If You're Gonna do the Crime, At Least Make it Entertaining

Some disgruntled Wal-Mart worker went into the Wal-mart I shop at with a gun intent on shooting the Assistant Manager and was arrested without incident.

He could have made a much more surreal experience for everyone.

How about an armored suit of 5 dollar dvd's, a yellow smiley face mask and the words "DR. Thunder" scrawled on the barrel of his gun. Or better yet, take the smiley face hostage.

"Move any closer and the yellow guy gets it!!"(is that a racial slur?)

Take over the cracker section until they change the cheese "whales" back into goldfish.

In all seriousness, I shop at that Wal-mart. For better or for worse, the vast array of endless products and the cavernous echo of square footage appeal to me. I don't know any small business owners and if I did, it wouldn't be in their best interest to give ME a discount, so shop there I will.

This recently fired Mensa Society member obviously was bitten by the same bug. He WANTED to work there. I agree with the sentiment of "if you don't like working there, go somewhere else...".

Think of it this way--would you like to trade jobs with your counterpart in China? If you don't have enough info to make an informed decision in THAT regard I recommend a quick refresher course in world awareness...by shopping at the Wal-mart on 13th after dark.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As long as you do what you always done
you'll always git what you always got

Israel's Got Talent/more than some

In the news...a traveling gaggle of Israeli teens is touring the states and made their way to Salt Lake City to perform musical numbers. They were winners in Israel's version of Britain's Got Talent. There was a little story about them and an itinerary of a few stops before leaving the state. One stop was a boy scout reservation.

I was first to post this:

Memo to Scout Reservation
Don't
Serve
Bacon

Ha ha

Someone then responded to me by saying:

Memo to Mormon Scout Troops Traveling to Tel Aviv
Bring your own supply of green jello
and don't display your plural marriage merit badges on your uniforms!

I responded thusly:

You...Need to Fire Your Writer

1. Why would Mormon Scouts travel to Tel Aviv? There was never any mention of the religious affiliation. However, one might assume, based on our fair state, that there would be a few Mormons in a Utah scout troop.

2. Why would Israelis visit Utah? I dunno, but here they are. Chances are likely that there's a Jewish person among them.

3. If you knew that a bunch of Utah teens were coming to visit, would you have anything around that might offend them?

4. I've been to dozens of scout camps. What do they usually serve for breakfast? Pancakes, eggs and you guessed it--bacon or sausage. UNCLEAN!

5. Now, you had a leaning towards merit badges, but the content is awful. Polygamy is rampant in the Old Testament--the Jews look at Mormon tribulation and think "amateurs...". If you're going to use this, you would have to use a merit badge that the Israelis might find offensive. For instance, a stereotype of Israelis or Jewish people is one of being good with money. Many are accountants. One could recommend the scout cover up his Personal Management merit badge else Sol the Acct. could see this and say "Oi vey!! I've lost a client!!". One could say they were having a some sort of information sharing experience with Israeli scout troops. Comparing First Aid Kits...

Johnny: Hey Moisha, nice kit, but what do you wrap wounds with?
Moisha: We don't--we suffer! Besides, it's tough to get ahold of Gaza Strips, you Nudnik!
Johnny: What's with the wire cutters?
Moisha: An ounce of prevention, Johnny. Heaven forbid...if someone next to you on the bus is ticking, you can snip wires, no?
Johnny: Coool.

I once witnessed, at a company breakfast back East, an unwitting manager serve a plate of ham to a black Muslim workmate. While it was horrifying for both of them, my other black AND white non-Muslim friends could not stop laughing. Mostly 'cuz we're the ones that sent her over there with it. THAT was an awful and immature thing to do. Playing upon someone's convictions with malice of forethought--for a laugh.

People here in Utah know less about Judaism than Jews know about Mormonism. My memo was simply to illustrate that the visitors might be overlooked out of ignorance and they's a lotta pork cookin' at a scout camp, Kapish?

Snubway

I like to comment on current events and add my own twists to it. Yesterday I saw a story in regard to police officers giving out coupons to kids wearing bike helmets. The coupons were for a footlong sandwich from a chain store. Ahhhhhhh.

My response: In a related story, Officials from a national food store chain will be awarding those without helmets, 10 pounds of delicious beef from their most recent recall.

Claim Ticket

Oh, by the way, the USPS claim ticket? Duplicate of my termination.....(trumpet!) wah, wah, wah, waahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Wreck Center part II//Hiding Out

Wreck Center is the way I like to describe the R.E.C. Center. Stands for remote encoding center. You need a magnetic card to enter in through one of two revolving doors. Half a rotation's all you get. There are swipe cards for the time clock which records 100 "clicks" per 60 minutes. I'm not quite sure how our collective time-keeping system of seconds and minutes became obsolete...I mean at home I say "just a minute" or "hold on a sec". Not "Look, if you just give me 3 freaking clicks, THEN I'll take the garbage out!" I mean, honestly, for anyone who has ever used a microwave or waited in a car with kids for a spouse to go into Wal-mart for just that one item, we've got a pretty firm grip on what 5 minutes is.

Once a week one finds a brightly colored laminated note telling you that you have a KEYPER. At the time listed you are to go and type in an area close to an enclosed cubicle wherein resides a scary ogre who will tell you how many keying mistakes you made during a random session of your typing. You have to maintain adequate speed and stay under a certain benchmark of error in order to be considered useful.

Typos happen. Some things are just laughable. One that stands out in my mind is one I got called on not to long ago. I processed a letter addressed to the Dept. of Treasury in Washington, D.C.. Oft times, when there is a common address for similar destination, a little drop down window appears and gives you selections to choose from. Now, mind you, we're trying to type as fast as we can. I saw and selected Department of Treasury. They said I was wrong. HEH?
"YOU selected Department of Treasury--if you look below that, you'll see "Dept" of Treasury...." Goo'nite folks!! You've been a wonderful audience!! Are you serious?!

I just had this picture in my head of some Ned Flanders type mailman showing up at the DOT. "Is this the Dept of Treasury?"
"Yes, this is the Department of Treasury."
"Ummmm, nooo, I need the "DEPT" of Treasury--they were verrry specific..."

I now doubt, myself, if there may not be some sort of a school portable type building next to the historic granite one, with a sign reading ""DEPT" of Treasury".

Anyhoo, one has to clock over to see the ogre, so as to account for the missing clicks that will inevitably appear on a report somewhere. That somewhere will be discussed later in this story.

The only other place to clock over to while not typing would be the Safety Talk. There is a small bank of computers that you log onto for the once weekly mandatory reading of what amounts to a Public Service Announcement, a "let's do it as a team" pep talk and your current and past weeks keying stats. So far I have learned how to service my water heater, the dangers of food exposed to the elements and how not to get struck by lightning. Not one of these messages has welcomed me back from under the rock they think I've been living under. It's a good way to kill several clicks, before returning to the stroke mines.

About a month ago I was summoned to the Principal's office in regard to some of the aforementioned reports, showing many cases of late breaks. For better or for worse, I am a guilty smoker. I am forced by law to do this outside, which prompts me to use my entry card twice on my break. Having grown up a non-smoker and in such tight quarters, I will always stop in the men's room on the way back and wash up to knock down the odor. I was escorted into a large empty boardroom where I was presented with the report showing time between log-ins and then with another report showing the corresponding "door rings". These Nazis told us in our training class that these doors were for security purposes--yeah--not JOB security.

What could I say? I could not defend myself. I just said I would change it. To get outside from the far reaches of that building and back in for a smoker is pert near impossible. In less time the (really) healthy(fat) people can make it to the vending machines, pound 3 Ding-dongs, waddle back to their desks, scratch themselves and fart on their neighbor. No door rings, no problems. Whatever. I started cutting the breaks short and was doing well.

Yay! I got a new supervisor. I had a good talk with him. My numbers are good and with my 6 month tour ending soon, asked him if I would be offered another tour. He showed me in the computer where they had already entered it 6 months forward. Cool. With a couple of days until my mandatory 5-day break, I could rest easy and probably go camping for a few clicks. I verified my e-mail schedule for 5 days later.

Two days later---Read Grocery Splash.


Only had Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday left before the break. Called in Monday all hopped up on goofballs for pain. Used some saved up annual leave. Worked Tuesday in relative discomfort. Wednesday, took advantage of early-out and was officially off till the following Tuesday. Took it easy--still sore. Wife wanted to go camping, but with the holiday weekend, we missed an early jump. Enjoyed fireworks. Come Sunday, we(she) decides she's loading up the poptop and 5 kids and going for a week. I followed them up in my car to help set up but had to return for an appointment at 10:00am the next day.

Got them settled in--only people in the whole campsite. Got the space with the rope swing over the creek. Score. They took Misty the dog with them, so I was home with the 2 cats. Peanut, whose in quarantine after a wicked fight and ensuing surgery. I have to stuff half a pill down the poor SOB's throat every day. Dusty, imported from Uncle John's in Idaho at the behest of an eyelash-batting Iris, began dating immediately upon arrival in our cat-rich neighborhood and, much like a garbage truck, is heavy with litter.

Drove back out for what I imagined would be my only overnight stay in camp for the week, given my weird hours(6:00pm-2:30am). I arrived in camp late afternoon after a visit to the store to complete the list of forgotten items. On the way out had a call from corporate regarding the incident(see Grocery Splash). Everyone was happy to see Big Papa. We made tin foil dinners and roasted marshmallows. Retired to the poptop to watch a show with the kids. I brought Petey. The wife hates Petey on a camping trip. Petey(pdvd-portable digital video disc player--PD--Petey) was smuggled in.

We moved here from a pretty wet climate, where it was difficult to camp without spending thousands at REI. Shortly after arriving we purchased and older poptop trailer for 500 bucks. Just the right size for the ages of the kids. We learned to bungee tie the corners of the canvas down after our first experience with our sleep-walking 12-yr-old Jayden, who somehow got pooped out the end of the trailer in the night. I heard him crying. He was 9 at the time. "Jayden--what's wrong?"
"I woke up!"
"Where are you?"
Tearfully "I'm outside"

Until now that's the funniest thing that's happened in the trailer. If you haven't read Grocery Splash yet, just read it now. I'm a man. I'm supposed to be tough--but listen--my freakin' knee hurts to kneel on right now--like a lot! In a Poptop First, the wife says she hates climbing over me from the outside, so we're trading places. I'm too tired and sore to argue. Fine! I climb over her like I'm mounting a saddle. When my knee hits the surface, I feel such pain that I do a jump and twist onto my back. Let me ask you a question....Have you ever seen a poptop do a wheelie? As you may know, I'm 6"-5", 300 lbs. We heard a crunch beneath us and had kids flyin' at us looking like a low budget version of the Poseidon Adventure. I know I'm the fulcrum. Up until just a few years ago, I weighed more than my entire family and Misty combined. The bed was now listing at a steep angle. We scrambled outside to look at the carnage.
You know those little support bars that run from the bumper up to the bed level? If you're sitting, put your hands on your knees. Now put them on your hips. THAT'S how they bent. They didn't snap. It's basically just 1/2" piping. I put them on the picnic table and used the muscle(which accounts for 275 lbs out of 300) in my body to bend them back to pretty dang straight. Now, this will work--back to the normal sleep positions. Lay down right. Honey's on the outside-biggest stress point--solid. We're good. I gently lay down. Good. See, honey---KKKKEEEEERRAAACCCCKKK!!!!!!!!!

Put your hands on your knees. Now break your arm at the elbow and push the bone out the front. Further investigation revealed that the wooden slot bracket that the bed slides into when closing, exploded and provided enough miniature toothpicks for every fly, wasp and raccoon in the campground. I am so done with the gravity of gravity. I killed the poptop. It'll take some hillbilly engineering, but we can fix it. Hell, if that pizza pizza guy can hold 2 pepperoni pizzas on a spear, I can fix what I have destroyed. If there's a furniture heaven, I'm going to their Hell, "cuz I've killed a few of their cousins in my time. What's it like in normal size world. I'll never know.

The next morning I sat staring wistfully at the dang poptop. It looks like a giant robot head after a stroke. We drove down to a little general store to get more ice and water. The wife didn't bring any sodas. That's Dad's job--to bring the never ending fountain of soda to stick in the creek, candy and clearanced smoke bombs. Fireworks are illegal in the campground, but only if they see you. Of course, being the only campers for miles, the second I light a blue smoker, somebody comes roarin' into the camp. I step on it. I don't think they saw it, but the aroma of toe flesh basted in melted sneaker rubber and the ensuing blue stain permanently burnt into my sock made me realize why you should plan better if you're going to break the law.

I headed home to prepare for work. I was anxious to get home because we were also to be in receipt of a new high speed modem. The phone/internet connection we've had is the cyber equivelant of rubber bands and popsicle sticks. I looked in the mailbox and found a USPS missed-you-at-9:00-come-over-here-and-get-it notice. That's got to be it. Got a letter from the postal worker's union. Three different letters from USPS. First one just showed my job status info. Your basic old tour over, new tour starting stuff. Opened the 2nd.

"To whom it may concern,,blahblahblah--You will not be carried for another tour blahblahblahblah, you're terminated? HEH?

I guess I'm not going to work.

I called and they confirmed but could not tell me why. I don't care. I'm glad. Not a job worth fighting for. I was treated like some kind of dolt for 6 months by condescending dullards and I learned very important things, such as; My hot water heater makes hot water. Put the lid back on the mayo at the picnic. The sun will burn you if you let it. If there's lightning, try not to get hit by it. Very useful. I know I'm dead--I just want to see the autopsy.

I immediately registered for unemployment. It will pay me more than I was earning there with their restrictions on hours. Now......Do I tell the wife?

I still get my last check. I don't want to stress her out while she's camping and I can use this time to look for work without interruption.

I get the modem from UPS? What was that other thing? I'll get it later. Finally, I can have time to get in there and see what manner of Satan's spaghetti is lurking behind the wife's computer hutch. We have a wireless router, phone relay and the modem. Seems pretty straightforward. 8 years later....I just hook it back up the old way. Trying to download the software. Everything's pretty basic until you get those messages that read something like this--Please point connectivity line to .net platform oogityboogity. It always makes some sort of sense up until the oogityboogity.

I'm sleeping this morning. The power goes out. Wakes me up. I hear the garbage man in the distance. Oh crap! The boys didn't get it out last week--cannot go another week. I go to get them--car's blocking it in!! Run get the keys, move, roll, thunder of hydraulics getting horrifyingly closer and closer. Made it. Whew! They've been trimming trees in the neighborhood lately which explained the outage when I heard saws in the distance. I locked the side door and went to my car. Realized I left the claim ticket in the house. I never use a house key--there's always someone here or the side door's open. I only have keys to the front door. As I approach the front door I see a pink paper in the door. Disconnected for non-payment.

What?! We just paid 300 and somethin' last week! A couple of weeks ago we didn't have any FUN money, but somehow we had cat money. Peanut the brawler cost us 200 bucks! I love peanut, but with 200 bucks I can buy a gunny sack and shoes for the kids! Anyway, they say we owe 164 bucks or my family will be living better than me in the wilderness. Especially since the wife stole the propane off the grill for the popawheelietop. I call and they say they'll take a phone payment. It's rent money, but I know I got it. They say it won't go through. I drive to the bank to just ATM the cash, but it's on hold. I go in and they have to call to push it through. Hey look, I'm the one with 90's technology. Figure it out!! They finally got it back on.

I've been watching the times to make sure I don't call the wife when she knows I'm "working". My brother, BD, still employed there, got a message from her that she locked her keys in the car! Her friend is making the 70 mile drive out there tomorrow for the day with her kids so I was instructed to leave MY key in the yellow box by the door for her to pick up. If she loses MY key--OOOOhhhhhh. I've been trying to lie low. Our neighbor is her good buddy and there's cell reception if J stands on the picnic table. She probably already knows.

It's all I can do to keep up the charade. The night I killed the poptop, we slept in the tent. Even with the mattress, the ground killed me. I'm afraid of the trailer now. As many men would see this as an opportunity to play, I am not a fan of being alone in a big house. Especially when, for three nights running there have been reports of bear attacks. I miss J. I miss the kids. I haven't seen them in six months because of that stupid job. Good riddance. I know everything's going to be fine. I'm just trying to dilute the spousal freakout factor. If I had gone back out and the power had been out for 4-5 days in this heat? Everything will be cool.

Other than that, my life is pretty uneventful.

Wreck Center Part I

A few observations in regard to where I have worked for the last 6 months. Will add more as created...

Spokane, Wausau, Queens, Gary, Santa Ana, Portland, Mid-Hudson to name only a few…city after city I enter zip codes, inward addresses, business names, foreign countries, countries I’ve never heard of until they pop up on my screen and somehow correspond with my country list that I never have time to study. Letters to Santa, the White House, Any Elementary School USA and some merely addressed to say “Velma--Kentucky”. Some handwriting so shaky and scary it can only have been written by a small child or a very uneducated rural adult with Parkinson’s disease.

Some people think that they’re being creative with their artwork on the front of a letter. The only people mildly amused by it are the sender and possibly the recipient. Everyone in between it pisses off, including me--the guy who has to cross his eyes to make out the address amongst the insipid ivy drawings of the artist to get the letter to the boob they’re trying to impress. It’s a job.

For 8 straight hours I move from computer bank to computer bank covering different regions of the country whose mail has to get through. In cubicles barely wide enough to hold some of my co-workers who I know would never fit in a booth at a buffet, I log in and type. Picture a space roughly the size of a grocery store and fill it with these cubicles. There are approximately 1800-2000 employees.

Strategically placed on posts throughout the center are mega-jugs of hand sanitizer which have to be replaced often. When keying in heavily populated mail areas such as Los Angeles or New York, one has occasion to lay their hands up a keyboard that I can only compare to the teeth of a heavy meth smoker. Your fingers slide around on the keys. Disgusting. Germaphobes need not apply. Others are clackity, springy, new, have dead keys or are just worn out. I prefer clackity. I want some sort of return for my keystrokes. The desks are sectioned and have multiple adjustments. Crank up or down for the monitor section to full standing. The keyboard section has a spring-loaded foot pedal which releases it to move up or down and also has a crank knob to adjust tilt. I believe the standing up routine is only for those people 5’-8” or smaller or those without knees.

Until recently, an office chair was an office chair. I now beg to differ. There are wide ones and narrow ones and armless ones and arms that adjust up and down, in and out. Locked in or rocker. Adjustable “butt-angle” feature, etc.. Sometimes I see people leaning clear back the way kids drive their cars these days and wonder how they do it. I need to sit straight up when driving a car or a keyboard. Sometimes I come to a desk and wonder if the last keyer was Bilbo Baggins. We are given a 5 minute break every hour with a 10 minute break every two. 30 minutes for lunch after 4 hours.

Sometimes my fingers fly. Sometimes I drift or hit every imaginable wrong key. Sometimes I’m real proud of my speed if I hit 8,000 keystrokes per hour. Then they post the top keyers who have 20,000. Nothing makes me choke more than when I have some punk mentalist sit next to me and have what sounds like a playing card in bicycle spokes coming from the direction of his hands. I couldn’t pound keys that fast in gibberish. Makes me crazy. I make myself feel better by knowing that if it came down to REAL survival, he would be eaten first.

Grocery Splash

This blog is in response to a story from someone who just went riding down a Class V river after having only experienced a III. They we're outfitted, oriented and provided with killer pictures of them taking the falls on a river near the Columbia Gorge. His story was entitled Birthday Splash.


There is a grocery store about 5 minutes from my house. I've ridden the aisles many times. One evening, about a week ago, Iris, my 9-yr-old daughter and I were cruising down the aisles together. No helmets or orientations(shouldn't we say ASIANtations these days?"). Only the sound of fresh values echoing down the corridors and a shopping cart to hold onto.

We looked for, but could not find a 2025 button-style battery(ba-tree in Utahn) in the regular spot. As we approached the cashier, I inquired as to the availability of other than what was stocked on the shelf. She ventured that the pharmacy might carry such a battery and we agreed that she'd start ringing up the goods while I checked. I handed Iris my key chain for my FRESH DISCOUNT(Jack it up 10$-take off 5$) and was off.

Much to my chagrin, I came up empty and headed back to my dutiful spot at the 10-key.

Two steps from Line 5 I lose traction. Now I'm wearing rubber sandals. Insert funny slip-slip-slip kettle-drum ka-kannnng cartoon noise here. In reconstructing the humiliating defeat at the hands of gravity, I ask Iris, who had paid no fee to see this, what happened--How did I land?

I started to do the Chinese splits. As I drop to my right knee, my left leg was doing its own instinctual "Curly Joe--whoopwhoopwhoop" to end up forward. I end up in a hurdlers position on the floor. Can I just add here that I'm 6'-5", 3 bills? With what is now a worm's eye view, I see a trail of water running the entire length of the store in front of every cashier.

I couldn't assign any type of Roman numeral rating to this body of water. I can only say that Grocery Falls AND my fall had NO CLASS whatsoever.

I bloodied my knee, strained my hammie and lower back. They're saying "Stay where you are!" as my be-denimed backside is soaking up the next puddle over. The lady who filled out the report twice said "Yeahhhh, those kind of shoes slip a lot...". YEAH!!--WHEN YOU ADD WATER!! I don't see a lifeguard on duty here! There's a reason wooden matches are on aisle 16 and the gas station is down the streEEeet.... The store has assured me that they'll cover my ER visit and "take care of things". This happened right under a security camera, but methinks the photo journal of this adventure may go missing.

On the bright side of things, the bagger probably had a great laugh watching my feet replace my head from his vantage point and the divot I made was quickly filled with ice and energy drinks, so no big deal.

Hypnotism

I've been told on way too many occasions that I should get on stage or write a book. I've done the stage thing when I was younger. I've threatened to write a book for years. I may not be equipped for either, but one thing is for sure. I tell a great story. I've got a bunch of them. Where to start? Therein lies the rub.

I chose the word hypnotism to describe the feeling you get when you go into a video store with one movie in mind and then are hit with a barrage of lights, candy and information overload. You usually walk out an hour later with some obscure movie far from relating to the one you promised yourself going in. More information overload.

Casinos offer the same short-circuiting mind-grenade. My mind sort of does the same thing when I think of how to tell the stories.

I figured if I just started somewhere-here-the good stuff will just fall out of me eventually and keep me grounded. At the outset of my wanting to record some of these stories, I only HAD so many stories....thanks to my procrastination, many more have stacked up and are smothering each other. Let's just think of this as mental spring cleaning.

BD and I will be trading off with our writing. We are brothers, which will make for an interesting study of contrasts and similarities in style and experience.

It may take a while for us to hit our stride. I have faith in our abilities to do this. The last thing I want is to be boring. My goal is to entertain and to hit the spot with the human experiment. I've been accused of being "out there" with my sense of humor. My mother once told me that if the family ever went on the Family Feud, they would leave me home because of some of the answers I would give to be funny rather than right. Richard Dawson creeped me out anyway.

Right now it is 4:45am. I work a late shift. I'm going to put this on simmer and get back after I show BD what I've done thus far.

--Big Lou--