2005-09-14 - 6:45 a.m.

Alright, let's get this bullroar out of the way now, shall we? There's been no entry detailing all the wiggity wack woogery of my bidet party because diaryland sucks like a self-righteous lesbian right now. (No offense to the self-righteous lesbians that I do like. Actually, I like most of you. It's the one that started a blood feud with me today that is going to wish she was never born with a silver subaru in her mouth) Diaryland won't answer any of my tech requests to get a larger image allotment. Sure, I could show you a quick pic of me and a Hounduran Milk Snake, or Aly & Hayley in the bouncy castle, or Monique and S. McGorts in said castle, but those are some of the only ones I uploaded before diaryland shit the proverbial bed. And that would be just a tease. So in order to make this entry work I'm calling out the big guns. Well, maybe they're small guns. But the point is, they already count towards my image allotment, so I better get used to some major recycling for the near future . . .
And now - anecdotes!

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Ryu here to introduce a lovely story about condoms! That right! Ryu said condoms! Nothing protects ancient mystical dragons like siberian yak skin! Or something!

1. At work, I've been known to help out those who can't purchase "spirits" on their own. And no, I don't mean ghosts. Well, Dustin, having been the reciepient of my goodwill in the past decided a few weeks ago to take it one step further. He asked if I'd pick him up some condoms. Despite the fact that he's plenty old enough to do so on his own (assuming that there's an 18 yr. old age limit on them, which I don't even know for sure). I told him flat out, no. He begged and pleaded. I still said no. I came up with several ideas. Buy them in another town if you're embarrassed. No. Ok, um . . . go on campus and grab some of the 7,000 free ones they give out. No. Um, (and I thought this was a real winner) go to the self-checkout at the grocery store and buy them on your own. His response? The self-checkout will break down and then someone will come fix it and see what I'm buying. I gave up. But didn't give in. I still wasn't picking him up condoms. He was on his own. Later that night, after he perused several websites online offering oodles of free condoms (as well as condom velour carrying cases, lube, etc.) he IMs me the link to show me the deal. It says free, it says a zillion condoms, I tell him, sure, can't hurt. Except it can. It can when he, out of fear due to still living with his parents, he put HIS name on it, but MY address. And then uses that address to sign up for all sorts of illicit mailing lists. All I can think of is that Simpsons at the beach house when Marge goes through the grocery bag Homer brought home - full of things he didn't really need just so he could buy illegal fireworks (i.e. - bourbon, porn, condoms, etc.) - Kenichi is going to pick up the mail first one day and to paraphrase Marge, "Zach, I don't know what you have planned for tonight, but count me out!" So yeah, the post master general of Rollinsford is gonna get some thrills these next few months.

Your good friend the pine martin here to tell you a tale of double employment woe.

2. Do you know just how broke I am? I don't think you do. I know Ben thinks I'm stiffing him on rent while I live a life of luxury with my feet up sipping lime rickeys and eating the finest canolis and grilled cheeses. Don't I wish! Anyway, I'm so broke, that I've had to cut back on comics (horrors!), beer (say it ain't so!) and pick up more hours at work. Let me expound on that last one a bit. I'll be working at the Diamond Mines now Monday - Saturday, open to close and I've picked up the Saturday night and Sunday shifts at another job. A job I am ashamed to admit but I am so broke I had to do it. No, not Spaulding Book and Video! Don't I wish! No, broke hat in hand, I'll be working weekend shifts at . . . wait for it . . . the wallakers! Sigh. Granted, all my fronds don't work there anymore, my former boss embizzybezzled all the money so he's gone, and they've even recruited Secret Crash! Not Crush! Crash! (I'm not going to explain who that is - you either remember the code words or you don't) I'm not exactly thrilled about it. But my car royally fucked me and wiped out my checking account. I'm paying the bills all on my own now. And who else is going to put money away for Kenichi's college fund? So if you're still trying to figure out how many hours I'll be working, I'll just tell you: roughly 61.5 And if you're still trying to figure out what my day off is, I'll just tell you: roughly never.

Holy crap! It's Don Herbert! A.K.A. - Mr Wizard! And he's here to introduce a spine tingling tale of ducks, Ducks, DUCKS!

3. So last Saturday I had to work this thing called "Ducker's Day." It sounds fun already doesn't it? And it was. If your definition of "fun" consists of listening to duck calls for 7 straight fucking hours while you sit under a Mercury tent and try to shill camo life jackets, duck boats, kayaks, canoes, tree snuggers (I don't feel like explaining), and other assorted fun business from work. Add to the fact that I was working Ducker's Day with my newest archnemesis. I'm not about to go into the reasons why, as they're long, complicated, and could get me fired in a Rollinsford minute. But the point is, I was dealing with back spasms all day, listening to those incessant fucking duck calls, constantly wondering about all the hi-jinx the Nicks and Matt were getting into back at work, fearing that my father would actually show up on his bike like he suggested he would. And we were at Wagon Hill. Which should have been enough to cheer me up. The backside of Wagon Hill is fucking beautiful! And they had a bouncy bus! (Which I didn't go in, but still . . .) And they had hot dogs! And burgers! And duck calls! Oh wait, scratch that last one. I hate duck calls. So yeah, I'm sitting there in the sun, with the person who has decided that she thought it was a good idea to start a blood feud with me. Will people NEVER learn that starting blood feuds with me are a super bad idea? Sigh. Anyway, so I was at the end of my ducky rope. And this kid comes up to me. And normally I'm great with kids. Even before the Wallakers I could talk with kids easily. Hopefully it's indicitive of a future great father and not birthday party magician. Anyway, even the most annoying kids I'll give the time of day. Unless they yell really loud. That really slings my hash. Anyway, so this little boy, probably 6 years old, comes up to our tent. No parents in sight. He has a duck caller with him which is strikes 1 through 7. He says to me, "You know what? I'm Scrooge McDuck." Ok, now . . . I've already explained my mood. And if this kid had said he was ANYBODY else I probably would have continued to talk to him as if he was said character. Or at the very least, in my state, would have given him a, "no kidding? Isn't that cool." Or something pithy. But I don't know what came over me. So instead of saying any of that, I say, "No you're not!"

"Yes I am!"

"No. You're not."

"I'm Scrooge McDuck!"

"Actually, now that I think about it . . . you're not!"

"Yes I am!"

"How do you even know Scrooge McDuck?! Shouldn't you be a Power Ranger or something?"

"What's a Power Ranger?"

"I don't know, like Voltron . . . nevermind, you're not Scrooge McDuck."

"Then why do I have a duck caller?"

"Oh right, I forgot, because Scrooge McDuck was famous for carrying around a Ducks Unlimited duck caller."

"So that makes me Scrooge McDuck!" [I should note that 6 year olds pick up on sarcasm about as well as Quakers]

"No. It. Doesn't."

"Yes it does."

"Do you swim around in money? Do you have a #1 dime? Do you speak with a Scottish accent? Do you? Do you?!"

"No. I don't care. I'm still Scrooge McDuck."

"You're more Spongebob than Scrooge McDuck."

"Awesome! I love Spongebob! Am I really Spongebob now?!"

" . . . sure. They're giving away free duck decoys to kids over there. I'll race you there!"

And he runs off. Ok. It's not my fault. Satan sends me these things to tempt me. He's doing a good job.

Eggplant Wizard say 'booga, booga, booga!' No? Ok, fine. Instead, I say, 'Nanny story about penguins!'

4. Nanny called me the other day to ask me if I'd seen "that penguin movie" yet. I told her I hadn't. She told me I should. I asked her if she had. She told me she hadn't. But that she wanted to. She suggested that maybe I could take her. I explained that my dance card was getting kind of full. She informed me that Caleb brought Barbie. I explained to her that this didn't make me feel remotely guilty. She told me that the real reason we should go see "the penguin movie" was because she heard it was 'based on a true story'. BASED ON A TRUE STORY. I'll let that just sit there for a minute.

Yeah. So I ask her if they hired penguin actors to play the parts of the original penguins that the story was based on. And I laugh. And she gets pissed off. She says that's not what she meant. So I ask her what she meant. She says, "I just meant that they look smaller on tv than I thought they'd be!" Which makes zero to no sense. But that's why I love my grandmother.

Nothing says awkward, stilted ending like a spinning dinosaur from Bubble Bobble!

5. I came home from a run late last night and when I was about 5 houses away I noticed Ben's truck in the driveway. My first thought was, "Fuck." Which is sad. I mean, that's not a new feeling. That "Fuck." has been around a while now. And I don't think I could even tell you why I thought it last night. It's just reflex now. On the rare time I do see him, I just assume it isn't going to go well. I know I left some lights on when I left for my run. Which, you know, should be ok since I'M THE ONLY ONE THAT LIVES THERE. But I still know he'll be pissed if I left lights on. Which I did. But that can't be why he's there. I figured he must be there to pick up some ratchet or other that he left behind. Before I can come up with other ideas, I'm at my driveway and he's standing outside of his car, using the back yard light to read some mail that was sent here from the Arbor Day Association. I can't totally make pretend I don't see him. Though I do walk around on the other side of the car from him. He scores points for not asking, "Where are you coming from?", which he almost always used to do when he saw me jog into the driveway, sweaty, and out of breath (I always wanted to say, "Hampton". Just to see his reaction. I mean, what the fuck does it LOOK like I'm doing?!) Anyway, I stretch a bit. He just stands there. Outside. Reading his mail. I remember that I left a popsicle box on the kitchen floor before I left. Not expecting anyone, I didn't pick it up. I glance inside. It's been picked up. This really makes me angry for some reason. But, whatever. So finally, before I go inside, I ask him, "What the hell are you doing here anyway?" I mean, it was like 9:30. That is super late for Ben. Especially for him to be so far from home. And instead of a variety of answers that could have included, 'I own this house.', 'I came by to see what was up/hang out.', 'Do I need a reason?', etc, I get "I had to come back to make sure the trees got watered." And then there's a beat. And another beat. One more beat. And he's looking at me for a response. And I can see the steam coming off my body and sifting through the spiderweb that stretches from the light to the gutter. "Yeah," I slowly respond, really only half there. "At least it's something important." As soon as I said it I couldn't believe I said it. "What did you just say?" he questioned me. "Nothing." And I went inside. Grabbed clean clothes. Walked across the driveway to Peter and Titie's vacant apartment. And used the working shower. Ben was still there when I came back over. I went upstairs to write some e-mails. Then he drove off. I knew he was leaving since I saw his truck pulling out from my open window. I said it was, "Nothing." But I think we both knew it was Something.

It's been real,

Sciaticor

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