Tuesday, April 15, 2008

You Know Who You Are

At first I felt sorry for you. You seemed like a nice enough guy, not too smart but a nice guy. Now that I've gotten to know you a little more I've realized that I just don't fucking like you.

I can understand not being able to read blueprints and I can let that slide but if you tell me you can't read blueprints and then try to blame me for your fuck up that's too much. Then I see you a week later looking at the blueprints are you just pretending to read them or should I just take a sawz-all to your face.
I do not want to see your ass crack again. BUY A FUCKING BELT! If you bend over one more time and inadvertantly expose your ass to me again I will bondo it. Did you not get the message when we had the whole shop pointing and laughing at you a month ago?

AND WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SMELL? I've been told it's cortizone you put under your arms. Forget the cortizone asshole try some Speed Stick. I can understand getting a little sweaty and smelly at the end of the day during the summer, the shop can get hot. But at 7:30 in the morning in October there is no reason to have such bad funk that noone will come within 5 feet of you.

So in review; learn to read plans, buy a belt and take a fucking shower.

I hate you.

Update: And shave your fucking mustache it is not 1986 and you are not Magnum P.I.; douchebag

Never Underestimate the Powers of the Handicapped

I moved to Tulsa the summer before my fourth grade year. We moved into a nice neighborhood full of kids my age this included my next door neighbor who I will call Special M, because he is mildly mentally retarded. Special M is a great kid, good sense of humor and the only thing wrong with him at first meeting is a serious stutter. Hell, the kid was a Special Olympics gold medalist. We lived next door to each other for about eight years so we pretty much grew up together.
My family moved to the other side of town my junior year in high school and we pretty much went our seperate ways after that with one exception. Shortly before graduation Special M's Mom called mine and asked if I would mind giving Special M a ride to our graduation ceremony and what our school called project graduation, which was a HUGE event after graduation the school threw so everyone wouldn't go out drinking and partying. They booked an old outlet mall to hold the thing in it was that big and they gave away a car so damn near everyone showed up, plus it was semi-mandatory. So he meets me at my house before the ceremony and we ride to it together and afterward we head off to project graduation.

Now I liked Special M, but the entire time graduation is going on I'm trying to figure out a way to ditch him once we get to the 'party', without him suspecting anything or hurting his feelings.

We finally make it to the party, we sign in, get our grab bags full of crap and I turn to tell Special M that I am going to see my friends and I'll see him later but he's nowhere to be found, I've lost my retard. I start to panic; how do you lose a whole person? He could have wandered off, retards do that I think. I begin frantically scanning the crowd trying to find my retard before he gets completely lost. I start picturing him alone, scared, trying to find me and eventually curled up in a corner crying. That's when I hear someone saying my name and I turn to see who it is. There's Special M, he's not lost, not crying; that asshole is in the middle of the biggest gathering of 'special' girls I've ever seen. Everyone of them pawing at him like he's a Backstreet Boy. He then raises his hand high in the air, smiles and waves, turns the other way (the international gesture for 'see you later') and is swept away down the corridor by the sea of lusty she-tards. I have now calmed down Special M is okay; as a matter of fact he's more than okay he's the SpEd Cassinova, the retard Romeo, the Don Juan of Down's Syndrome.

Then it hits me. That son-of-a-bitch just ditched me.

Valetine's Day '07

This blog will be long, be prepared, I suggest popping some popcorn and getting a soda. Did you get them? Then Continue.

The Valentine's Day blog does not begin on Valentine's Day but on the Sunday morning before.

5:30 am: Text message recieved.

Sender: Ex-Girlfriend who will henceforth be known as Goddamn Crazy Bitch.
Message: "I am pregnant. I think about 31/2 mos. It's Yours. We need to talk.

"Holy Shit. Holy Shit. Holy F&%*$ Shit." I continue to repeat this new mantra between vomitting sessions as I pace the house. I suddenly can't think straight, I walk into the laundry room where Kelli and I keep the beer and grab what's left of a twelve pack and begin drinking. I sit on the couch and light up a cigarette; I don't smoke in the house. I call GCB. She answers the phone.

"Hey." She answers.

"So what exactly is going on?"

She proceeds to give me details about the pregnancy and apologizes repeatedly for not telling me sooner. I then begin to ask questions. She thinks she's 3 1/2 months, it's a girl (she wants to name her Lucy Mae, ugh) and she found out she was pregnant yesterday morning. Okay. She then keeps me on the phone for a couple of hours talking about everything but the pregnancy. She tells me that she hasn't told her parents yet and that she doesn't want anyone to know. We hang up and I pass out on the couch.
That day my parents just so happen to be coming in town; I tell them the situation along with anyone else I trust including the girl I'm currently dating (She took it surprisingly well). I tell them all everything she told me and they begin to find holes in her story.

Fast forward to Tuesday: The day before.

I have, along with the help of others, found several glaring gaps in GCB's story. The details of which are unimportant. I tell her to meet me at a restaurant for lunch the next day and that I'd like her to take an EPT test at my house. She agrees. I go to work ( I work second shift) and at 1:30 in the morning I get this text message from a number I don't know.
"JESUS ALWAYS COMES THROUGH. Forward this message to nine of your friends and you'll get good news tomorrow. THIS IS FOR REAL."
I forwarded that shit to twelve people just to be safe.

Fast forward to Wednesday: Valentine's Day.

I am woken up by the sound of my text message alarm. It's 11:30 am.

Sender: GCB
Message: I went to the ER last night. I lost the baby. Don't hate me.

I fucking knew it. There was no baby. She was just crazy as hell. I proceed to do front flips on my bed and send out the following mass text to everyone I told.

Message: "She's not pregnant just fucking crazy!"

I decide then that this is the happiest day of my life yet. I go back to sleep. I get back up at three and get ready for work. I go pick up Shanks at his house and we head to the shop. I'm talking to him about the GCB issue when I look in my rearview mirror and see one of Midwest City's finest behind me. My tag is out; car tags are my kryptonite. I turn to Shanks and inform him that we're about to get pulled over. We do. I pull into the parking lot of the Shell station we were heading to; expecting to get a ticket and a talking to by Johnny Law and then continue about my day. We go through the normal motions, license and insurance, bla bla bla. Asshole. Then comes the curve ball.

"Mr. Lewis can you step out of the vehicle please.?"

So I step out of the car.

"Mr. Lewis we're placing you under arrest for driving with a suspended license."

What the hell? I didn't even know my license was suspended. As it turns out my driver's license was suspended in may of '05 after I paid a ticket late. The assholes never told me. They put the cuffs on me and proceed to pat me down. As they're checking my pockets the assisting officer asks if I have anything in my pockets that may stick or cut him. I tell him no. He then goes directly for my left back pocket where I had forgotten I had my exacto knife for work. Then he gets pissy.

"Well, what's this then?"

What an Asshole.

Now I'm in the back of the squad car watching Shanks grab an armful of stuff out of my car inluding; my Ipod, his Zune and our Ping Pong paddles. (We play Ping Pong on lunch at work, I'm pretty good I could beat you.) And off to the station I go. I get processed in by a very attractive lady-jailer and the whole time she's processing me I keep thinking. "Dang, I'll bet she catches a lot of shit. I should be really nice to her, then I'll bet she'll help me out somehow." I was and she didn't. Strangely enough as I was in the process of making my phone call Gabe called the station. We joked about not ever going out of the house on holidays again and I told him to get me the hell out of there. So now it's time for the orange jumpsuit and the longest walk down a hallway ever.
So I grab a 'mattress' and a blanket and proceed to the holding cell. As I'm walking down the hall I try to prepare myself. In my last job I worked with several guys who are frequent visitors to jails and penitentiaries so I can speak 'inmate' conversationaly; not fluently but enough to get by. I approach the cells and realize there's about ten guys in this cell. Then someone says "Here come a new fish."

Aww, Damn.

I quickly look around the room and there's nothing I can pick up and hit an asshole with; so there goes that plan. So now I'm down to my wits and luck. Fuck, I'm gonna get traded for a pack of smokes. I go into the cell and throw my crap on the nearest bunk. Then one of the guys motions to me and says he knows me. For some reason anywhere I go this happens; I don't know why but it does. Someone always thinks they know me from somewhere. I look at him and this guy can't be for real. He's about my height and build, with the skin color of Michael Jackson, half of his head is shaved with the other half is in a small afro and a half shaven goatee offsetting his half-fro so that the hair from his half-fro and his goatee are on opposite sides of his head. I'm not even making this up. Half-fro then starts asking me if I hang around 38th and Walker. I don't even know where the hell that is, but I tell him sometimes. I then proceed to pull the fortune teller trick by giving vague answers and letting him answer his own questions for me. I now have made my first jail-friend.
An hour or so passes and they tell me that its almost time for dinner and that we're having fried chicken. Then the betting starts. The only other white dude in there, who I'll call He-Man due to his striking resemblance to the sword weilding cartoon character, decides to bet his chicken against another guy's, who I'll call OU since he was rocking the crimson and cream jersey, that OU can't pick up a deck of cards in a certain way. After an hour at his card picking up task OU completed He-Man's challenge and won the now cold chicken. Jail chicken is not half bad by the way. I had now been in jail for two and a half hours. Half-Fro kept trying to trick the pay phone into making free calls to no avail, OU had sat down and was unable to get back up after doing nearly a thousand squats to win a piece of chicken, He-Man was taking a nap and I decided to read a book, jail books suck. About thirty minutes into my old-west novel of intrigue and suspense my name was called and I was bailed out and free to go. So I picked up my 'matress' said goodbye to Half-fro, He-Man and OU and walked out free again.

Keep the Change

Quite a few years ago my friend 007 (his name has been changed to protect the not-so-innocent) and I used to frequent bars of ill-repute where the liqour pours were loose and the ladies more so. We were on our way to visit our mutual friend Flaco whose mom owned a restaurant, when we were sidetracked by the promise of three dollar pitchers and dancing girls at a place known as the F.I..
I had never been to this club before, however 007 frequented the establishment. As we entered the club I was overwhelmed by the knowledge that tonight I was gonna catch hepititis. This place gave dives a bad name, there was a bartender who was obviously under the influence of multiple substances, a few scattered tables, fewer people, those that were there I was sure would stab me at some point in the night and a half dozen drugged up, overweight and scarred strippers.

We sat at a table in the middle of the room more or less with noone near us and immediately girls began approaching the table talking to 007.

"So, how are you doing I haven't seen you in here for a while. Are you still working for the F.B.I.?"

Apperently 007 had been in here numerous times and had told this seedy group of ladies that he was working for the Federal Bureau of fucking Investigation. After the ladies stumbled away from the table I asked him why the hell he would tell people in here that and he said.

"Chicks dig that sort of thing."

"Dude, you're trying to impress these girls, all you need is an eightball and a backseat, damn, you're gonna get us killed."

We start drinking our beers and watching the 'dancing' girls, one I swear had ceasarian and knife wound scars. None of the girls are catching my fancy so I never moved 007 has gotten up and given several of the girls crisp dollars and is trying to talk me into giving this one particular Jabba-the-Huttish girl a dollar and I refuse.
Shortly thereafter the only remotely attractive girl in the place walks by and 007 gets her attention. This girl had a good body, was wearing red lingerie, had all her teeth and smooth dark skin. She was although high as a kite. 007 slips her $20 and they disappear between the plywood half-wall to the 'champagne room'. One song goes by and I expect to see 007 returning, two songs go by, nothing, a third song and finally after the fourth song he returns led by the stripper. I notice immediately that he has a shit eating grin on his face and refuses to look me in the eye.

They get to the table and the stripper begins dancing very closely in front of me, she then bends over at the waist exposing the $20 bill stuck firmly between her ass cheeks and pinned in by her thong. She then reaches between her legs and pulls the 20 around through her legs the way girls are never supposed to wipe if you get my drift. Before I know what has happened she had turned aroung with the moist 20 in hand and wiped it down my face.

I flip out.

I grab my shit start yelling at 007 and we leave very quickly. On our way out he's laughing his ass off. He had told the stripper that I was afraid of black girls and instigated the entire series of events.

Needless to say we never made it to Flaco's.

Guthrie Boys' Home

A few years ago my friends and I had gotten a wild hair and began looking up haunted locations on the internet we could check out. Sure enough, we found one in Guthrie, at an abandoned boys' home. We made several trips to this haunted orphanage but one trip stands head and shoulders above the others.

We gathered up the posse including Stephen, Brad, Gabe, Raymond, Heather, Christina, Derek, Gabe and myself. We make the thirty or so minutes to Guthrie and approach the orphanage. As we approached the orphanage, the trees shrouding the building slide away to reveal the crumbling facade, half hanging shudders, collapsing roof and crumbling steps of a late twenties or early thirties take on a sprawling plantation style boys' home with attached dormitories flanking the common areas. It was something straight out of bad horror movie.
In order to enter the orphanage, which was under construction, we made our way through a break in the perimeter fence and crossed a large well lit open field into the courtyard of the home. As we approached the back entry we stopped to gather and make sure our flashlights worked and I started looking at the back of the building while everyone began to initiate the newbies with the ghost stories of the building. As the legend goes there was a crazy headmistress who with help from the groundkeeper had murdered several of the children. The children could be heard talking and laughing in the dormitories, while the headmistress could be seen wandering the common areas of the main hall and the janitor's ghost could be found in the tower where he had hung himself.

As we recanted the story I shone my flashlight at the appropriate areas of the building and as I turned my flashlight out I saw something move past one of the second story windows. I called my friends' attention to it but it had disappeared. I began looking at the windows for any sign of movement along with Gabe and Derek when a few windows down what seemed to be a face appeared in the window. I immediately hit it with my flashlight and it vanished. The three of us began to focus our other friends' attention to this strange happening when a figure passed another window; several flashlights lit the area and the panicked shreiks of the girls and Gabe seemed to scare it away. When a floor lower a ghostly white face appeared in the window. My heart skipped a beat and distinctive gasps could be heard from several others when,

"Hey, turn out those fucking flashlights, do you want the cops to show up?"

Fucking Goth kids.


Brad, Gabe, David Cauffman and myself are drunk and at IHOP. To my recollection I can't remember what we were doing before, but there we were sitting at IHOP eating our food and David is rambling on incessantly about his new (at the time) girlfriend. The three of us knew this girl was scandalous she had cheated on him a couple of times before, she treated him like shit and was generally not a nice person.
Just to let the ladies know when a guy is having girl issues he will tell his boys the boys will then give what advice they deem necessary; then said crybaby will either heed the advice or not, simple as that. David, however, decided to keep bitching and moaning and complaining throughout our sobering up breakfast, that is a no-no. Lana this, Lana that, bla bla fucking bla.
We tell David to keep his whinings to himself or there would be consequences. David being David laughs and does not heed the warning. After several more minutes of LANA LANA LANA WHY? Gabe has had enough, he calmly looks over at David and says.

"If I hear Lana one more fucking time I'm gonna fucking stab you."

Silence. Everyone continues eating, time passes and then David begins talking again; he didn't so much as get out L-A-N before a brown blur shot across the table. At first I wasn't sure what exactly had happened until David shreiks.

" Oh my God, he just fucking stabbed me." he then lifted his shirt revealing four little bleeding puncture marks.

Once David had uttered the forbidden name Gabe simply took his fork, jammed it in David's chest and continued to eat his eggs like nothing had happened. It was at this point Brad and I lost it, I laughed so hard I fell out of my chair. After the commotion ended I looked at Gabe and told him I couldn't believe that he really stabbed David and Gabe simply replied.

" I fucking told him not to say her name again."

The moral of this story is never give a drunk, pissed off Mexican a reason to stab you.