Job Desciption

The other week one of the managers of Hell was walking around asking employees what they were going to do to help the store that day. I suppose discussing the various stages of drying paint or whatever it is the managers talk about all day had run its course. My answer was honest, which is never a good thing at work:



"I'm going to focus on ringing."



She looked at me like I had just smeared shit on her chest or something. Suffice it to say, she didn't seem too satisfied with my answer. After reviewing her clipboard (she literally had one, Zeepdoggie) I noticed other associates saying the programmed responses of adding clothes or credit and such.



Nestled in that list of bullshit my answer looked like it came from a mentally subnormal rat. The manager (she of the head that whistles as she walks due to absence of matter between the ears) implied that my answer was not satisfactory.



I internally turned the red switch to MOTHER FUCKING ENRAGED.



"What am I going to do to help the company?! I'll do my fucking job you useless bag of overly tanned skin! I mean to say, what is my job description? I'm a ringer. What do ringers do? They fucking ring. What kind of fucking idiotic quiz were you giving out, you with the intellect of a shriveled monkey testicle? I get paid to perform a specific task within the boundaries set by a guidebook, and perform that task excellently; so don't judge me as being lazy or stupid just because I couldn't care less about this job as it isn't my career. Loosen the pigtails because they are obviously too tight and cutting off circulation to the dried and blackened husk of a gerbil on a rusted wheel that is your brain!"



Instead I did what I said I would do, I rang. I really have not point other than it feels good to feel the rage sometimes. Its like a shot of good coffee. Mmm...good.



::GringO::

052

Today is my birthday! Yay! My mum woke me at 0442 to let me know just what was going on at that time 32 years ago. She doesn’t skimp on the details, either. I don’t think bacon and eggs will go down so smoothly now. Best stick with cereal. Cheerios, since they don't turn the milk any weird colors.

So, thirty-two… For those that can, what do/did you dig about thirty-two? It’s a cool number, all rounded and soft-looking. Cool facts about 32 are also welcome.

I’m feeling pretty good so far. 31 was bad; you’ve read some of the crap that got posted last year, you know about it. But it’s not 31 anymore! I am one better than Baskin-Robbins!

My birthday is the only day of the year where I try to think of myself in a 100% positive light. I don't feel selfish for buying myself something; I don't reflect on all the bad shit that has happened, is happening, or will potentially happen; and I try to forget all the times I was a jerk. It's a reminder of the possibility that we all start with of being good people. On my birthday, I bring that to the front of my brain.

“So what are you doing for your birthday?” I am going to my German class, then coming home. I’ll have lunch with the world’s greatest photographer, then go to work with the kiddies. After that, it’s off to Borders for my birthday shopping spree and free dessert! Then home to put the finishing touches on any homework assignments, make a phone call or two, grab one of my new books and hit the sheets.

Yeah, I know how to party.

There will be a celebration later; the Cock-Sucking Mohican is hosting a party for D and me, since our birthdays are a day (well, two years and a day) apart. It will be a good time. Hey, you wanna come?

-Zeepdoggie

For Your Consideration

• Since I find Maggie Gyllenhaal exceptionally beautiful, does that mean that I would settle for Jake?
• My brother Zeepjoey has as much self respect as a crack whore. On second thought, maybe less; at least a crack whore has a job.
• It always bothers me when talentless hacks are famous. I have no talents; where are my millions?
• Some people are famous now because there wasn't a whole lot going on at the time that they came out. I call this "the Van Morrison Effect." Zeepmomma says I could've called it "the Steve and Edie Effect," but I don't know who the fuck they are. I would probably prefer them to Van, however.
• Do winos still drink wine exclusively? if they don't, shouldn't we call them something else?
• Music is a faith; karaoke is a cult.
• The Beatles are like walking hand in hand in the park on a lovely spring day. The Rolling Stones are like drunkenly fucking in an alley during a full moon.
• There need to be more midget cover bands. I can see it now: Weetallica; 3'11"; Lovin' Teaspoonful. I could go on and on...
• I really must stop with the crushes on my professors.
• I really hope 32 doesn't suck.

-Zeepdoggie

Happy Valentine's Day

I want your sweat
Staining my skin
Marking my sin.

I want to be drenched
In your
-warm
-soft
-wet
rain.

Make my heart
Bruise against my bones.

Deafen me with your moans.
Burn me in your embrace.
Suffocate me deep inside you.
Kill me, just a little.

Make me a fallen angel;
Rend my back;
Scar me;
Tear out my wings.

-Zeepdoggie

Happy VD! Part 1

In the spirit of the holiday, and GringO’s inspiring story of doc-on-patient love, I have decided to share a story of medical intrigue and supreme embarrassment on my part. Plus, my balls have the starring role, which I know you all love! In a more figurative sense, of course.

This was just under two years back. I was going to the VA doc to get my annual check-up, to be sure that I was still the specimen of physical perfection that I am known to be. Every man out there knows about the joys of the hernia check, but once you get to a certain age, there comes along a new torture: the testicular cancer check. When this was first demonstrated to me by a Navy doc, I thought, shit, I’ve could’ve been using that as an excuse all that time! “No ma, I’m palpating the region and checking for abnormal growth!” There was plenty of normal growth already!

So doc is palpating the region, I’ve turned my head and coughed, and he says that he’s going to go ahead and check for anything abnormal. He asks if I’ve been checking myself regularly. I say, “Doc, you could time a soufflé with my checks!”
It is then that he stops palpating and says, “Hello…”
When a doc has his balls in your hands, you’re hoping for silence, or at least some medical jargon, not a greeting. So I say, “Uh, hi?”
He then says, “I found something!”
I come to on the examining table, and he’s looking at me and he says, “Yeah, I probably could’ve put that better…”
Why God, do I always get the doc with a sense of humor?
So he tells me he found something, and that I should go to dermatology.

I go to my dermatology appointment, and they tell me to strip. You all know me; I am so very shy. JK, LOL!!

The doc walks in, and it’s this incredibly gorgeous intern from UIC. She’s tall, brunette, slightly Asian…she reminded me of Asia Carrera. Yeah, definitely not a bad thing. And she says she needs to examine me, and check and see what it is on my schnuts. So I lift up the gown, and she does the cruelest thing ever done to me by a woman I haven’t slept with.

She drops to her knees, grabs my thunder, and then, in order to let light into her view, she tosses her head sharply to the right, flicking her hair out of the way.

For the women that don’t know, to a guy that is the signal for, “I am going to suck your cock, and I want you to watch.”

The rest of the examination was very, very difficult for me. When she finished, I wanted to stop her and say, “About your bedside manner…”

It turned out to be nothing more than an infected ingrown hair, and a lancing took care of it. A lancing performed by a very unsexy doc with short hair, and balls of his own. No hair flip there, thank God.

-Zeepdoggie

'Tis the Season

Retail during the holidays. Yay.

All of our customers have one thing on their minds: size. Size of bags, boxes, and other stuff.
“You could fit four small children in this bag. Sounds good for Christmas!”
Customer: “Are your boxes big?”
Me: “Oh, yeah! Our boxes are really deep!”

And as we all know, selling is all about sexy!

Hot Wheels, to attractive female customer and whether she should buy an ivory coat:
“It depends on the person. It depends on, uh…well, how dirty you get.” (smiles lecherously).

Watching a customer walk away, with the Cock-Sucking Mohican:
“Her legs are thinner than my dick. Which is pretty thin for a leg but pretty thick for…hey, where are you going?

“My breath is kicking like a drowning whore.”

“No exchanges in Hell. This isn’t Wall Street!”

There’s your random blather concerning the holidays in Hell. Are you happy now?

::GringO::

The Underworld Series

Heart Burn

Just recently, Wendy posted a blog that really hit home with me. You should read it, because it deals with a phenomenon that we all know, and that I fear and enjoy just a little bit.

I fear it because it makes me feel weak. It makes me think that there is something broken (unlike my normal broken) and I get frustrated because I can’t fix it. After a while, I do get weak physically, like I’ve just been exposed to my own personal Kryptonite. And I don’t like things being unexplained. Why did she come up today, right now? I wasn’t listening to our song, I didn’t go to any of our places; hell, I wasn’t even daydreaming about any of the stuff that I daydreamed about when we were what we were. But there she is, a phoenix rising from the dead fires that she burned me in.

And I think about calling her. I still have her number; I never delete numbers from my phone, since the only thing that ever encourages me to throw anything away is there’s no room for it. Or it smells funny, or doesn’t fit anymore; but that doesn’t apply to phone numbers. Anyone I have ever called, I have their number somewhere. So you better believe that I have her number. Especially if she’s a her.

Maybe I’m thinking about her for a reason. I forget how much bullshit I think fate is and maybe that this sudden intrusion in my life is actually some kind of intervention, an inspiration to act, to call. Maybe…

But I am not going to, because it’s wrong on too many levels. It’s stalker-creepy for one. And it’s wrong for all the reasons that she and I are no longer we.

And do I really want to risk hearing a guy answer her phone?

*

But I also like it when it happens, a little bit. It brings me back to those times when things were good with us, and I was making her happy. When we had our thing that only we did. Before acrimony, before defeat: when everything was warm and red-gold; and sunrises were sweet because of the promise of a day with her in it; and sunsets were even sweeter for the new memories we created and the promise of another sunrise bringing a tomorrow that may be even better than this perfect day.

It’s a reminder of just how awesome and real and powerful that particular happiness is, and that nothing else matters but loving and being loved. It reminds me that you can live a dream.

It also reminds me that you have to wake up.


-Zeepdoggie

Milk Fed Lies

::GringO::

Google Is My Bitch

This is too cool. I am way too psyched about this.

1. Enter the world's greatest photographer into the Google searchbar. Quotation marks are not required.

2. Look at who's site is NUMBER ONE ON THE LIST!

3. Know that the only reason why it is so is because I made it so!

It's amazing to me to think about it, but apparently I possess the power to fuck with the internet. I am a god of electrons!

Now that I am a god, when do I get to start smiting shit? Cuz I have a list here, all ready to go...

"I fuck you!" in a German nihilistic voice, "I fuck you, internet!"

I'm going to smile about this all week...

-Zeepdoggie

You Scurvy Zeepdogg, You!

Just so we are clear, we are now seven years into the 21st century. I wanted everyone to clear out of whatever haze they may be in and know this for what I am about to say.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that my energy was really low. I was lethargic and sluggish, some mornings I was incapable of getting out of bed. Now, for those in the know, Zeepdoggie is a pretty energetic li’l monkey. I like to move it-move it, as we say here in Z-town. And I am a morning person, much to the chagrin of anyone who has ever slept over.

Then I started to get these aches in my joints and muscles. Not just sore aches, but really dull pains that would last for hours. It would hurt to type, or to hold a book. A little bit after that, I started to get pains in my mouth and my gums were bleeding a lot.

When blood is gushing out of my mouth without the presence of a fist, Zeepdoggie hightails it to the doc, toot sweet.

So I go to the health center at College, and wait for a while and see the doc. I tell him what’s going on, and he looks at me, and asks me if I’ve lost weight. I said that I didn’t know, since I don’t own a scale (sometimes it’s awesome not living with a woman); he says I look like I have, so I get weighed.

The last time I checked my weight, I was at 167, which is a little underweight for a man my age, but I don’t mind, since America just got fatter around me. I am at 145. I’m roughly 25 lbs underweight.

Doc looks at me and says, “You have scurvy.”
I replied, in the only way I know how, “Yar?”
He informs me that one in three college students on our campus are malnourished, usually from poor diet choices or simple lack of food (I figured I was down to about five meals a week at this point). My symptoms are in line with scurvy, which he says he sees, “all the time.”

So he tells me to get a lot of vitamin C, since my scurvy is pretty advanced. He says I should be concerned, since scurvy will kill you dead, without fail. He gave me some vitamin C tablets and some homeopathic remedies and sent me on my way.

I still am not fully recovered, because scurvy wipes you out pretty good, but I am feeling much better; my energy is up, and I no longer feel the need to shout “Avast!” and have a parrot poop on my shoulder. It’s embarrassing to have a disease that was essentially cured by the 19th century, but in a way I am proud of it. I mean, how many people do you know with scurvy? See… And now I feel like a real old salt sailor, thanks to my ailment. It’s like now I’ve earned the right to say, “Yar!” since I am a scurvy dog!

-Scurvdoggie

For more info, click here. It could save your life. Or you could just eat an orange every once in awhile.

What I Can vs. Who I Am

I can be a jerk. I can be an asshole. I can do horrible things. I can say things and can do things that upset and frustrate people. I can be rude and selfish. I can tell lies to get myself out of trouble. I can be crude and crass and can be very opinionated. I can yell and scream and pout to get my way. I have hurt people’s feelings, and will likely do so in the future.

But that’s not what I do all the time. And it is not who I am.

If you know me, then you know that. If you don’t, then you probably won’t stick around long enough to find out. I wish you would, because I like having friends and I like knowing new people and making them happy; but if my bad behavior is too much for you, then it’s best that you don’t stick around. Some folks don’t think I am worth the time and effort that it may take to get to know me. That makes me sad, even though it’s happened a hundred times if it has happened once. It makes me sad because no one thinks they’re a son of a bitch, even in the face of apparently overwhelming evidence. Eichmann thought he was an all right guy; I’m sure Custer thought he was the bee’s knees. I’d like to think of myself as being better than those two, at least on a karmic level, but like them my bad behavior is often unnoticed by me, until I have had some time for introspection.

And I can be a son of a bitch (with all respect to Zeepmomma, of course). But I am not a son of a bitch. In the great consideration of my personality, I’m not even an asshole. I am more than what I do; I am better than what I share with most people.

For those that jump ship, I’ll miss you. For those that stay with me, I thank you, and apologize in advance, for doing what I can, and not always being who I am.

-Zeepdoggie

Happy Birthday GringO!

Happy Birthday, GringO! He’s twenty-three, everybody! Can you believe it? All growed up, just about. And what do we have to show for it? Well, there are pics from his birthday bash! I only have two, because other folks had cameras, notably Wheels, who will hopefully share the images they have of that night with me so I can share them with you. Here are the pics that I have. Actually, the other pic is too dark, so I guess I just have the one. Aren't we cute?

But what I do have to share with you are some random quotes that came up that night that I feel I should share with you all.
And away we go!

“Everybody’s face looks Asian from far away…”

“I’m bringing my flask to work!”
“Your what?!”
“My FLASK!”
“Oh, I thought you said ‘Flash,’ like your Flash costume.”

“I am not an asshole; I am a dick, because dicks fuck pussies and assholes. If they didn’t, the world would be covered in shit.”

“He called me a Jeffersonian!”
“aHaH!”

“So, Nietzsche…”
"Yeah…those wacky Germans!”

After that, it all got really drunk.

Happy birthday, GringO! Did you get what you wanted?

-Zeepdoggie

Thirty One What?

Thirty-one. 31. Einunddreißig. What can be said about this number?

• It’s an ugly number. I mean, just look at it. No consistent form, no flow, it even sounds wrong. Go ahead and say it. Uck.

• It’s prime.

• Seven of the months end with it.

• It’s been the second-worst year of my life, which is almost over. Not that 32 is looking to brighten up anytime soon, but thirty didn’t look good from two months away, and that was a banner year for ol’ Zeepdoggie.

• Baskin Robbins has 31 flavors.

• Halloween is on the 31st of October.


Anyone else know anything about 31?

-Zeepdoggie

No Child Left Behind-The Football Version

1. All teams must make the state playoffs and all MUST win the championship. If a team does not win the championship, they will be on probation until they are the champions, and coaches will be held accountable.

If after two years they have not won the championship their footballs and equipment will be taken away UNTIL they do win the championship.

2. All kids will be expected to have the same football skills at the same time even if they do not have the same conditions or opportunities to practice on their own.
NO exceptions will be made for lack of interest in football, a desire to perform athletically, or genetic abilities or disabilities of themselves or their parents.

3. ALL KIDS WILL PLAY FOOTBALL AT A PROFICIENT LEVEL!

4. Talented players will be asked to workout on their own, without instruction. This is because the coaches will be using all their instructional time with the athletes who aren't interested in football, have limited athletic ability or whose parents don't like football.

5. Games will be played year round, but statistics will only be kept in the 4th, 8th, and 11th game.

6. It will create a New Age of Sports where every school is expected to have the same level of talent and all teams will reach the same minimum goals.

If no child gets ahead, then no child gets left behind.

7. If parents do not like this new law, they are encouraged to vote for vouchers and support private schools that can screen out the non-athletes and prevent their children from having to go to school with bad football players.

You know, if someone explained it like this to W., he might actually see the problems with NCLB.

-Zeepdoggie

My Dishes

Lately I have not been able to muster up the drive to wash dirty dishes. Possibly it is due to this idea that slithers around in the back of my mind: what is the point?

You can try to clean dishes so well. Soak, scour, rinse, dry, polish, everything it takes to make them ready for the next meal even though afterward your hands are chapped, cracked and bleeding. Then comes the inherent problem. The next meal just makes the dishes dirty again.

If you don't wash the dishes they pile up. Some bits harden and cling to the dishes, solid and almost a part of the dish. Sometimes the dishes become stained from use, besmirched by a powerful and thick hue in the meal. As they stay there, untouched, unwashed, bacteria cultures, organic elements decay and rot, creating a foul odor about your dishes.

What is the alternative? Disposable plates? But then your old dishes still stay dirty and what you have now is not really yours. It does not require responsibility and ownership for one's dishes. Out of the package, used for a single meal, then thrown away.

Maybe we need someone to wash our dishes for us if we cannot do it ourselves. Someone who does not mind cleaning up after the last snack, meal or feast. This would be ideal if we could find that person and actually allow them to wash our dishes. But ultimately it would be an unfulfillable and one sided arrangement. All giving on one side, consuming and discarding, with only receiving on the other, endlessly cleaning up another person's mess.

I think the answer is to look for someone who's dishes you would not mind cleaning, in exchange for them washing yours. Though my dishes are now still sitting in the sink, untouched by me, I can only hope that one day they will be clean again.

::GringO::

So Sad, and So Tempting...

By my birthday, I may just want one of these.


Oh God, how I hope not...


-Zeepdoggie

Fuckin' Mozart...

So what do I do with the greatest musical talent to ever live? I have his concerti on the iPod, and I am getting to hear them now, and they are perfect. Simply perfect; not a bad note, nothing out of place; tones where there should be tones, silences where there should be silences, not one goddamned thing unnecessary or missing. And you know that the conductor and the orchestra step it up a notch or three when they’re playing Mozart, so I am getting virtuoso level performances from the fourth chair trombone…

So what do I do about old Wolfy? Do I just quit now and claim whatever he writes as the best I’ve ever heard? In a word, no; and here’s why.

First of all, he was so good, that if he wanted to make you cry, you would cry. Mozart makes you feel what he wants you to feel. And that sucks for the purpose of The Project. I want to feel something beyond the purpose of the composition, something that works no matter what mood I am in. And since WA Mozart changes my mood to suit his themes, I can’t consider anything he’s written as the greatest song I have ever heard.

Also, he underutilizes the cello, my favorite instrument in the orchestra. Now Shostakovich, there’s a composer who knows how to work a cello…

While Wolfy will make the top 25, no contest, he won’t take home top honors, which, were he alive and all the rumors about his fantastic ego be true and he actually read my pap, would just piss him off.


-Zeepdoggie

Sharing the Joy of the Holidays! Part I

GringO and I have decided to share out Christmas stories with you all. I hope that his is longer, because mine is really short. You ready?

I couldn’t go to the Christmas Eve festivities of my family because I had to get to the Zeep family compound by 1400 in order to meet the RDV of 1600 at Zeepspunky’s house. She is my oldest and shortest sister, except in attitude; there she is the biggest member of the family, and I oh so love her for it!
Anyway, the job wouldn’t let me get out any earlier than 1600, so you see the conflict in the plan. I called my folks and told them to go without me.

So I worked until closing in Hell with Wheels. I went home and read for a little bit, tried to call some folks and didn’t get through, and went to sleep.

Christmas Day I went to the parental abode, did laundry and went home.

And that was Christmas.


-Zeepdoggie