Ramblin' Man

1. Why is it that at the end of every Price Is Right, with a sparkle in his eye, Bob Barker gets a little TOO excited reminding everyone to spay or neuter their pets? “Bob meet Creepy…Creepy, this is Bob.”

3. Got a mailer today from the folks at Northwest Airlines, inquiring if I’d like to burn some mileage points on a selection of magazines. One of the magazines is titled Men in Nursing. My guess is that this magazine is not about men into hot, 22-year-old women dressed in latex nurse outfits, wearing platform shoes, demanding that their “wound be re-dressed”?

5. Jo-Ann Fabrics gives me a boner. Must be the intoxicating aroma of old people, bolts of polyester, and balsa wood. Sooo H O T!

-Greg

“Red Rover, Red Rover send the Pansy right OVER!”

Ahh, yes……those great recess games that we all played as kids at school. Red Rover was one of my favorites. Two teams, the kids on each team stood side by side, arms out-stretched, with their hands joined with the kids next to them, then one team faced the other with about thirty feet of open playground between them. As each team took turns calling out the name of another on the opposite team, the kid would run full-out toward the opposite team and try to break through the human chain. Occassionally, someone would get clothes-lined or come away with a bloody nose. But when you were 10, who didn’t want to see blood spraying from Rodger’s nose like a split garden hose? Good times.

Course there was tag, touch football, and everybody’s favorite – dodgeball! Shit, dodgeball was a staple in 7th grade PE in the winter! We were good for at least twenty minutes, while the PE teacher played grab-ass with the school secretary in his office. Put us in the gym, divide into two teams, one team with their backs up against one of the cinder block walls, and the opposite team winging those small, red rubber playground balls at the other. It was a blast! Sure – that inflatable ball stung like a hornet as it ricocheted off your face or, you took a grounder to the man marbles off the gymnasium’s hardwood – but it was certainly nothing life-threatening.

A few months ago, an elementary school south of Boston actually banned the game of tag and touch football. WHAT?!! You’ve GOT to be KIDDING ME!! This same area of the country also banned dodgeball a few years ago, citing it was dangerous and excluded some kids. Umm….yeah, OK. And I love this quote from the school principal who said, “Recess is a time when accidents can happen.” Yes – that is true. However, is banning a game like tag going to eliminate playground accidents entirely? NO! Absolutely not.
And there have been similar bans at other schools in Wyoming, Washington, South Carolina, and California. A school in Santa Monica said they banned tag because it “creates self-esteem issues among weaker and slower kids.” Umm….yes, that’s entirely possible. But it’s called survival. It’s called finding yourself. It’s called building your self-esteem by learning from some not-so-pleasant experiences. It’s called stand up for yourself, or some other kid is gonna kick the crap outa ya. Quite simple really.

Oh, and if you’re one of those hyper-protective parents that’s going to post a comment that reads something like “…Well, little Jimmy is a sensitive child.”, or “…Sarah is intimidated by the bigger kids.” – SHUT IT! Sure, we all know what serious bullying is all about. As a parent myself, I don’t want my son bullied either. But there’s a huge difference between bullying and some classic recess games.

So for all you parents and school administrators out there, STOP sucking the life out of recess for kids everywhere by banning these games! Have you ever stopped to think that by doing so, you may actually be helping to build an entire generation of pansies? Sure. Fast forward twenty-five years, Jimmy (the sensitive kid), get’s so rattled by a confrontation with a co-worker at the office that he calls in sick the next day to 'recover' (hide). And Sarah is still so intimidated by others that she has to wait until the break room clears out before she can heat up her soup in the microwave. Sneak up behind her and holler “DODGEBALL!” just as she’s hitting the Start button, and she’ll shoot a stream of piss down her leg.

Congratulations folks – you’ve successfully managed to hone your kids into the finest bunch of dysfunctional adult candy-asses that we’ve seen in years! Nice work.

-Greg

Ahh...the Bell Ringers.

So when did the Salvation Army bell ringers also become Christmas carolers? I’m walking toward the entrance of a local big-box store today, and out front this bell ringer is belting out Silent Night like Roseanne Barr singing the national anthem.

“Hey Sweetheart – I’m not gonna drop a nickle into your red bucket, but I will give you $5 to STOP YOUR DAMN SINGING!!!

-Greg

Motel 69, Rm. 3825 - Part I

• 4:12 p.m. •
Ever notice how the second you step into a hotel room with your spouse or significant other, the gauge on the sexual tension meter reads “FUCK NOW. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200.”?
And it doesn’t matter if the place is a 14-room shit-hole with bars on the windows, or a swanky 22-story high-rise in Chicago – the twitch in your left nut knows no prejudice.

Good – glad it’s not just me.

But there’s always that pause when you stop and think “Damn – how many other sick bastards have done on that SAME comforter the SAME sick shit that I want to do right now!? That’s nasty!”. So you put down your stuff and start checking out the room. As you reach for the switch on the lamp on the nightstand, you think about all the ass-matter that’s got to be on it! Forget the light. You sit down in what should be called the Bark-Like-a-Dog-o-Lounger, by the looks of all the stains on it. Crack open the bag of Chee-tos you picked up from the gift shop, and reach for the remote. HEL-LO nasty! If Grissom were there, the remote would glow in the dark there’s so much fuck slag on it! It’s like someone taped the remote to a bath towel and flossed themselves from ass-crack to navel and back! To change your shoes before going out you lay a towel down rather than sit directly on the gross, gawdy comforter. You try desperately NOT to think about all manner of fluids that have been spilled, burped, smeared, burnt, shot, dumped, seeped, launched, farted, wiped, leaked, rubbed, spit and otherwise unloaded onto the damn thing!

TIME FOR DINNER!!

You grab your card key, play a little grab-ass with the spouse, and off you go to dinner and a show.

• 11:37 p.m. •
Back to your hotel room. Before you can get the door deadbolted behind you, your pants are around your ankles and you’re fucking her mouth like a rubber ball in one of those wooden paddle games! Couple the “strangeness” of the room hitting you all of a sudden with the alcohol from the hotel bar, and the next thing you know you’re in the bathroom shaving your balls and painting your toe-nails some shade of ‘Carribean Temptation’. Soon after turning on every light in the place, she’s propped up on the nightstand with the crusty comforter draped over it, and you’re eating Cheeto’s outa the crack of her ass! Within minutes, you’re spitting and snorting like two camels fucking on top of an out-of-balance washing machine loaded with 9 pairs of jeans and a cinder block! DAMN. Soon the deed is done and you’ve broken laws in two neighboring states. She hit’s the shower while you stand in the room window chuckling like a crazed lunatic, wiping your dick on the curtains!

Ever notice how after you’ve been with your spouse or significant other for a number of years, the sexual tension meter reads “Hurry up so I can go back to sleep!”?

I have just the remedy……read Motel 69, Rm. 3825 – Part II.

-Greg

WalMart and the Amish

More than a handful of times I've realized at 11:17 p.m. that we're out of contact lens solution or shit paper. Shit happens.
Jumping into the truck and heading to WalMart, I've noticed on several of these occasions a large herd of Amish folk at WalMart at this time of night. This begs a whole buggy-load of questions:

1) Does the area WalMart have a daily Amish Hour? You know - offering specials that cater to the Amish. Like an Amish Black and Blue Light Special. Bargains on items such as shoes, black fabric, buttons, combs, and buggy wheels.

2) Do the Amish only go shopping under the cover of darkness so as not to be stared at by the city folk? If that's the case, I'm changing my shopping habits to only shop at WalMart after 11:00 p.m. I like to stare at people.

3) Are the Amish afraid of getting spotted buying something that either they're not supposed to have according to the Amish Pirate's Code, or that they should be culling from the Earth? "ATTENTION: To the 7-year-old boy in suspenders in Aisle 12 - BACK AWAY from the Little Debbies - SLOWLY!" Or "A-Ha! Don't even THINK about putting those eggs in your cart!" And "A
Kraco for the buggy?! I don't think so Jebediah." Or this one "Absolutely not Ezekiel - put the Linksys wireless router back on the shelf."

4) And does FORD give discounts to the Amish for purchasing their 15-passenger vans? I only see the Amish and various church groups driving these death traps. Marketing goes something like this "Introducing from FORD for a Limited Time: Finance this NEW 2007 FORD 15-passenger E-series van, and get a FREE iPod Nano AND one FREE Bridgestone buggy wheel. (Subject to availability. The Yoder Tire Works will be shut down for one month to harvest their apple crop.)

-Greg

Son-of-a-BITCH!

Ten Things That Make Greg Say “Son-of-a-BITCH!”

1. When someone leaves the plastic safety ring thingy around the neck of the milk jug AFTER it’s been opened.
2. When cabinet doors are left partially open for no apparent reason.
3. When the person in line ahead of you at the grocery store waits until the cashier gives her the total before she BEGINS to make out her check – even though she’s been waiting in line for 15 minutes.
4. When people take a day off work, yet still go into the office.
5. When you visit a retail store, ask to try on a size 8 shoe, and the salesperson brings back a size 9 and asks “Will this work…?”
6. When it starts raining at 4:38 p.m. on a Friday.
7. When you go to eat at Kentucky Fried Chicken and they give you one napkin.
8. When some women insist on wearing loud or clumsy shoes, even if it makes them sound like a Clydesdale pulling the Budweiser wagon.
9. When the person two cars in front of you feels the need to tap the brakes every 17 feet.
10. When a punk-ass 12-year-old on a bike cuts across four lanes, against the flow of traffic and in the middle of the block, only to shoot motorists a look that says “How dare you drive that motor vehicle down the street!”.

"WE HAVE A BLEEDER"

Why is it that when Greg is in a hurry, two things happen: a) everyone else in town immediately downshifts into first gear, and b) people immediately stuff their heads up their asses?

Some examples from Thursday Feb. 13th, 12:00-1:30 p.m.:

1) I'm trying to turn left at an intersection and there is a pedestrian in the crosswalk, crossing the street. Sounds simple and absolutely harmless, right? Nope! First off, this person is bundled up like a fucking Sherpa guide humping Mt. Everest. Never mind that yesterday was one of the mildest days we've seen here for two god-damn weeks! If you are THAT fucking cold, see your doctor or gain some weight. I know from personal experience that an extra 30 pounds is a great insulator. Ever seen a walrus wearing a fucking coat? NO! Secondly, this hump was moving a fucking snails pace across the street! I counted 22 steps to cross ONE lane. I could have chopped both my fucking legs off and pulled my bloody torso across the street FASTER! All of us have to cross the street now and again. As you are doing so, put yourself in the drivers seat - literally. MOVE YOUR ASS before a black-hearted son-of-a-bitch like me runs you over!!

2) I pull up to the automatic car wash, feed the cash into the box, and wait for the car already in the bay to get done. All of a sudden, back-up lights come on! Jesus Christ! LOOK OUT! What the HELL?! Did she change her mind in mid-wash? But then I see the problem - somehow she has managed to plant the left front wheel to the OUTSIDE of the wheel guide thingy, while the left rear wheel is in between the guides where it should be. Nice. So Mario here has decided she is going to BACK UP while the spray arm is circling, and re-position the car. Riiiight. The attendant has noticed and is standing at the exit door of the bay and is waving his arms around as if he's waving a plane onto the runway. The stooge in the car is glancing around like a fucking bobble head, trying to figure out the attendant's hand signals AND trying to watch the spray arm AND jockey the car. The car is lurching back and forth, brake lights then back-up lights, wipers whipping wildly at the windshield ('cause you know this is the same motherfucker that has her wipers on turbo speed when it starts to drizzle!), brake lights, LURCH!, back-up lights, LURCH!,.......FUCK ME!!

3) Then there's the EXPRESS LANE at Schnucks. I'm about 4 people back of this Grade A moron who is fucking everybody in line behind him. Keep in mind that suspended from the ceiling directly overhead is a sign the size of Anna Nicole's ASS that reads "EXPRESS LANE, 20 Items or Less, CASH ONLY". This inconsiderate, and apparently illiterate, shopper has about 40 ITEMS on the fucking belt! Yeah, you might sneak through 21 or even 22 items at a 20-item-or-less lane, but for Christ's sake - 40?! You must think everyone in the fucking place can't count past 9. Then I realize the moron is paying for some of the groceries with food stamps! Oh fuck, here we go! Does the sign read FOOD STAMPS anywhere? Fuck NO! And what's going through his head "Let's see, I'm on food stamps, let's go to the most expensive grocery store in town". Hellll-llo?! Hey, all I want to do is pay for my two packages of candy and bottle of wine and hit the road. Back to the moron - now he's pulling out COUPONS!! And now my head is about to FUCKING IMPLODE!! Again, pay attention class, does the sign read anything about COUPONS? NO, NO, and FUCK NO!! At this point I'm ready to sink a rusty fork into the guys neck. Intercom announcement: "CLEAN UP ON THE EXPRESS LANE, . . . CLEAN UP ON THE EXPRESS LANE, WE HAVE A BLEEDER."

Here's the express lane sign at Greg's Groceries: "EXPRESS LANE, 10 Items or LESS, DEBIT CARDS ONLY, NO CASH, NO COINS, NO CHECKS, NO COUPONS, NO FOOD STAMPS, NO MORONS, NO LAZY EYES, NO BELL BOTTOMS, NO ORTHOPEDIC SHOES, NO ADULT DIAPERS, NO ASIANS, NO SKANKS."

Happy Valentine's Day!
-Greg

Mink Juice

So, at about 9:30 last night I make a trip down to Osco. The purpose of this trip is to pick up some black shoe polish. After locating the shoe polish display, I realize that this may not be a simple task. As I'm scanning the shelves for your basic black shoe polish, it suddenly occurs to me the seemingly endless choices of shoe care products available! From left to right: You got your Tennis Shoe Cleaner, why won't soap and water work?; Tennis Shoe Repair; Tennis Shoe Whitener; Tennis Shoe Polish, now what's the difference between the whitener and the polish? Any person of even the most limited intelligence can read the back of these bottles and see that labels are damn near IDENTICAL. It's just worded differently!! You got your Tennis Shoe Scuff Spray, and then on to the products for all other shoes. You got your Paste Wax, your Liquid Polish, in shoe terms what's the difference between the wax and the polish? Are there instances where one is better than the other? You got your 'Twist-n-Shine', which is the paste polish in this over-packaged, over-priced plastic twist-up applicator thingy which the geniuses at KIWI claim to be 'Easy to use, less mess, and lasts longer'. This method seems comparable to me using my fucking deoderant to polish my shoes! Somehow this doesn't seem like it would be ANY of those descriptions! Then you got your Shoe Cream, I don't even want to know what the hell that's for! You got your Creams, Polishes, Waxes, all available in these plastic bottles with the little angled foam applicator tip deals that are SUPPOSED to apply just the right amount of product to the surface. Yeah right!! Then there are the many other products that aren't neccesarily a polish, but are still included in the rather disorganized display. These would include your Carnuba Wax, any ideas? Your Saddle Oil, shouldn't this be in the 'Horse Care' section? You got your Mink Oil. How many minks does one have to squeeze to get just ONE can of this crap?! And do they scream when you squeeze them? Or do they go the more humane route, and put them to sleep first? But does the drug have an adverse effect on the quality of the Mink Oil?! So maybe as consumers we should be asking the suppliers 'Is this fresh-squeezed Mink Oil, or that more laboratory-intensive, lesser-quality stuff.......?!
-Greg

Half-Assed and Super-Sized

Have you ever gone through the drive-up window at a local fast food dump, only to be handed a drink that's dripping soda pop everywhere? Damn!
Have you ever stood at the counter at a fast food restaurant waiting to be served, while a half dozen employees stood around jaw-jacking behind the counter? Hi, uh, customer here!
Have you ever went to Lowe's on a Wednesday night, needed help with something, and swore you were the only person in the place? Hel-looo?!
Have you ever been out to a nice restaurant for dinner and had to wait an eternity for that drink refill - repeatedly? Come ON!
Have you ever been to Monical's Pizza to get carry-out, only to have them burn the pizza - 4 out of 5 times?! Thanks!
Let's see, my answers to these questions would be "Yes, Sure, Yep, HELL YES!, and Don't get me fuckin' started!".
Class, today we are going to learn about three very important things. Please write these down as I write them on the overhead: P-R-I-D-E I-N Y-O-U-R W-O-R-K, R-E-S-P-O-N-S-I-B-I-L-I-T-Y, and W-O-R-K E-T-H-I-C. These may seem like foreign concepts to you at this point, but please pay attention. The only quiz on this material will come in about twenty years when a 15-year-old kid dumps a Coke down the drivers-side door when you go through the fucking drive-up window! Nice! Reach through the window and jerk some sense into him, you pass the quiz with an A+. Shrug your shoulders and say to yourself "Oh well,...", you fail the quiz with a huge fucking F! And if you are a parent and fail this quiz, pull the car forward, promptly get out, and slam your dick in the car door.
A few months ago I'm bitching to a co-worker about an incident similar to one of those listed above, when another co-worker overhears and feels the need to interject this classic: "Well Greg, ya know, they're not really getting paid that much...and...it's a pretty crappy job."
HUH?!! Oh shit, here we go! I don't care what they're getting paid or how shitty their job is! Neither is an excuse to do a half-assed job! Let me back up about 20 years and give you an example of a shitty job. Oh, and a shout out to the 15-year-old Eminem wanna-be in the back row, with the cell phone sprouting from his ear and wearing the latest "street wear", PAY ATTENTION Superstar! 'Cause you're gonna be the next one to get yanked out the drive-up window.
I was 13, growing up in rural Indiana, and school was out for the summer. My dad, brother, and myself often helped out a farmer friend of ours take care of about 1300 acres of corn, soybeans, wheat, and a few head of cattle. On this particular late-July morning my brother and I are at the farmers house waiting to hear what the chores will be for the day. It's 7:30 a.m. and the temperature gauge on the side of the house already reads 89 degrees. And this is Indiana - there is no such thing as a fucking "dry heat".
Simply walking from the car to the house is enough to send a torrent of sweat down the Asscrack River. The word from Paul (the farmer) today is, we're heading down to the river bottom (for you city folk, river bottom refers to the fields immediately adjacent to the river) to cut sorghum out of the corn and bean fields. Heck, I'm almost 14, got this "got the world by the balls" attitude, this job doesn't sound too bad. Stupid fucking kid! We get to the field, jump out of the truck, right into a god damn blast furnace! I swear the temperature had climbed 20 degrees in the fifteen minutes it took to drive from the house to the field. This is the kind of heat that is suffocating - takes your breath away. Paul hands my brother and I each a machete, points to the bean field and asks, "See those tall weeds that look sorta like corn stalks?" I reply, "Uh, yeah." Paul says, "Take your machete and chop all that shit down." HUH?! No fucking way! I thought he was joking, but the punch line never came. I thought that if I 'accidently' hacked off a couple of fingers, maybe he would at least haul me back to the air-conditioned house to mend my bloody stumps. Right.
Three hours and about 20-degrees-hotter later, my brother and I have carved a narrow path toward the center of this 90-acre field. We've hardly made a dent in the sorghum. Our arms and hands are cut, scratched, and stinging from the leaves and sweat, our t-shirts have become transparent from the sweat, our necks and faces are burnt from the sun, and our backs and feet are throbbing. Oh, and did I mention that my brother at this time was 7 years old? All for $3.00 an hour. And we'll be back tomorrow, and the next day, until it's finished. I couldn't fucking WAIT for school to start!
That was the shitty job example, now here is the "Responsibility 101" example. I was still 13, and it was late summer/early fall. I'm helping Paul (the farmer) again today in a different river bottom field. At least at this late point in the season, the Indiana blast furnace has steadily loosened it's death grip. My project for today: ride around on a tractor while Paul drives and discs this 150-acre field. Ahhh, nice!
But this ain't no scratch-built garden tractor here, Jim Bob! This is an IH 5488, pulling a 16-row IH disc behind. This baby had the enclosed cab, heat, A/C, AM/FM/cassette/six speakers, air ride seat, power and lights fucking galore, etc., etc. Fucker would almost drive itself! At the time, this was one of the largest and well-featured tractors on the market. And the disc!? While many of the area farmers were still touting their 12-row implements, Paul had to one-up everybody and go for the 16-row mo-fo. This som'bitch was HUGE! Just the footprint of this thing was the size of a small fuckin' house! It would cut swaths through the biggest fields and say "Fuck you - is that all ya got?!". The tractor and disc were each less than two years old, and Paul had dropped upwards of 200 thousand bucks for the pair. So here I was, riding shotgun with Paul, A/C cranked, stereo tuned, staring out the side window, probably picking my nose and eating it, when the tractor slows and comes to a stop. Huh...what? I thought there was a problem - Paul had stopped in the middle of the field.
Here comes the responsibility part. Paul slides out from behind the wheel and says "Move over, you're drivin'." WHAT?!! I went from feeling like I had gotten a 'promotion' after cutting weeds out of fields by hand most of the summer to a 13-year-old on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the span of about ten seconds!! Holy crap! Most other kids my age would shit themselves if their Mom gave them permission to ride their Huffy the 3 miles into town! I felt sick to my stomach all of a sudden...let's see...an excuse, uh...ummm. Too late - Paul had begun the driving instruction, "Adjust the seat. The big lever to the left of the steering wheel is the engine RPM control - push it up about three-quarters. The small lever on the console next to your right hand, closest to the seat raises and lowers the disc - nudge it forward, away from you. The big lever to the right of the wheel is the throttle - steadily, push it all the way up. Oh, and hold onto the wheel. Don't mess with anything else." Shit, we're moving! Paul again, "...and you're gonna wanna look out the back window once in awhile to make sure you're keepin' her straight...make sure there aren't any problems back there...overlapping each swath by about one row..." Oh, is that all? How 'bout I wash the fuckin' windows while I'm at it?! Ok, can I be done now? Mommy?! Paul again, "...see, it's easy." The east side of the field butted right up against the Wabash river, with gravel roads on the north and west sides, and woods on the south side. We're tilling the field west to east at the moment. From my vantage point it goes field, strip of grass, row of trees, WATER! Oh, shi... Paul again, "Now, when we get down to the end rows down here, you're gonna want to do everything I just told you - but in reverse order. Throttle down, disc up, rpm down. Oh, and turn the wheel to spin it around and head back the opposite direction. Look out your back window - make sure you're lined up where you need to be. Then again, rpm up, disc down, throttle up. Then sit back and relax until you get to the other end of the field." Oh, okay!! I've got it...I think! As the river draws ever closer, Paul offers up some unforgettable wisdom, "You get flustered at the other end, don't get her turned around in time, run up on the gravel road - no big fuckin' deal. Fuckin' road needs some work anyway. You get flustered down at this end and miss the goddamned turn - drive this som'bitch into the river - that IS a BIG fuckin' deal! You won't be seeing your 14th birthday..." Wow. Okay then. Thanks Paul! Needless to say, I got her turned around despite the sweaty palms and piss in my pants. After about three rounds, I was starting to feel like a pro. About round number six, Paul is propped up in the corner of the cab, nearly asleep. So I gradually kept turning up the radio volume until he wakes with "What the hell ya doin'?! Let me out." I asked anxiously if we were gonna park it. His reply, "Hell no, you're gonna keep workin'. What're you chargin' these days - how's 5 bucks an hour sound? I'm headin' back to the house to get us some lunch and to feed Tiny (his three-legged dog). Keep the fuckin' tires dry..." The door slammed shut.
So the next time the kid at the drive-up window hands you that dripping fountain drink, do him a favor and make him do it right. The next time the underside of your take-out pizza looks like charred firewood, insist that the bastards make another one. The next time you're at McDonalds eating their slop, and the timer on the deep fryer has been beeping for an eternity, get up from your seat, shut off the timer, and beat the nearest teenager in a uniform with the french fry basket. The next time you're at a fast food joint and there are several 'Associates' huddled together carrying on about where the party is after work while customers stand waiting in line, dial information on your cell phone, get the phone number for the restaurant you're at, and call it. When someone picks up, ask to speak with Brian (one of the 'Associates'). When Brian get's on the phone, say "Hi Julie, sorry to interrupt your planning of this evenings festivities on the Promenade Deck, but take my fucking ORDER NOW!!"
Yes, they're getting paid shit and the job is probably shittier, but that's the way it is. We've all been there and done it. Deal with it. It's not an excuse to do it half-assed. Take some pride in your work and do it RIGHT - the FIRST time! And parents: It's OK to be an asshole occasionally so as not to raise a bunch of idiots.
Ok. Lesson's over. Now bring me a Fosters......and super-size it.
-Greg

Jillian's Sucks

Jillian's is a chain restaurant/bar/pool hall, that consistently serves up crap food and even crappier service.

I've never had a positive experience at Jillian's - ever. First thing - the second you walk in the door you're hit in the face with the smell of a three-day-old urine-soaked cigarette. Either clean the fucking restrooms or install some better ventilation. It's a bar - it's going to smell like smoke. But unless people are pissing on the carpet, the entrance should NOT smell like a portable shit bucket from my parents 1974 pop-up camper. As soon as I walk in the place, a waitress should have one eyeball on me and the other on her push-up bra. The second I land at a table and remove my jacket, said pushed-up waitress should appear like a genie outa thin air, READY to take a drink order. READY means pen and note pad in hand. If you were a fucking genius, you wouldn't be waiting tables. Write the shit down. And when you say you're going to return in "a couple of minutes" to take our food order, make sure you can read the clock. Don't come back in 22 minutes and act like you're busting your ass. If 4 guys show up to eat lunch, make each check separate. Unless you know that two or more of the guys are dating or fucking each other, separate checks should be automatic. If you're in the pool hall business, maintain the equipment. Yes, this does cost money. However, your $3 bottles of domestic beer should more than pay for this upkeep. ALL of the pool cues should have tips on them. NONE of the cues should bow like the hull of a Chris-Craft. DON'T ration the chalk like it's fucking caviar. Stop by Ace Hardware and fix the fucking wobbly tables! Don't even bring the food to the table without silverware AND napkins. EXTRA fucking napkins. Assume that I am a one-armed slob with the shakes - bring a fucking BALE of napkins to the table. And fuck yes I want the change back! The check is $8.95 - I give you $9 and some pocket lint. Bring back the nickle AND the pocket lint - you don't get ALL of that for a tip! And when you're having a slow (read non-existent) lunch rush, don't simply stand around looking dumber. Work on getting rid of the sour piss smell!

Panera Bread and Ass-Crack

Doesn't really go together, does it? Well, apparently one twenty-something female thought so on Thursday.

REWIND: After getting my food and drink, I pulled up a chair at one of the few remaining tables. The snobs and despondent housewives were out in force. And if you are a snob or an 'overpriced' housewife that's had so many Botox injections that your lips look like stuffed, fried ravioli - shut it. Even us po' folk like tasty, overpriced lunch meat and a Dixie cup of soup. Now back to the ass.
As I'm enjoying a warm-n-fuzzy moment with Greg, enjoying the hot soup on a cold day, I look up and WHOA! ---- Ass bogey at 1:00! Said female and friend were sitting two tables away, also enjoying a nice lunch - WITH THREE INCHES OF ASS CRACK SPEAKING DIRECTLY AND ONLY TO ME! Wow! Let's check out a snippet of the PG-rated thoughts or conversations running through my head for the next 17 minutes on that day:
"Hi.....my name is Greg. Oh, hi there. Nice to meet you. So do you come here often? Really? No....I've just not seen you here before. I come in from time to time....hey, take care. Yeah, you too. What's that? Oh, a Virgo....great. I'm a Scorpio....and you should know that I've never met a female ass that I didn't want to worship AND smack at the same time. Hey, I gotta run."..........."Bite of turkey sandwich...look up, ass-crack. Sip of soda...look over, ASS-CRACK! Spoonful of soup...look up, STILL MORE ASS-CRACK!! Good Lord, make it STOP! It's driving me MAD! Just let me eat my lunch in peace! STOP STALKING ME, Ass-Crack!!"..........."Bob, the next contestant on our fourth day of College Week is Keri Reiner, from the University of Illinois!! KERI REINER - COME ON DOWN! YOU'RE THE NEXT CONTESTANT ON THIS ASS IS SO RIGHT!!!"..........."So the ass-crack in this situation is like coming up on a tremendous accident scene on the interstate. The authorities have the two lanes knocked down to one, you're sitting a mile back in traffic that's moving, but at a greasy snails pace. All the while you're waiting, you're thinking 'Shit, it must be bad. Somebody must've gotten killed. God, I can't look.' Ten minutes pass and you're like 'Fuck already - what's taking SO long? My iPod battery is dying. Scrape him off the pavement, and MOVE IT!' Then you get closer, you spot a white sheet next to the crumpled car in the median - you start to get anxious. Excited and grossed out at the same time. Then as you roll by slowly, you STARE.....yet try to look away so you don't look like a sick-ass, rubberneckin', black-hearted motherfucker.....but you STARE again.....look away.....then STARE again via your rear-view mirror.....look away......then STARE again from your side mirror, leaning WAAAYY over into the passenger seat to catch another glimpse at just the right angle. I am this person and this ass-crack is that accident. As much as I try to pull my eyes away from the ass-crack, the ass-crack draws me in. Stare at the ass-crack, but don't get excited by the ass-crack. As nasty as the ass-crack might be, you still want a closer look. You can't help but gawk at the ass-crack. The ass-crack is EVIL.....yet sweet medicine for the sick eyes."

I'll be back at Panera at 11:40 this Thursday..