Tales of the Bookstore, Chapter 1

I think it's time I start telling you some tales about the bookstore where I worked. I spent a year as an assistant manager at a store called Little Professor Book Company in Fort Wayne, IN.

When I was a senior in college, rolling out of bed at 10 am for that difficult Christian Humanities class, I completely forgot to submit my applications for graduate school. So, Notre Dame would have to wait a year before I got there. However, what to do in the interim?

Upon graduation, I interviewed for a few chemistry jobs around the greater Fort Wayne area, even went up to Ann Arbor (Jesus, is she a whore) for an interview at Parke-Davis (which got bought and closed down six months later) for an analytical job. All of those jobs in the chemistry/science field did not pan out, so after about a month of not having any money and my good looks not really getting me by anymore, I started applying pretty much anywhere with a "Help Wanted" sign in the window. I hit up Lowes, Meijer, and eventually settled on the bookstore.

Little Professor interviewed me the day after I submitted an application, and two days later (I decided to NOT start working on the weekend), I was employed full-time. About a month after I started, I got promoted up to Assistant Manager and made a whopping $7/hr. That's fat cash, homies. Well, it was fat enough to pay for an engagement ring, pay off the last of my school bills AND my credit card, and keep me good and liquored up for ten months.

It was about the third day at work that I met Shane.

Shane was...not a model citizen. By any stretch of the imagination. Good guy, loved working with him, but he hated working there about as much as I did. If you can believe it, I was the Dante to his Randall. I may not have wanted to be there, but I did at least put forth an effort to provide mediocre customer service.

Shane didn't give a fuck.

He'd call his girlfriend/fiancee/wife a fucking whore--while on the phone in the children's section! He'd drop other indelicate phrases while working on the floor. He would go over to the bay which housed the self-help and grief books and talk about how he hoped they'd never find a cure for cancer. He would also drink all the coffee provided by the shop next door, thus making the young women who worked there come over and replace it.

On second thought, that was a good thing. The chicks who worked next door were fucking hot.

I once had to field a complaint about Shane from an angry customer.

Me: Hello, Little Professor Book Company, Covington Plaza, this is Matt, how may I help you?

Customer: I want to speak with a manager.

It was at this point that I rolled my eyes. I always had people calling up bitching because some employee couldn't find a book or they farted or something like that. I had a feeling this was going to be another one.

Me: I'm a manager, how may I help you?

Customer: Yeah, I was just in your store around lunch time [it's after dinner by the time this call came in] and I heard one of your employees swearing.

At this point, I knew exactly who it must have been.

Me: Do you know who it was?

Customer: It was a guy.

Me: Could you be a little more specific? I can't really berate the offender if that's all I have to go on.

Customer: What the hell? I've seen your staff. How many fucking guys work there? How fucking hard could it be to figure out who it was that was swearing and fire his ass?

Me: Well, aren't you one to cast the first stone?

Aaaaaand...then I hung up.

He called right back.

Me: *opening spiel upon answering the phone*

Customer: Hey, asshole, I don't appreciate being hung up on. I just wanted to let you know that I will be taking all of my business to Borders from now on. Because I do not appreciate being hung up on by some fucking loser who works in a bookstore.

Me: Well, good luck with that.

I then put him on hold. And then I never picked the call back up.

I found Shane. Instead of pulling him aside to tell him to cut it the fuck out, I did the professional thing and confronted him out on the book floor in front of the staff and customers.

Me: Hey, some asshat just called up voicing his objections over your use of the word "fuck". Tone it down a bit, would ya?

Shane: *after a pause where he realizes what I just did* Well, alright then, Captain!

So, yeah.

The biggest problem with Shane was that he had a severe case of oral diarrhea. If something went in his ears, it came out his mouth.

Since I was a manager AND the tallest person on the staff, I was charged with changing the light bulbs around the store. In the children's section, we had a display set up that was supposed to look like a tent, with all these vinyl banners and such hung over a couple of lintels. Under the "big top" there was a stage where some sucker had to sit and read books to kids on Saturdays and Tuesdays.

One Sunday afternoon, I was struck with a desire to not do any real work, so I decided to change all of the burnt out light bulbs. As I was maneuvering myself around the stage in children's, I noticed a thick layer of dust on top of all the vinyl banners. On a whim, I dragged my fingers through the dust, drawing my initials in the dust as well as the date.

Later that day, I showed Shane, because I couldn't contain myself over how fucking clever I was. He thought this was hilariously brilliant, got out the ladder, and did the same on the next banner over. Cool, I thought, now we'll see how long it is before the guy whose job it is to keep the displays clean finally does his fucking job.

The next morning, Shane came in and showed our little bit of artwork to the store manager.

She was not amused.

That night, I had to get the ladder back out and I had to wash the dust off all the banners.

Because I'm mature like that, I took the bucket of filthy, dirty water and dumped in the bed of Shane's new pickup.

Revenge is a dish best served muddy, I guess.

It's That Time Again...

You guys know what today is, right?

Okay, yeah, sure, it's Groundhog Day. It's the day when we celebrate the prescient powers of Marmota monax, which is a mixture of Latin and Greek meaning "lonely fatass ground squirrel". In case you were curious (and I know that you weren't), if it ends in an -x, it's typically a Greek word.

Today is also Candlemas, which is traditionally viewed as the day that Christ was presented at the Temple. Mary also had to go to the Temple in order to perform rites associated with recovering from childbirth, a sort of purification, if you will. It is observed 40 days after Christmas. Hey, only 324 shopping days left, slackass!

Also, Candlemas is supposed to be the very last day that you're supposed to have your Christmas greenery up. If you happen to be my neighbor and reading this then...*hint*hint*

And how are the two related? I'm glad you asked! Now, sit down, shut up, and listen: back in the old countries, the English and Germans and other various northern European peoples used to believe that, on the 2nd of February (which is halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox), bears, badgers, wolves, and weird uncle Lute would emerge from hibernation to inspect the weather and determine if they should go back to sleep or not--which is very curious, considering wolves don't hibernate...

While settling the New World, the tradition was carried over and, apparently, since black bears just didn't cut it, the settlers adopted...the groundhog...as the midwinter mascot. Isn't that...just...awe-inspiring?

In case your awe isn't inspired enough, one of the nicknames for the groundhog is the "whistle pig".

All of this shit is just filler. Most important of all, today is Betsy Hagar's Birthday!!!

Now, I've mentioned Betsy Hagar in the past on here. Several times. And usually it was with one hand in my lap and the other slowly tapping out words like "whipped cream" and "tall blonde goddess" over the keyboard. Hey, one-handed typing is not easy. I see some of you nodding. Don't think I'm not on to you. *mouths the words 'Call me'*

Some of you might not be up on the list of young women I lusted for during my high school days. Betsy Hagar was at the very top of that list. She is the one about whom I would write long, involved, erotic stories and then, being that I was so turned on by my own lustful creativity, I'd crank one out while still fantasizing about Betsy. Upon climax I would breathlessly begin to feel crushing guilt over my carnal tendencies and I'd take the paper on which I wrote the story and I'd burn it, supposedly (in my sick mind) as a way of burning the lust out of my mind for Betsy and all the other women on the list.

And it was quite an extensive list...

But, Betsy was different. As I mentioned here, there was a lot of crushes that came and went during my high school years, but the one constant throughout the time was my seething desire to part Betsy's thighs. Despite how badly I wanted her, my mind invariably forgets about her until Groundhog's Day/her birthday rolls around. She's kind of my portal to the "good old days", when things seemed a lot simpler, and I didn't have so many fucking bills to pay. Yep, less debt and long, sexy, gorgeous legs. That's what thinking of Betsy Hagar reminds me of.

So, Happy Groundhog's Day. Let's hope that lonely little Whistle Pig enjoys his day in the sun. And Happy Birthday, Betsy Hagar: you fill me full to the brim with lust and nostalgia.

Hello, Black Ice, My Old Friend...

For many people in the South, the thing they fear more than education and literacy is black ice. In case you're unaware, black ice is that phenomenon that occurs when you've had some melting of ice and snow on the roadways, but then the water refreezes. It's usually not a very thick layer of ice that refreezes, so it looks black on the surface of the road.

But really, we know that it's "Black Ice", because it's a killer.

It raises up from the surface of the road, axe in one hand, log chain in the other, and either cleaves you into kibble or smashes you into meat paste. Afterward, it hurtles your car into the nearest pine grove. Then, it's bloodlust sated for a few moments, it eases itself back down to the tarmac where it quietly awaits its next hapless victim.

So, for that reason, I'm home today. The kids have a day off school, and my wife had to go to work. But, it's not like I was too torn up over it. I think the conversation went like this:

Wife: The school call--
Me: Oh, I guess I'll have to take a day off work. Oh no!!!!

And then I went dancing running from the room giggling wailing and beating my breast and other things that you're supposed to do when you're so overcome with emotion that you have to express it through actions.

So, here I sit at home, pondering how I'm going to find enough energy to shower, wondering if I have clean unders upstairs, and wondering if it's a social faux pas for one to take a nap if one has slept in until 10:30.

I am hoping, however, that with this weekend's forecast of another round of snow and sleet and winter weather, that we won't have to deal with Jim Cantore anywhere in the Carolinas. The man actually reported that Charlotte was experiencing "Sneezle": that's snow, sleet and freezing drizzle.

Fuck you, Jim Cantore.

He then went on to explain the "dire situation" in the state where 45,000 customers reported power outages. "That's doubled in just the past hour". And...then it never went back up. And power was restored pretty quickly.

Hey, look at that...bitching about the Weather Channel two weeks in a row on Monday...what are the odds? Is that a faux pas, too? Or is that just an internet meme?

I know one thing that's definitely not a faux pas, and that is to hope that the forecasted sleet and freezing rain for tomorrow morning comes just in time to re-ice the roads. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go wail and beat my breast and plan on where my early afternoon nap is going to take place.

Oh, Hell Snow!

In case you hadn't heard, the Apocalypse big snow storm hit yesterday evening and into the day today. And by "into the day today" I mean, "there was a bit of snow during the morning and some sleet up until 11:00, and after that it was pretty much a major fucking disappointment and nothing like what the weather forecasters were calling for at all." Which is a very long way of saying "they were wrong, again".

However, unlike in times past when the weather forecasters would call for six to ten inches of snow and we'd get "a dusting", we did pick up a goodly amount. Nothing like the 10 - 15 inches that they were calling for in the "northern sections of the viewing area", but it was respectable.

We got eight inches around here. So, the greater northern Durham area of North Carolina now knows what it's like to be my wife: a good eight inches and then coated in white.

...

...

...

Maybe I need to borrow Steamy's Awkward Cricket.

Anyway, the wife and I took the kids outside to play in the snow--twice!!! We managed to finally get enough snow, and a decent place to do it, to where we could go sledding. And by "sledding", I mean "using a Tupperware storage bin lid for purposes it was never engineered or intended for". Feel the awesome wrath of my body flopping on top of you, Tupperware lid!!!

Enough of that. The only reason I'm writing this is to make fun of the local forecasters (again, and as usual), and to post this picture:

That ought to teach you to not read blogs on the weekends.

TMI Thursday: Hair Soap

Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

So, when I was a teenager, I didn't have the greatest complexion. In fact, it's still not what you'd call "alabaster" or "angellic" or "a non-greasy, sticky, white hot mess", but my skin isn't as riddled with blemishes as it was when I was, oh, say, 15.

Now, unfortunately, at age 15 (or, well, way before age 15), guys start noticing girls. More specifically, guys want to start putting parts of their bodies into parts of the girls bodies. And, in order to do this, one must start dating. And, in order to start dating, one usually has to be somewhat and relatively zit free.

Alas, this was not my situation. For the dating or the zit-free existence that would help to remedy the lack of dating. This then leads to prolonged bouts of furious masturbation, which--according to my mother--led to more acne. But, that's a story for another day.

However, that was pretty much my mother's solution to how to clear up my blemish issues: don't touch yourself, don't eat fudge, wash your hair, and you'll be acne free. Well, I washed my hair, I didn't eat fudge, and I hated myself shortly after I touched myself. Apparently, my mother's the Know-It-All didn't know dick.

Now, despite the fact that there were a myriad of products on the market that one could purchase for their child in order for him to secure dates keep a clear complexion, my mother relied on "home remedies".

"Here," she'd say, passing me a newspaper clipping, "I read this is hints from Heloise. You should try it."

I would look up with a heady of mixture of revulsion and disbelief on my face after reading it. "It says to smear the yolk of a raw egg on my face," I reported, as if she hadn't read it, clipped it, and then handed it to me.

"Yep, your father bought you some eggs. They're in the refrigerator. I'll show you how to separate the yolks from the whites." And off we went. As we were in the kitchen, my mother reminded me that this was a valuable tool for cooking, and that I could surprise some nice girl someday by making a recipe that called for just egg yolks. That recipe, of course, was atherosclerosis, and pretty much every girl to whom I've ever offered that has politely declined.

So, there I would sit in the evenings, splitting open an egg and carefully separating the yolk from the albumen, and then I'd take the mass of raw, yellow goo and smear it over my face. I would sit there until it dried. Oh, what a grand time I had, staring into the mirror, the face of Grigg or The Thing looking back at me. Oh, and all the clever puns I made to myself in the bathroom. "Wow, if [insert current crush's name here] could see you now, you'd certainly have egg on your face!" And, "Oh, if [insert teacher's name here] could see you now, you'd sure have egg on your face!" And then I would peel the hideous, flaky yellow mask off.

Predictably, things didn't get much better. Well, I think the yolk helped to rip the heads off the zits, but that was about it. Plus, after a while, I began to pick up a faint sulfury smell.

Now the ladies were flocking to me!

When I turned 16, I knew I had to do something. When I got my license, I started driving to Target (where my high school girlfriend would end up working) where I discovered that there was a whole panoply of anti-acne medications, creams, wipes, soaps and any other kind of hygienic product you could imagine. Giddy, I bought some Oxyclean wipes, some cream to place upon the zits I already had, and some special soap to use on my face. I went home, I washed my face with the soap, wiped with the pad, and put the cream on the egregious pustules of pus hanging from my forehead and cheeks.

I put the soap in the shower, thinking that I would use it when I took my showers.

Bear in mind, I had used the soap once. Remember that.

The next day, I got up and was getting ready for school. My father had already been up and showered, made his coffee and was reading the paper. I acknowledged him as I trudged toward the bathroom. We had two bathrooms in the house, but the shower upstairs only had a basin that was about three inches high, so if I took *ahem* long showers *innocent whistles* I'd flood the bathroom and my mom would bitch at me. Plus, the water in that shower smelled slightly fetid. Mmm...fetid water and sulfur.

I haul my ass into the shower and I turn on the water, get in, go about my usual routine: arms, chest, shoulders, stomach, groin, legs, groin, knees, groin, shins, groin, feet, groin, rinse. I then wash my hair and rinse and I go to wash my face, and the excitement is building within me. I was going to use the soap I specifically purchased to help me clear up my acne problem and now I'd get a girlfriend and I'd see some tits and--JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHY IS MY ANTI-ACNE SOAP COVERED IN SHORT, DARK, CURLY HAIRS???

As I brought the soap up toward my face, I could clearly see at least a dozen short-and-curlies decorating the otherwise pristine surface of my soap. The soap I specifically bought for me. To go on my face. Not on my father's ballsack.

I held the soap in the stream of the water from the showerhead and rinsed the pubes away. I also hoped to get the latent ballsweatfunk off the surface of my soap. And then, just to be safe, I used the same soap I had washed my body with.

The next day, I returned to Target and bought myself a soap carrier, so I could hide the soap away from my father's nefarious nether regions.