Ha. Haha. Hahahah. Hahahahahaha.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
The Secret Life of Food
I actually wanted to put this in my cart but it wouldn't stop fucking the string cheese.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Snow Wonder
It's snowing outside today which led my mind to Anna Nicole Smith. How exactly did I make that connection? With all the buzz about her death and who may or may not be her baby-daddy and the number of possible suspects up around 5 now, it's pretty easy to figure out.
Like snow, Anna Nicole was white, everytime she came it made the news, she'd blow anywhere, measured her conquests in inches, and now by unfortunate coincidence, is also cold and will just lay around until moved.
Like snow, Anna Nicole was white, everytime she came it made the news, she'd blow anywhere, measured her conquests in inches, and now by unfortunate coincidence, is also cold and will just lay around until moved.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Where's Roy Scheider When You Need Him?
You can all settle the fuck down now, I'm back. I know my legions of raving fans were simply starved for more of my irreverent views on politics, religion, terrorism, and all that shit. Well, that's not going to happen today. The world's going to hell in a handbasket and my pageviews aren't enough to warrant more madcap conservative ranting, so I'm going to get back to what I do best. Madcap impartial ranting.
I'm back in the car business. I missed it for some strange and obviously seriously fucked up reason. Nothing's quite like the stress and constant exposure to the most bullshit-prone strata of our society: car buyers.
Between the sure-things that fall apart at the last second, the accounting fuckups that eat away at commission checks like a mathematical cancer, I still somehow manage to find a strange love in my heart for the business. Kind of like falling in love with a hooker who you know is just going to fuck you and take your cash but you still want her around.
Being one of the new guys to this particular showroom, I've discovered two things. First, this showroom, like any other has one indigenous creature that will fuck you so hard and fast you won't know what hit you until you lose a sale. A fucking shark.
Yep. A shark. Something like a cross between the genetically engineered psycho Mako sharks from Deep Blue and Jaws. The Great White Car Shark is alive and well, and I've stared into the gaping maw of the bastard and lived to tell the tale. The shark roams the lot in a random pattern; like any shark, if he stops moving he will simply die. No showroom shenanigans for this beauty. No, he prowls the lot constantly in search of his latest feast. Two hundred fifty pounds of pure terror.
This son of a bitch can actually smell cash from a mile away. Every time I walk past him and some spare change jingles in my pocket I shudder at the thought that I might actually lose a leg if he gets fired up and forgets to look before he bites.
At first I wondered if he had clones that hid around the lot and popped up to greet people before any of the rest of us could. Some scientific detective work convinced me that isn't currently a technical possibility, so it must be something else. Something more insidious. Two options presented themselves; well three if you count the whole 'Jesus hates me' scenario, but I generally don't believe that one.
Scenario one: he has actual spawn points around the lot and as if operating like transporter pads he can simply materialize wherever he needs to.
Scenario two: he is a brutally efficient, cold, calculating chumguzzling deal killing machine of unparalelled grace and power.
I'm going with scenario two. Honestly, before my mind can even process the fact that there is a customer outside, the motherfucker slinks out from behind his desk, weaves silently between the cars in the showroom and is seventy feet across the lot, shaking hands and sinking his deadly teeth right into their fucking wallets. All the rest of us can do is simply watch in awe as nature's apex predator plies his trade. We just stare blankly, as if we're witnessing a train wreck. The morbid fascination with the destruction of our own paychecks is almost sickening.
The second discovery I've made since returning to the world of car sales is quite simple yet equally unnerving. If you need to find Mexicans with horrible credit, park this bitch outside your door and wait. It's like going illegal-immigrant fishing.
The best part is that none of them speak any English, they all have credit scores lower than zero and they are so disillusioned as to expect their eight filthy kool-aid stained kids and all four parents are going to magically fit into the thing like a supercharged hispanic clown-car.
I must reiterate here that I am NOT a racist. I am a car salesman, which though some people would say the two are morally equal, is not the case. I simply am astute enough to notice that in the three months I've been at this facility, I have not seen anyone lighter than burnt ochre looking at it. Take it as you will.
I'm back in the car business. I missed it for some strange and obviously seriously fucked up reason. Nothing's quite like the stress and constant exposure to the most bullshit-prone strata of our society: car buyers.
Between the sure-things that fall apart at the last second, the accounting fuckups that eat away at commission checks like a mathematical cancer, I still somehow manage to find a strange love in my heart for the business. Kind of like falling in love with a hooker who you know is just going to fuck you and take your cash but you still want her around.
Being one of the new guys to this particular showroom, I've discovered two things. First, this showroom, like any other has one indigenous creature that will fuck you so hard and fast you won't know what hit you until you lose a sale. A fucking shark.
Yep. A shark. Something like a cross between the genetically engineered psycho Mako sharks from Deep Blue and Jaws. The Great White Car Shark is alive and well, and I've stared into the gaping maw of the bastard and lived to tell the tale. The shark roams the lot in a random pattern; like any shark, if he stops moving he will simply die. No showroom shenanigans for this beauty. No, he prowls the lot constantly in search of his latest feast. Two hundred fifty pounds of pure terror.
This son of a bitch can actually smell cash from a mile away. Every time I walk past him and some spare change jingles in my pocket I shudder at the thought that I might actually lose a leg if he gets fired up and forgets to look before he bites.
At first I wondered if he had clones that hid around the lot and popped up to greet people before any of the rest of us could. Some scientific detective work convinced me that isn't currently a technical possibility, so it must be something else. Something more insidious. Two options presented themselves; well three if you count the whole 'Jesus hates me' scenario, but I generally don't believe that one.
Scenario one: he has actual spawn points around the lot and as if operating like transporter pads he can simply materialize wherever he needs to.
Scenario two: he is a brutally efficient, cold, calculating chumguzzling deal killing machine of unparalelled grace and power.
I'm going with scenario two. Honestly, before my mind can even process the fact that there is a customer outside, the motherfucker slinks out from behind his desk, weaves silently between the cars in the showroom and is seventy feet across the lot, shaking hands and sinking his deadly teeth right into their fucking wallets. All the rest of us can do is simply watch in awe as nature's apex predator plies his trade. We just stare blankly, as if we're witnessing a train wreck. The morbid fascination with the destruction of our own paychecks is almost sickening.
The second discovery I've made since returning to the world of car sales is quite simple yet equally unnerving. If you need to find Mexicans with horrible credit, park this bitch outside your door and wait. It's like going illegal-immigrant fishing.
The best part is that none of them speak any English, they all have credit scores lower than zero and they are so disillusioned as to expect their eight filthy kool-aid stained kids and all four parents are going to magically fit into the thing like a supercharged hispanic clown-car.
I must reiterate here that I am NOT a racist. I am a car salesman, which though some people would say the two are morally equal, is not the case. I simply am astute enough to notice that in the three months I've been at this facility, I have not seen anyone lighter than burnt ochre looking at it. Take it as you will.
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