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How Do You Say "Sucker" in Sign Language?

2002-09-21 - 1:11 p.m.

Ok. Saturday. Saturday morning. Here we are. There you are. I’m at the Wallakers. Ok, well actually, it’s called G. Willikers. But the cock eaters that I call customers call it a variety of things: “G. Wallakers”, “G. Winklers”, “G. Whiskers”, “G. W. Willikers”, “Gee Whiz Willikers”, “”G. Jimminy Jillikers”, "Train Store”, and my personal favorite, “Art Emporium”. I was going to try to write a whole entry before Allison got here, but then Jim had to show up and deliver unto me 13 boxes of Lights, Camera, Interaction! - (get it? instead of “Action”, it’s “Interaction!” Get it? Give me a break, it’s a stupid wooden puzzle company from Westport, CT - so they can’t help being lame). Anyway, as I wolf down my bagel, while washing my 700th Amoxicillin and Ibuprofen cocktail with milk, I will try to write as much as I can before it’s time to open this Mom and Pop (A Cap In Your Ass) Store up.

Did I ever mention that D-Rock got married? I don’t think I did. It all happened so quick. Well, not really. Jeff had called me on my birthday to invite Ben and I to D-Rock’s bachelor party that weekend (well, and to wish me a happy birthday of course), but it was kinda short notice, and we ended up going to Kelly’s in Wells anyway. BUT, with Bachelor Showers come Wedding Flowers . . . or something. So now D-Rock and Melanie are married. I wonder if their kids will look anything like their aunt (D-Rock’s sister), who, for the uninitiated, looks like D-Rock in drag. Ok, so there you go - I mentioned it - D-Rock and Melanie got married. Good for them.

Speaking of marriages, it looks like the Single Clock for ol’ Molly has ticked down to just about zero. As male teeth gnash across the country over that sentiment Molly is getting prepared to hunker down in her wooded stronghold next weekend for the wedding of the century (except not really, since there’s no WAY they’ll be able to top Chad and Mackenzie’s . . . unless they have a monkey. I love Chad and Mackenzie, but they didn’t have a monkey). I say, Congratualtions to Molly and. . . her groom, who’s name escapes me because I think I’ve only heard it, like three times. I think it’s Dave. But maybe not. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Mike or Matt though, that’s what everyone’s boyfriend / fiance / life partner is named nowadays. Anyway, a hearty congratulations to Molly and Dave and whatever their last name may be. . .

Man, a month ago we were smack dab in the middle of a wacktacular trip across the good ol’ U. S. of A. Specifically, we had finagled our way out of Yitc Radec (a name so evil I must spell it backwards) and made our way to the promised land of Vegas! Ahh. . . hose were the days - bottomless wine, bloody ankles, and bright lights and empty wallets. I’m glad we weren’t there at the same time as those ho’s from RW were. The skank quotient would have been through the roof.

Ok, it’ time to open this hellhole. I’ll be back later. **An hour and a 1/2 later*** Did I say 13 boxes? Well I guess I meant 20. Argh. And you can guess that it was about as much fun as herpes to put it all out. PLUS, the oversized novelty puzzle piece sign that says “Lights, Camera, Interaction!” that sits atop the puzzle spin rack attacked me! Attacked me I say! No seriously, it gouged a huge slice out of the bottom knuckle of my right index finger. There was even blood! Too bad Tracey the Goatfucker wasn’t around to kiss the boo-boo. Probably too busy fucking goats if I know her. Anyway, it was pretty stupid to wear my new sweatshirt to work. I knew I’d be hot. But it’s so new and new smelling and hood and deep front pocket with stitched sides and new and I love it so much. Sigh.

So I’m wating outside my Writing class yesterday. Sitting there, in one of those chair/desks in the basement of Ham-Smith. The Philosophy class that meets in that room before mine still has 10 more minutes so I’m just sitting there trying to keep my eyes open and not doing a very good job of it. All of a sudden this huge behemoth of a man, dressed in a purple shirt and white jeans comes gallumphing around the corner from the direction of the Philosophy department. He is coming right towards me and as much as I want to make pretend I’m already engaged in a discussion with the water fountain over the differences in beliefs of Thales and Protagoras, he makes eye contact. He has what looks like a bunch of little pamphelts in his oversized paw. He takes one of the pink sheets, which I know see are no bigger than a playing card and hands one to me. I instinctively say “Thank you” and wait for him to leave before I look at the card. Who knows what kind of crazy message will be on the card? Join the French Club? Smith Hall Luncheon? Last Day for Add/Drop? Join the Church of Latter Day Saints? (Hey, it wouldn’t be *that* strange, there’s a guy with a cooler full of Gideon bibles every morning on campus that tells me that Jesus Loves Me every time I get off the bus - not the worst way to start the day I guess, but I digress. . .) So I’m waiting for the Purple Pie Man to walk away and he’s just standing there - staring at me. So I say “Thanks a lot. Have a good one.” And he smiles. And then I smile. And then the water fountain gurgles. [And then Maggie cried - she’s such a little trooper!] So, with little other options, I decide to look at the little pink ticket, while hoping against hope that I haven’t been infected (via the piece of paper) with that lethal flesh eating disease that killed all those people in The Stand. Phew - no flesh eating, but almost something just as bad:

[Sesame Street's Linda would never pull this shit!]

Ok, what? I mean, what? Ok - first of all, how is this legal? Well, I mean, I guess it’s legal, but it’s definitely not allowed in an academic building on campus (nor Brooks Pharmacy parking lot, they STRICTLY enforce loitering AND soliciting - trust me). I mean, I *do* feel sorry for the guy, but he has to know he’s duping/guilting people into buying these things. I mean, he GIVES them to you and you’ve pretty much ALREADY purchased it before you even realize what the fuck you’ve purchased. “Any Donation”, huh? How about that petrified earwig I keep in my backpack? How about my irrational fear of glass tables? How about my delightful case of “ennui”? No?! Ok, fine - how about just a dollar? Well, that’s what I gave him. A dollar. And he simply put his fingers by his mouth and made a downwards circular motion with them which I’m guessing is either sign language for “Thank You” or “God you're a sucker you stupid fuck.” Either way, he went on to the next three kids and pulled the same racket with them. Man, he must be the richest fat deaf guy I’ve ever met. Although, as I was finally entering class I did hear this kid from my class saying to him “What’s sign language for ‘Sorry, I’m broke.’?”

So I went into class and it was generally boring. But two things I would like to mention about it are: 1. There is this huge girl (I’m on a new kick of trying not to say “fat”) in my class who always wears a t-shirt with a band or a singer on it each day. Which would be fine if she at least had the good sense to try to fit into some sort of pre-existing stereotype of music fans. Oh no, she’s gotta fuck with my head. A sampling of shirts she has worn since classes started: Linkin Park, Radiohead, The Beatles, Eminem, and Counting Crowes. It’s like some sort of freaky mutant version of Me, Hannah, Jeff, Kate, and Real World New York Mike. Ewwww. . . that is freaky. (Especially given that Mike is merely a smooshed together version of Rich and D-Rock.) Oh good, D-Rock is a good segue into the second thing . . . 2. There’s this really hot girl in my class (who, going against my type of the last 3 months, ISN’T blonde - thank god -) who always says these two phrases - “Rock On!” and “That’s what I’m sayin’” She says both of these phrases all of the time. To us, to herself, to our professor. Doesn’t matter. For example: A kid walked into our class halfway through the hour the other day. He was clearly in the wrong room. He smiled, said he was sorry and quickly left. She says, “Rock on man, rock on.” The girl next to me says, “Boy couldn’t have been more lost.” (that’s how UNH people talk - a mix of Yoda and Ghetto) And then hot girl says, “That’s what I’m sayin’.” Except that’s NOT what she was saying - SHE was saying “Rock on man, rock on.” Whatever - she’s hot so I don’t care if she makes sense.

Another thing about class, when I get bored in class, or stressed out I start to bite/pick at my nails. I’ve been trying to catch myself as much as possible but they’ve definitely been “thinned” again. They are by no means the bloody stumps they used to be, but I will have to work at getting them back up to where they were. Carrey would be so sad. She’s coming back next month for Shara’s wedding so maybe she’ll come visit me at the store so I can finally meet Evren. I will have plenty of time to get my nails back into shape by then.

And then comes November 1st. That’s right, I finally got in touch with Dr. R’s office and made an appointment (on Thursday since they are CLOSED Wednesdays - lame). Yeah, the appointment is a lot later than I’d like it to be (and technically right after the Halloween deadline that he gave me) but oh well, perhaps I’ll get extra pain killers out of all of this. My vicodin is finally all gone and it makes me sad, but the rockin’ Roxicet is the new kid on the block. (Not Jordan though - he looks like a monkey man - but not Shawn Jobin, a different kind). So yeah, 7 AM, Friday November 1st. That’s when it all comes down. Ugh. At least Chamber of Secrets will be coming out when I am recovering. I am so not looking forward to this.

Mmmmm . . . lunch time. Turkey sandwich Au Bon Pain. Mmmmm. Just ran into Jeff and Amy. They said they want to do something tonight - which would be fun. Rich and Jimbo are down too, and are with Ben at the beach as I write this - screw them. Liz may come up tonight and Hannah may come down. We’ll see. We’ll see. I like that Barley pub we went to last time, but I’m guessing it’s more of a Portsmouth night, especially since Jeff wants us to see his new place. Portsmouth? Jeff? Let’s hope nothing goes wrong. Not that I get thrown out of a bar *every* time I’m with Jeff, but it doesn’t usually help matters. Again, we’ll see.

It’s been real,

The Ghost of Brandeen

ps - I find it more than merely coincidental that Stephen King appears on the cover of Entertainment Weekly looking like a warmed-over Fred Robie on the same day that Fred Robie turns into a Quarter-of-a-Century Man. Those Maine freaks, always in cahoots!

pps - G. Willikers is starting up a boy band since we just hired new people for the cart and their names are Justin, Nick, J.C., and Howie.

ppps - Ok, I made up Howie and J.C. (although Jim is technically J.C. already). But we do have a Hayley! But. . . I guess that's more Polyanna than Boy Band huh?

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