoed many a Christmases and his white hair and beard trimmed neatly, reminding me of a well-kept Santa. And as I pondered over his brief yet vivid imagery in my head, I swung the door open to the bathroom, and bolted in.
To my surprise, nobody was there. Two stalls and two urinals and not a soul around. I quickly latched a door shut and furiously pulled tp off the roll to cover the seat. In my typical OCD fashion, I pulled off 6 seperate sections, 2 of each, all in different lengths. One section for the front trap with all the piss stains and pubic hairs. Two side sections for the thighs. To back corner sections for the butt cheeks and a rear section for safety reasons. Each layer was 2 ply thick because there was a chance of piss driblets on the seat, rendering the first layer nothing more than an absorbable pad. I quickly sat down, rang out farts reminiscent of heavy artillery, and dropped a few nuggets in relief.
The next 30 minutes were typical. My privacy was invaded 2 or 3 times by the inconsiderate a-holes who thought it ok to sit in a stall next to someone who's pooping. The foul and foreign odor of their excrements made me dry heave and thank the heavens that, even in my worse days of violent explosive diarrhea, my butthole was nowhere near that kind of stank. I listened to several pissers, a couple of which thought it would be great to hack up a huge spitball and dribble it into the urinal. The sound alone made my stomach knotty.
After I was convinced I had everything out, and I had finished playing all my Scrabble moves, I washed my hands and finished up in the bathroom. I exited the 2nd door feeling content and confident once again, only to see Beardy at the same corner, leaning against it, his arms crossed at his chest and a sumg look across his beaten up face. HE KNEW! He had been watching, waiting, surveilling. At that moment, my eyes shot to the floor in dejection and I picked up my pace like a dog running away with its tail between its legs. Sure I was being followed, I tore through the stairwell door and ran up the stairs as fast as I could. A few corners later, I relized I had lost him. I had escaped Beardy. This time.
Any other day, any other situation, and this wouldn't matter much. The problem was that he was lingering at the corner of the hallway that crossed the main hallway. And the cross-hallway provided the wall against the bathroom I called my own secret haven. It was ideally a place of solitary confinement...a place I could poop in piece, left to my own organic smells, tapping away at my phone, searching for 100+ point words in Scrabble. At least, that's what this place was intended to be. Since discovering my underground oasis, it's peace and purity have become defiled by the carelessness and putrid dirt stars of what I could only assume to be washed out degenerates. I say "assume" because I have never laid eyes upon these foul perpetrators; the closest I have ever come to seeing them was through the slits between the stall doors.
As I raced toward the door, the thoughts of these imposters lingering in my secret bathroom crossed my mind. But more importantly, the thought that Beardy knew exactly what I was going to do was weighing on my mind. His face ruddy and worn, presumably from the long summers he spent shucking corn and tending to the hens out in the stable. His flannel echoed many a Christmases and his white hair and beard trimmed neatly, reminding me of a well-kept Santa. And as I pondered over his brief yet vivid imagery in my head, I swung the door open to the bathroom, and bolted in.
To my surprise, nobody was there. Two stalls and two urinals and not a soul around. I quickly latched a door shut and furiously pulled tp off the roll to cover the seat. In my typical OCD fashion, I pulled off 6 seperate sections, 2 of each, all in different lengths. One section for the front trap with all the piss stains and pubic hairs. Two side sections for the thighs. To back corner sections for the butt cheeks and a rear section for safety reasons. Each layer was 2 ply thick because there was a chance of piss driblets on the seat, rendering the first layer nothing more than an absorbable pad. I quickly sat down, rang out farts reminiscent of heavy artillery, and dropped a few nuggets in relief.
The next 30 minutes were typical. My privacy was invaded 2 or 3 times by the inconsiderate a-holes who thought it ok to sit in a stall next to someone who's pooping. The foul and foreign odor of their excrements made me dry heave and thank the heavens that, even in my worse days of violent explosive diarrhea, my butthole was nowhere near that kind of stank. I listened to several pissers, a couple of which thought it would be great to hack up a huge spitball and dribble it into the urinal. The sound alone made my stomach knotty.
After I was convinced I had everything out, and I had finished playing all my Scrabble moves, I washed my hands and finished up in the bathroom. I exited the 2nd door feeling content and confident once again, only to see Beardy at the same corner, leaning against it, his arms crossed at his chest and a sumg look across his beaten up face. HE KNEW! He had been watching, waiting, surveilling. At that moment, my eyes shot to the floor in dejection and I picked up my pace like a dog running away with its tail between its legs. Sure I was being followed, I tore through the stairwell door and ran up the stairs as fast as I could. A few corners later, I relized I had lost him. I had escaped Beardy. This time.
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