Tag Archives: work

All The Live Long Day

So I got my ass a new job, and it’s friggin hard as hell. I can’t complain (even though I’m about to do just that) because I needed a job really bad, but let me go ahead and say that no matter how hard you think landscaping is, it’s about ten times harder. When you boil it down, I get paid just over minimum wage to grab a shovel and move dirt around for ten hours a day at a break neck slave speed. I’ve been working at this new job for about a month, and already I’ve lost fifteen pounds. And that’s not with a diet either, that’s pure-ass-hell-damn elbow grease. My diet consists of pizzas and dollar menu items from McDonalds, with the occasional gas station item. Do you have any idea how hard you have to work to lose fifteen pounds when your lunch is four McChicken sammiches, some beef jerky, and a two liter of Mountain Dew? My feet were covered with eleven (yes I counted them) blisters that still haven’t healed up yet after a friggin month of work. My feet look like a Vietnamese POW after a death march. And don’t even get me started on how many cuts I get. Just on the side of my left arm facing my head I can count twelve cuts. My farmers tan is so crucial I look like I’m wearing black face. And to top it off I think I’ve developed tendonitis because about half the time I loose all feeling between my fingers and my armpits.

But all in all it’s actually a nice job. I get to work with my hands, which I love. I get to be dirty all day, which I love. I get to cuss and sweat and bleed and tell dirty jokes. I’m re-learning spanish, picking up on the words and phrases I used to know back when I was living with Mexicans all week. Most of all I get to work with some really amazing people. I absolutely love blue collar people. We are bat shit crazy, and rough around the edges, but the most character filled, life loving, live in the moment people you will ever meet.

My direct boss, Tim, is a guy I’ve been friends with for about a decade. We go back to high school together, and we’ve done a lot of wild stuff. Now Tim is a funny guy, but before you even get to know him he’s just a funny looking guy. He’s skinny as a crack head, always has been. He might weigh 130 soaking wet. He’s got long curly heir that probably hasn’t seen a brush for years. And to top it all off he’s missing one of his front teeth. So anyone with a keen eye can pretty much size him up from a distance and know you’re dealing with a bit of a character. Now Tim isn’t exactly … how can I put this delicately … Tim and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of issues. We argue all the time, on just about every subject. Tim is kind of backwards on a lot of his views. He doesn’t like gay people. He’s very 40’s with his approach to gender roles. His actual reason for believing the Bible is true is because he want’s it to be true. And he spends most of his driving time soaking up the opinion of the day from Rush or Beck or Hannity.

Actually I really enjoy being around a stubborn, opinionated jack ass like Tim because it helps me solidify my own views. For a long time I couldn’t figure out why people like me and people like Tim disagree on such basic, fundamental issues. Take health care for instance. Me and Tim both want a similar end result, that everyone has access to health care. But we have such totally opposing ideas on how that should be put into place. And it just bugged me and bugged me until one day I had a bit of an epiphany. I realized that conservatives like Tim basically believe (erroneously) that the government got it right with our original constitution and that they shouldn’t do anything extra, while I believe that the constitution was a good start, but the government should change and grow as the world changes and grows. And so when I have to argue with Tim about seemingly obvious points, like for instance that only white property owning males could vote until they fixed that clearly unfair part of the constitution, it helps remind me of why I believe the things I do.

My boss one up from Tim is a yankee named Carl, who is hands down one of the wildest and craziest people I have ever met in my life. First of all he looks about ten years younger than he really is. He’s thirty eight and he’s engaged to a twenty four year old. So of course me and Tim give him pure shit for that. Asking whether she calls him daddy or grandpa in the sack, and suggesting that he’s on the edge of sterility. And it’s so funny because he’s so easy to get riled up. Even under perfect conditions he’s an easily agitated person, and he’s so hyper and his fuse is so short that it’s friggin hilarious to get him pissed off and just watch. He’ll get pissed off and just start randomly picking racial slurs to call people before he even knows what they are.

Somebody hit him with a car the other week, ran their mirror into his back pack leaf blower, and it spun him around. So he’s super pissed off, packs up and I end up in the same truck as him. He’s getting calls non stop, answering the phone screaming, and of course I can only hear half the conversation, but it’s hilarious. (Phone rings) “Holy shit if you see any n*****s on the way to the fucking park hit them with your fucking car! …. Some god damned spook just hit me with a car, fuckin bullshit, cause we’re working in the middle of coon town and none of these crack head mother fuckers can drive for shit! … (at car behind us) GET OFF MY FUCKING ASS YOU NO DRIVING SAND N****R! I FUCKING HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE RIDE MY ASS. … No I’m bringing my god damned pistol tomorrow and the first fucker who drives too close to me is getting a lead sammich. (Now driving no more than two feet behind an SUV) Hold on my mom is texting me. … What the fuck Mom! Look at this god damn shit! (hands me phone which has a picture of a cock and balls with a shamrock saying happy saint Patrick’s day) (calls his mom) What the hell is wrong with you, did you fall off the short bus or what? … Why would you think I would find a picture of a dick and balls entertaining? … Why don’t you go find me a picture of some hot chick showing her pussy?! …. I DON’T WANT TO LOOK AT A DICK AND BALLS! … Ok mom, I love you too, see you later.”

So that’s pretty much all day every day with Carl. If he’s not pissed off he’s just saying something totally off the wall. I believe he described his night thusly: “I was so god damned tired. Went home. Ate two bowls of cereal, and tried to knock the bottom off a pregnant lady.”

Of course, most of the labor is Mexican guys, and those guys always come with the crazy. One of our more experienced workers is named Compost. Seriously, a Mexican working in landscaping named Compost. I don’t think he understands the irony. Apparently the Mexicans like me. They told me I’m part Mexican because I work so hard, and they believe if I could drive I would make supervisor in a few months, which makes me feel good about myself and also pisses me off knowing that I can’t drive. But Mexicans are always easy to get along with. All you have to do is make sure you work as hard as they work, and try to learn a little Spanish so you can converse while you work.

The other notable weird people are the owners, who are a mix of Japanese and southern. So you have a couple of good old boys who are as anal retentive as a Tokyo accountant. It can be frustrating at times, but they are good at what they do.

And of course, like any blue collar job I get to play with all kinds of specialized power tools and heavy equipment. I get to use tillers and chainsaws and stump grinders and the lot. But what I’m most excited about is learning how to use the Bobcat and the excavator. They haven’t let me get on either one of them yet, but it’s only a matter of time before I get the chance, and I am stoked. I mean every boy grows up dreaming about playing with these kinds of machines, but so many people never get the chance. I think that’s what I am most excited about with this job. It’s all worth it. I don’t mind towing around explosives and getting my arms shredded and getting bit up by ticks and chiggers, as long as I get a chance to dig a hole with a back hoe.

And to close out this post I have a PSA. If you’re towing mulch covered in burlap next to the same chemicals that were used to blow up the Oklahoma City building, don’t throw your cigarette butt’s out the window while you’re driving down the freeway. There’s a good chance you will set it all on fire and unless you have really cool bosses who cover your ass you will probably lose your job.


For those about to rock (fire)

I shit you not, my job is full of completely insane people. I guess it shouldn’t really continue to surprise me after a year and a half working in the trailer industry, but still these lunatics find ways to amaze me with their own bizarre flavor of indecent behavior.

I can’t recall whether I told you all or not, but our last boss was fired under incredibly risque circumstances. He was audited by our corporate office, aka big brother, and during an eight hour day (which by the way was an amazing feat in and of itself seeing as how he only worked maybe twenty hours a week) he spent seven hours and fifteen minutes looking at porn on his computer. Well, to be fair he was only looking at porn for part of that time, the rest he spent surfing swinger sites, communicating with women he met online, and soliciting hookers on Craigslist.com. I’m assuming the other forty five minutes of the day were spent in our bathroom jacking off. Needless to say, he was fired.

The boss we had before that was a huge bitch. And I mean a literally huge bitch. And she was an angry bull dyke. And to make matters worse she was a UNC Tarheel fan, which is despicable. (Go State!) The very first time I met her she kicked me off the lot, in the middle of an interview with one of her subcontractors, because I didn’t have contractors liability insurance. She was infamous for flipping her wig over the tiniest flaw in a trailer, but expected everything to be fixed like new with a scrooge tight budget. She once tried to fire one of her employees for not picking up their feet enough when they walk. (although Joe is an annoying foot scuffling bastard, but still) She was so horrible to work with that the first question I asked when the company called me up to hire me was whether she was still working there, because I refuse to ever work for another boss like that ever again. She was fired for punching a hole through a wall in a trailer that was just finished because there was a small stain near the floor that nobody could get out.

From what I hear the boss before her was fired for embezzling from the company, and the one before that was fired for not bothering to show up ever cause they were rich and didn’t really give a fuck. So at this point we’ve had a pretty good record of corporate picking out complete douchebags to run our joint. Enter their latest Mona Lisa of management.

About eight months ago we got a new boss named Steve. Steve was fat as shit. He was arrogant and swaggered with that cock sure machismo synonymous with all those post college used-to-be-cool-jocks who still think they are cooler than your face, and your moms face, and probably never got the long series of merciless beatdowns they deserve which might have snapped them back into reality. He stunk. Literally, he smelled bad. His shit was so stanktastic that the other people in the office refused to let him crap there. So instead of using one of the other two bathrooms available in our shop, he would climb up in our stored trailers and drop a deuce or two in the toilets, leaving them there for us to deal with when we pulled them up to fix. He left corn filled landmines all over the lot behind trailers and bushes, marked for the wary passerby with spare toilet paper. He spat frequently with little or no regard to wind direction. His dog was ugly. He sucked at his job. Everything about him sucked. I thought we might have hit rock bottom with this one.

That was until the day his neighbor’s car got repossessed. For some reason he felt this was a sign from the powers that be that he should take half a day off, snag one of our salesmen, and go out shopping for guns. Now he was a Yankee, and I assume he was from a larger city. Not a country boy like most of the other guys who work there. So he had never owned a gun before in his life, nor had he shot one. His total fire arm experience was limited to what he had seen in movies, and this apparently did not bother him because he made absolutely no effort to learn anything about the legal aspects of shooting guns, or any of the finer points of gun safety.

Now we have shooting ranges around the area in which it is legal to practice shooting your shiny brand new shotguns. We have expansive stretches of woods and farmland in which one could safely and secretly test out your aim. In fact, there is a veritable plethora of options for the novice gun enthusiast. We are after all in dixie land. But rather than take advantage of any one of these convenient options, Steve decided it would be cooler to bring his guns to work. He came in on a Saturday, while a contractor was working, printed of a bunch of pictures of our district managers face, and headed to the back of our lot to climb up in a trailer we have marked for demolition.

This trailer is beyond repair, and we’ve been cannibalizing it for at least a year now. It’s worthless. But it is still the property of our company, not Steve. It is also adjacent to the next lot which has a 24/7 security guard that patrols it to guard their supplies. And it is also basically around the block from the Highway Patrol and Policeman’s training facilities, meaning that there are always a shit ton of pigs cruising around. The following pictures were taken by yours truly to show you what I couldn’t

One wall, with maybe thirty shells of birdshot stuck in it.

Fuck that wall.

Fuck that wall.

Blown out the other side of the wall.

Blown out the other side of the wall.

This would be the view from inside to out, aiming towards the property with the 24/7 guard on duty.

This would be the view from inside to out, aiming towards the property with the 24/7 guard on duty.

So long story short, my boss is gone and our branch is living in heaven, once again functioning how they should. Tell me how your boss got fired.

We don’t need no water.

Alright, so I wanted to tell some stories about my work, since I told Nate’s story, but first I have to share with you the most kick ass two and a half minutes of animation ever. Well, not the most kick ass, there was this one web based show about this death metal band, but I can’t find it again. I’ll try and get y’all a link next post. Anyway, I was watching Sponge Bob square pants while I was surfing the net the other day and that little plankton guy had everyone in mind control helmets and they were going to kick Sponge Bob’s ass when he busted out with this incredibly gnarly shit.

Was that not cool? I mean Sponge Bob turned into a wizard and played a remix of Twisted Sister while flying and shooting lasers out of his fucking guitar. Twisted Sister on children television! A flying, psychedelic, laser shooting, solo thrashing rock wizard! God that was cool. What a goofy goober. Anyway, everyone may now turn their attention back to me and how much I rock.

I’m just going to focus on one of my coworkers for this blog. They are all pretty kick ass, and they all have cool stories, but Kenny and I get along the best and start the most shit. I should note that this is not the same Kenny that I am long time friends with, that’s Kato, aka Kenny P. The fella I’m talking about is Kenny B. and he’s a total redneck. I mean a full fledged, honky tonk, fishin, rebel flag havin, deep south, country ass red neck . The guy is racist as hell, but he’s married to a Puerto Rican. Fucked up right. You have no idea.

He used to work in the rodeo. No joke, the PBR rodeo circuit. He would help set up all the rodeo shit, and handle the bulls and all that good stuff. He originally was training to be a bull rider, but one of his friends was severely injured by a bull, and he decided maybe that wasn’t the career for him. So he stayed until he had banged his fill of buckle bunnies and came back to North Carolina and became a police officer.

Now I don’t mean the good natured, protect and serve, Andy Griffith kind of police officer. I mean a small town, lazy as hell, mostly in it to mess with people and carry a gun sort of pig. He didn’t really do any police work, he just enjoyed car chases and screwing around late at night in a car he didn’t have to pay for. Apparently with two metal lunch plates, an e-brake, and an empty parking lot, you can easily add the nifty effect of sparking metal to your car as you peel out and do donuts. They had this stretch of highway that ran through his town, and a road running perpendicular to it. If you floored it down the entire straight segment of the side road, you could hit the bump in the highway fast enough to catch air in their police cruisers. So he and his buddy cops would post one guy half a mile down the highway on one side, and another half a mile the other way, and they would all switch over to a non regulation frequency and keep a lookout for cars coming in either direction. Then the cop on the side road would floor it and jump the highway and they would all laugh and go get some donuts and find Mexicans to mess with.

Now Mexicans are the funniest because a lot of them know some English, but pretend not to when it’s to their advantage. For instance they would pull a truck full of them for speeding or no inspection or whatever, line them up on the side of the highway, and begin questioning them. This one time, Kenny and his buddy found some dope in the vehicle. So he asked them who the weed belonged to. “Ahhh, no speaky English” they would all say. So he turned to his friend, unstrapped his gun, and in English said, “I don’t really care which of these bastards had the dope, I’m gonna shoot the one with the white shoes.” Then he turned real fast and yelled, and every single one looked down to see what color their shoes were.

He ended up having some real problems with this one hag on the city counsel. Apparently she didn’t want him speeding through the down town district. And the day after she called him out on it, he chased a speeder through the 35 mph zone doing sixty or so. I mean, you have to drive faster than the person you are chasing to catch them, you know? Well things escalated between him and the administration until finally he quit. (or got fired and just tells everyone he quit, I can really see it going both ways)

He has also worked for most of his life since age eighteen doing night and weekend work for honky tonk bars and strip clubs. He’s not a huge guy, I mean he’s several inches taller than me, and probably fifty pounds heavier, but he’s not gigantic. He is however volatile and violent, and he doesn’t give a flying fuck about offending anyone and everyone, so I guess he’s a natural at dragging folks out of bars and whooping their ass. I remember I almost started a fight with him when I was just a green newbie at our current job. I had been there for just a few days, and we watching Jerry Springer, and some dumb ass red neck was pissed because his stripper girlfriend, Candy, was sleeping around. I spouted off with, “well that’s what you get for dating a stripper named Candy you idiot!” Turns out his ex wife is a stripper named Candy. What are the odds right? Talk about awkward. I really should have learned not to say that sort of judgmental crap by now, but if I had I wouldn’t be me.

So anyway, whenever me and Kenny get together and have free time at work, something crazy is about to go down. In fact we aren’t supposed to work together at all, our boss has forbidden it, but neither one of us really cares, so we do it almost every day. Two days ago we had one of those slow days. One of our two salesmen has been out for a month due to surgery, and the other one is newer than I am, so we are completely caught up and stocked with ready to sell/rent trailers on the ready line. In fact, my boss has never had this many ready to go at one time before.

Well we had finished everything we could do without supplies or a fresh trailer, and I’m the sort of guy who can’t just stand around with his thumb up his ass. I have to keep moving, doing something productive. So we’re standing around, and I walk over and grab a mapp gas torch and a spare VCT tile. I’ve had this idea to try and half way melt one and shape in into a human face, and let it cool off, and it would sit around the break room looking really cool/creepy and displaying my incredible prowess with the torch. Kenny of course asks me what the heck I am doing, and I tell him and he looks at me like I’m a retard. Then he gets that grin over his face that lets me know we’re about to have some serious fun.

Usually this involves destroying something with power tools, however today his mind was running more along the lines of fire. So we hike around to the back of the lot where our piles of scrap metal are stored until we can take them around the block to TT&E recycling and turn them in for a big ass bonus to split with the crew. We’ve accumulate some serious piles of copper wire over the six months or so that it takes to build up enough scrap to warrant a trip to the scrap yard. Now since most of you probably aren’t familiar with scrapping metal for side cash, let me illuminate you. Dig this.

Copper is wicked expensive. Like incredibly expensive. Even copper wires with the plastic still on them will get you a buck and some change per pound. We may have a hundred and fifty pounds or more of wire by the time we turn it in. But if you can get clean copper, as in no plastic sheath, you’ll be making an extra dollar or more per pound. Almost double the cash. Sweet right? But stripping wire takes forever and isn’t cost effective. How might plastic be removed from metal in a quick, efficient and incredibly fun way? By burning that shit, that’s how!

So we don’t have a metal barrel anywhere, which is a set back for our little project, but no serious obstacle. We toyed around with building something from the spare siding, or possibly parts from an old filing cabinet, but all of that would involve effort, and we wanted to get right to the cool part with the fire and the burning and possibly an assortment of accelerants. So we start wandering around grabbing metal objects that could withstand high temperatures. We drag it all back to the middle of the yard, because it’s gravel and dirt there. Safety first you know, we don’t want to start a brush fire or anything. After a few moments fooling around we come up with the combinations of three old wheel rims and a security grate we pulled off of a window. Then we hacked apart a palate to get some wood to burn. Now we’ve got a fire proof container with a grate to keep in flying debris, fuel, and plenty of wire to burn.

Before any of you start chastising me, or clucking your tongues in reproach for our dangerous activities, I would like to point out that not only were we about ten feet from a huge freight box with ten or so spare fire extinguishers, but I even walked all the way across the yard and dragged the hose next to out new fire pit. We had safety written all over us. You may have had to squint to see it, but it was there.

As you can imaging, we made a pile of wood, and commenced to trying to light the bugger. The only problem was that we were experiencing some rather strong winds as a result of an incoming cold front. So we couldn’t really get the fire going well. So I grabbed some spray paint and soaked the wood. We have a very small, well contained fire starting up at this point and across the yard fate foils our plans once again.

My boss Drew was moving something with Al, our yankee coworker, and Al smelled something. “Do you smell wood burning? What is that?” Of course the first thing Drew says is, “Dammit! Where the hell are Josh and Kenny?” (side note, we knew the fire extinguishers work because we had thoroughly tested one or two of them the previous day back on the end of our lot. Trust me, not only do they spray very well, but it is a noxious, throat burning spray that coincidentally looks a lot like thick smoke when it starts rolling over the roof and becomes visible from the rest of the yard)

So drew comes running around the trailer and jumps right on us. “What the fuck are you two doing GD it!”

us: “We’re putting money in your pocket man. You’re welcome by the way.”

Drew: “Really? Because it looks an awful lot like you are starting a fire in the middle of my yard.”

us: “I would hardly call this the middle. And we’ve got a hose and shit, what do you want? Don’t you like money?”

Drew: “How the hell does burning down our place of employment make me any money?”

us: “Uh, we were trying to start a decent fire before you interrupted us. We’re gonna convert all of our copper wire to clean copper, that’s a lot of extra money for you and everyone else here. We’re trying to help. Do you just want us standing around?”

Drew: “So by ‘convert’ you mean burn, and by ‘help’ you also mean burn.”

us: “Pretty much. It’s contained see?”

Drew: “Yes I fucking see you bastards. You are ripping shit off of our trailers to start fires!”

us: “Well just the one grate, and it was rusty anyway. What, you don’t think burning is a good way to clean the copper? We’re almost positive this will probably work. And we’ve got the hose see? Safe! We can get safety glasses if you want.”

Drew: “Why the fuck would I want you to get safety glasses? How’s that going to put out these trailers when you ignite them. Put that shit out right the fuck now and I’ll think, THINK about how to safely do this, maybe like on a day when there aren’t GALE FORCE WINDS! And what the fuck are you two doing working together in the first place. Damn, I leave you for five minutes and you’ve got a GD blaze started up and shit all ripped apart. Give me the torch Kenny. From now on you guys have to ask me before you are allowed to use fire.”

Kenny: “What about lighters?”

Drew: “Only for cigarettes, no fires!”

Me: “Kenny, I have one of those torches at home.”

Drew: “That’s right, and that’s exactly where it’s going to stay. Don’t let me catch you starting any more fires!”

us: “What about when it’s not windy?”

Drew: “Maybe. You need to soak them in kerosene and then the plastic melts right off.”

us: “So tomorrow maybe?”

Drew: “We’ll see.”

Us: “So it was a pretty good idea right? Besides the wind and all?”

Drew: “No the fuck it wasn’t. Everything about that was stupid. Get back to work, both of you. And on different sides of the yard.”

us: “There’s nothing left to do without supplies.”

Drew: “Well I don’t fucking care, go turn over some gravels or something!” (yes, gravels, like the completely made up plural form of gravel. Drew makes up words when he’s pissed)

We’re still trying to sneak another fire past him, but that old bastard is vigilant as hell.

This weekend Kenny’s going to take me out to the club he and Drew work at as bouncers. Expect an AWESOME story from this weekend. Trust me, especially if we can convince Drew’s old lady to drag him out with us, there will be a lot of debauchery and mayhem. From all the stories they’ve told me, this place is sort of like that bar from Road House. Stabbings and constant fights and lots of pretty red neck girls. It could be trouble of the finest kind. Don’t worry I won’t cheat on my woman. This is, after all, the same club at which Drew found that one legged girl he banged. Another long story, for another post. Let’s just say he likes big women with limps.

Broccoli farts, she-hulks, donkeys, and honkey coons.

Well thirsty Thursday segued nicely into hangover Friday, which coincided with my ridiculously early start and long work day over on the coast. It wasn’t that bad though, everything went smoothly. I did have to spend several hours repairing a roof, and directly in the center of my work area was this big ass power line. I could crawl under it on one end, or jump over on the other, but that thing was making me nervous since it had enough juice running through it to power a five wide trailer. Darwin’s law kicked in and I managed to not electrocute myself.

We ended up going to this place called the Weyerhauser Paper Mill in Plymouth. If you are familiar with paper mills you will immediately know why working and breathing anywhere near one is unpleasant at best. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure let me explain. I’m not sure exactly what sort of science and biology goes into this little factoid, but paper mills smell a lot like farts. Huge gnarly hard liquor and broccoli farts. And it goes everywhere. You can’t escape the stench. And it’s not one of those smells that goes away after you get used to it. It sits there like some rabid squirrel perched just behind your eyes, occasionally flitting about digging in the soft pink earth of your mind to look for long forgotten stores of stank. Gah it was bad.

While on the road we stopped once for breakfast and once for lunch. Both times at Wendy’s. I got myself one of those new big breakfast sandwiches they’ve been hyping the shit out of. You know the ones that are “as big as your face” and “could hold you over all the way into the afternoon” and all that shit. Let me just say Dave Navarro is rolling over in his grave right now. (I know it wasn’t Dave Navarro, I just can’t remember the guys name, it was Dave something. Mr. Navarro will be our substitute corpse for the day) The big breakfast sandwich was mediocre at best. Not worth the money. But at lunch I got one of those new jalepeno double melt things. It was fucking awesome! I want one right now. Next time you’re at Wendy’s check that sucker out. And for those of you who don’t enjoy spicy food, the jalepenos are all flavor and no kick. It’s not spicy at all. Your candy ass palates are safe for the time being. Wimps.

And speaking of wimps, you know who isn’t a wimp? Hulk Hogan. That guy is bad ass. I drank eggs because of him. I was watching Hogan Knows Best and he had some super fan who won a contest and got to come chill with Hulk in his house. And Hulk made them both a big ass glass of raw eggs to eat before they worked out, and this fat tard barfed it all over the place. I think he even finished up barfing in the pool. I thought he was a total pussy, and I wanted to know how hard it would be to drink raw eggs. So I cracked some in a glass, three if memory serves, and chugged those incredible edible delights. Now I wouldn’t say that it was the tastiest beverage I’ve ever had, but it wasn’t that bad, and I would never have found out if it weren’t for Hulk Hogan.

Now, it turns out Hulk is getting a divorce from she-hulk. That’s a bummer I guess. But I get to derive entertainment from it, and he’s not a real person, he’s a celebrity right? Well my brother was listening to 96 Rock, our local radio station which kicks major ass and sucessfully Pwn3d every noob ass competitor in the listening area. Well this dude named Menut comes on and sings songs he writes about current events, and they’re always really funny, and this was no exception. This has to be one of the funniest he has ever come up with. Go give it a listen here, you will enjoy yourself.

And it’s getting about that time of year again. You know the time right? When people go bat shit crazy for a month and a half over Christmas. Our neighbors have their huge, gaudy decorations up, just large enough to attract Santa’s attention if he happens to be flying by … IN SPACE! We already have a radio station that is playing non stop Christmas music. Call me a grinch, but I don’t really like Christmas, and I absolutely hate Christmas music. The whole thing sucks. I like eggnog a lot though, so I deal with the rest of that shit.

Anyway so Sami, my sister-in-law, loooooooooooooves Christmas music. You might say, she even hearts it. So I woke up wicked hungover this morning noon, and the first thing I hear is Jingle Bells coming from the living room. GAH! No it can’t be? What the hell is that awful audio torture? Not holiday spirit! Not this early in the afternoon. Gah! Why me God? Take me now and spare me the torment! This is why emo’s exist God! Ahhhhhh! (moan moan, bitch bitch, etc) But I do have to give Sami credit for introducing me to Dominic the Donkey. I’ve never heard this particular diddy before now,a nd I have to say, nothing goes together quite like Christ’s birth, yankee Italians, and a fucking donkey! Wait, what the fuck. You are probably wondering why the hell there would be an Italian Christmas donkey. Well the answer is so that a bunch of yankees could get together and make this video, a comedic masterpiece if ever there were one.

Another craptastic factor to my waking up was the worst case of eye boogers I have ever had. Nate and Sami decided they no longer want a popcorn ceiling in the living room and so we tore all that down, mudded up the ceiling, and are in the process of sanding so we can repaint pretty much the entire house. I could explain it to you, but you will get the eye booger thing a lot better if I just show you, so without further adieu, let the show begin.

the badlands of our livingroom.you can see how this might suckand here comes the eye crustiesbros being brosI'm a honkey coon!

Hahahahaha, I’m a honkey coon! That cracks me up. But that’s enough racial slur jokes for now. Have a good weekend world. I’ll be here cleaning and working on this project, what exciting plans do you have?

A little post edit here, I always go back and reread my posts a while after I post them to make sure everything makes sense and isn’t retarded. And while I was doing so for this post, I took a gander at that there last photo and I’ll be damned if I don’t look mighty manly! I could so work with Mike Rowe on Dirty Jobs.

Reliability is a two edged sword.

So I don’t mean to brag on myself here, but I’m a pretty hard worker. I bust my ass, and I do a damn good job at whatever I happen to be doing for money. I suppose the home-type work is a lot slacker and usually involves loud music, a casual pace, and frequent breaks to eat/sleep/check internet addictions. And It often doesn’t get finished in one sitting, no matter how small the task. But at work, I keep up a hard pace and I turn out quality results.

There are good and bad things about having a good work ethic. First off, there’s the good old intangible self satisfaction of doing a good job. I know this sounds very Leave-It-To-Beaver, but I do feel better about myself after doing a good job than I do after slacking off or leaving a half assed job for a customer to look at and sigh, and cluck their tongues, and wag their mental fingers at my product in shame. Secondly, there’s the much more tangible result of having your boss recognize your work, praise you for it, lord it over your slack ass coworkers shitty work to their faces, and hook you up with a sweet raise when your evaluation comes around. And I’ve got one of the best bosses ever, so he really does thank me for doing a good job. This is a new and invigorating experience for me, seeing as most of my previous bosses were, how you say, ballands. Before this job, my hard work was, at worst, recognized by a taser to the face followed by a purple nurple and an Indian burn, and at best by the occasional, “keep it up”.

There are however some down sides to working hard. The most obvious would be the fact that you actually have to work hard all the time. And hard work isn’t easy, so that sucks. Also, when you work harder than the people around you, you set a standard for yourself that you are expected to keep up all the time. Doesn’t matter if you are sick, or hungover, or just plain tired, you’d better be getting stuff done, or the boss man will notice. Fortunately for me, I have the sort of job where when I’m too tired I can just tell my boss to fuck off and leave me alone, and he usually will. We construction types cuss like pirates, and generally understand the occasional slow pace in the morning time.

The last, and most annoying down side to working hard is that whenever something needs to be done extra fast, or especially well, or some higher than average standard needs to be met, you are the one who gets called on to do so. Reliability is a two edged sword, and that bitch is sharp.

Let me illustrate by spinning a yarn from earlier today. Tomorrow our road tech is going out to do some really easy work that requires two men, but will be a piece of cake. I did not get sent out with him because my boss wants to get as much as possible done in our yard to catch up from the four day weekend. Hey no big deal, I like working in the yard better anyway. I don’t have to hang out with the dorky road tech, go me. But Thursday, there’s a killer service call all the way out at the beach, two hours away at least. And it will take all day to finish with two men. So I get chosen to go with him on that job because my boss knows I will bust ass and finish as quick as possible. But this means I have to get picked up from my home at five o’clock in the morning, the butt crack of dawn. Nay, before the butt crack of dawn, which is at six thirty, when I usually wake up. And I have to ride all the way to the beach in a van that smells like swamp balls, with an anime fan who stinks like his wife hasn’t discovered soap, with a ladder on top that emits a skull shaking tone as the wind whips through it. It’s like a headache machine. A sadistic evil headache machine. And when we get there, I have to work from seven-ish to somewhere between four and six, and then drive another two hours back, unload the van, and drive home from there. This means I could very well be working a fifteen hour day. Damn my stupid work ethic for making me get assigned jobs like this!

And here’s the best part: I get to spend these fifteen hours with an uberdork. Let me just say, he’s a serious Christian. Now before you go getting your chastity belts twisted, I realize there are some Christians who aren’t dorks. But y’all often do have a tendency to get a little Ned Flanders-ish. Admit it. It’s ok to be like Ned Flanders, it’s just kind of annoying for everyone else. With that established, he likes to edit his language all the time. So he goes around saying such phrases as, “man that crap was messed up” and “Who the heck fixed this junk.” Stop it please, you sound retarded. Just cuss like everyone else in our entire industry or go teach a daycare. No joke, we all think that stuff is fraggin dumber than poo you weiner headed fracktard. Of course when he gets pissed off, he cusses just like everyone else, but then he apologizes like we’re the fucking pope and we care or something. And he has the balls to complain about our music having too much profanity, but he listens to video game theme songs. No shit, like the sound track to virginity. Does it get any more annoying than two hours of the score from Final Fantasy? Answer: hell no.

He’s also a serious video game freak. He plays World of Warcraft all the time. And not only that, but he insists on talking about it in public. Seriously Joe, nobody cares how much you hate gnomes. Likewise, please refrain from informing us about any and all farming/weapons/magic attacks/magical items/magic in general/guild news/or absolutely anything about World of Warcraft as a whole. You can play it if you really wnat to, just never tell us about it. And don’t get me started on the anime thing. Dear lord, why? He’s literally got hundreds of anime movies. If you aren’t familiar with anime, just imagine the worlds laziest animator teaming up with a cast of mentally retarded translators and voice actors, to make a movie about something only a Japanese lunatic with Alzheimer’s could possibly conceive. Gahhhhh, I hate anime!

And on top of that he never lifts his feet off the ground when he walks, he constantly complains about how pussy whipped he is, and he talks about church all the time. Dude, how many times must I tell you, I’m never, ever, ever going back. You can do whatever you want, but I think the odds of going to hell are actually higher if you go to church. I mean, God never goes, why should I? And he can’t think about more than one thing at a time. He asks the same question four or five times before he remembers what you told him, and if anything at all, like keys for instance, distracts him, he immediately forgets whatever you just said and completely screws up whatever he was doing. In the last week he 1) almost burnt down our office by hooking up electricity completely wrong after being reminded FIVE times to do it a certain way, (seriously, we only caught the outlet melting and beginning to smoke a few minutes before we all left), 2) did the exact same thing the next day, except I checked behind him, and 3) spewed freezing water all over one of our coworkers because he thought he had turned the water off, but was in fact just an idiot.

And apparently the woman who runs this place we’re fixing is incredibly demanding and stands there whilst you work offering helpful, yet completely ignorant suggestions on how you should be doing your job. I don’t do well with that sort of thing. I tend to freak out and rant, if you haven’t noticed. Also, I cuss a lot, and I burp, fart, and tell vulgar yet entertaining stories while I work. Please wish me luck as I try to not only keep my job, but refrain from punching someone in the ovaries. Maybe I’ll luck out and she will at least be hot, but in the construction industry, the odds are pretty slim. (and of course by slim, I don’t mean in some sort of thin attractive way, I mean in the overweight, mannish, bull dyke sort of way)