If You Give a Jenks a Cookie...

So, I've been pretty absent for a while, popping in from time to time to update you on the lives of holy people who lived countless centuries ago. Wait, what? You hadn't noticed? Oh, well, I see.


Oh, oh, so you did notice? How kind of you.

Anyway, I'll just cut to the chase: I'm a very busy man. Don't believe me, do you? Well, for starters, I work. That takes a pretty big chunk out of my week. And that's just my nine-to-five job. See, last fall I decided that crippling debt was not something I wanted to necessarily live with anymore. Ramen noodles and Hamburger Helper--while both very, very delicious--aren't really what a man hurtling toward middle age should be feeding his family of four. In that spirit, I picked up a part-time job at a certain bookstore with an ampersand in the name. And no 'S' on the end of the name, goddammit! You're standing in a bookstore! Presumably that means you can read!

/rant

I haven't made much of a to do about this because 1) who wants to admit that they're working two jobs? and 2) the store is just off the interstate, and I don't want any of you crazy fuckers showing up and shooting me with a shotgun.

As for the job itself...I actually kind of like it. For starters, the goals are pretty clearly-defined (sell books, don't piss off customers). The other added bonus is that I'm sleeping with one of the bosses. Heh heh heh. How many of you can say that?

It's true, though; my wife got promoted up to manager after I had started working there.

But, this isn't about her. This is about me, dammit.

The other nice thing is that the job comes with a lot of perks. For instance, the employee discount is teh awesome. There's also the added advantage that the store is wedged--conveniently--between Duke and UNC. Oh, look! The cafe is filled with nubile young women, and none of them have sense to put on something other than shorts and a tank top when they come to study! My my. I'm feeling thirsty. I think I'll just wander over and get a cup of water...

And then, there's the big advantage. Usually on the first Saturday of every month, during the 11:00 story hour, there's a character who comes to the store to greet the kids and wave at them and hand out cookies. When the costume showed up, there was no one on the schedule who was willing to put the costume on...except for me. I jumped at the opportunity, especially when I heard it was Mouse from If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

Now, here's the thing. I'm six-foot-three-and-a-half inches tall. And, well, I'll just say that my metabolism has slowed a bit since college. Yes, we'll leave it at that...The instructions for the mouse costume was for someone who is 5'7".

Comedy was sure to ensue.

Undaunted, I strapped myself into the costume. Unfortunately, when I hoisted the suspenders up over my shoulders, it pulled ass-end of the costume up with it. After much wriggling around, I was finally able to get the costume into the most comfortable crevices of my ass crack. Once the body portion was on, I was able to get the rest of my costume put on. The sleeves and feet just barely made it so that I was completely covered. And then I had to put the head on.

This fucking thing was massive, and some brilliant engineer thought "You know what? It's not enough to make it dark and hot and echo-y in here. Let's put a giant aluminum hook in it, right where it will meet the back of the costume-wearer's skull." Fucking engineers. And believe me, it was hot. And sweaty. And close. And smelled...like hot and sweaty and close with a side dish of hospital antiseptic spray. Mommy! Mouse smells like debauchery and lysol!

But you know what? It was fucking awesome.

I showed up and little kids everywhere began to scream in horror delight. There were even some brave souls who decided that waving at Mouse wasn't enough; they wanted to hug Mouse! Which, you know, was cool and all, except that these little shits barely came up past my knee, which meant that to hug them, Mouse had to bend at the waist.

Now, two things here. One, I've already mentioned that the backside of the costume was riding up my ass pretty badly. Fortunately, Mouse's ass is padded and has a tail dangling down to hide any backside moose knuckle. Two, the head was just sort of precariously perched upon Mouse's shoulders. I had to do my best to bend my back and waist just enough so that the ass-end of the costume didn't bifurcate my backside any further and so that the head of Mouse didn't fall off and roll across the kids' department. Because, you know, that's not going to be traumatic or anything. And I did this all with an aluminum hook jabbing me in the back of the casaba, threating to poke a hole in my brain box and letting all my smarts ooze out the back of my head.

In the end, however, I emerged from the Mouse costume sweaty yet gratified, my underwear half-shoved up my ass, the back of my skull battered and bruised, and my entire being carrying a slight aroma of sour body and antiseptic spray. However, there were no children crying or screaming or otherwise traumatized.

I just wish that some of their MILF mothers would have wanted a hug, too.