I must have jinxed myself and invited bad juju with my last post. I should have known better than to tempt the creative yet evil brain of Jerry Bruckenheimer. Since last week I’ve been hit by a literal shit storm. Before you people get all judgey- yes, I know what literal means. I was literally hit with human shit flying through the air. But I’ll get to that in a minute.
Thursday night, the night before Karen was to start her new job, we took the dogs to the vet. All we had to do was have papers signed off that they could be in the country. While talking to the vet we brought up the fact that we found a small lump in Luca Brasi’s abdomen last year and that the Spanish vet told us that it was fatty tissue. After *probably* blocking out the mental picture of Kirstie Alley’s extra vagina skin, our all American vet, while emoting perfect condescension for Spanish vets and all fools who would trust them, told us that he needed to check for himself.
After taking an ex-ray and finding a tumor the size of a baseball, Luke was going to need emergency surgery. He explained, in far too much detail, the risks involved in operating on a nine year old dog as well as the 50-50 chance that he’d have to call during surgery to tell us that the dog was riddled with cancer and ask us to put him down right there and then on the operating table. My wife went all Sophie’s Choice and told him to just kill me instead before realizing that wasn’t up to him and asking Morgan Freeman instead. I assume that our vet, Steve Sanders, was trying to punish us for having exciting lives in Spain while he hasn’t done anything since gradating from that stupid high school. I’ve constantly tried to reassure him by praising him for banging Kelly and getting Dylan off the drugs, but he just looks at me like, “I’m a veterinarian, not a fictional character from a teenage soap opera” but doesn’t say it because he’s too embarrassed and I’m all like, “Dude, have you done anything, like, AT ALL, since then?” but I don’t say it because I’m too embarrassed for him.
The surgery went well and Luca wasn’t riddled with cancer. Luckily Steve Sanders can cut up animals better than he can act. He got out the tumor and had to take out Bubbalou’s spleen as well. Unfortunately they didn’t save it for me. I would have liked to put it in a jar as a warning to other tumors of what happens when they threaten my family. Because that would be hardcore. Like, “See your cousin? He’s in a fucking jar on my dresser. And your cousin’s balls are in another jar on my other dresser.” Then the other tumors would all be like “Don’t fuck with him Essey, he’s fucking loco.” Because I’m pretty sure that all tumors talk with a Mexican accent.
That night, while still worried about Luke, we took Pablo Escobar for a walk and got caught up in a flash shitstorm. It was exceptionally dark and we were just passing one of the beach restaurants when we noticed 3 things simultaneously; (1) a weird gurgling that seemed to be coming from the earth itself- like Britney Spears had burrowed down into the ground like some kind of gangly hobgoblin, to smoke up my meth farm and got all gurgly and pukey (probably because my meth was rotten because I suck at meth farming) like that chick from The Ring, (2) that we seemed to be walking through inches of mud; weird since it hadn’t rained in a week, and (3) WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THAT FUCKING SMELL???
Just as the shocking and horrifying truth started to sink in, Britney changed DVD’s and went all exorcist and begun spitting large chunks of shit, shit flavored water, and piss flavored shitwater at our legs and torsos. In those last few seconds as the broken sewer line/meth-ed out, demon possessed Britney spewed out the contents of the underworld, I glanced down at The Puppy and she wore an expression of rapturous bliss. Like Mitch McConnell might look while eating a pint of Cherry Garcia while being blown by Harry Reid while congress repealed health care and the blue states burned.
While Karen ran home, I ran to a nearby, random house with a visible hose and went all mean prison guard in Rambo on myself and the dog, violently hosing away the gross. Karen had thrown away her shoes, her only shoes, before coming home so as soon as I got home I had to run out and buy her flip flops.
While I was gone and Karen was in the shower, The Puppy, still wet from her hosing and still euphoric from the unique high of human feces, chewed up a God damn library book. The one I was reading. The one I’m now going to have to replace at full retail value. I only had a one chapter left. The dog only chewed one chapter, the last one. And even though it wasn’t that great a read, my personality being what it is, I’m going to have to borrow it again just so I can read the predictable ending that I know is coming. So I’m going to have to borrow a book, that I actually bought, from people who will likely be all judgey and superior even though, technically, I pay their salary. Or will when they start taxing meth farming.
Update: Since I wrote this post things are bouncing back to awesome again. An old, old, old, (he’s really old) friend of mine, Ricky Martinelli sent me a shirt that is so full of Win I don’t think I’ll ever lose at anything again. Not even *New* Risk, or as the press likes to call it; The Mexican Drug War.
I know one thing; I’m never again going to tempt Morgan Freeman and Jerry Bruckenheimer. I think they re-did the Job bet thing. Staring me. That’s ok though because I fucking Won.
Friends often ask me about my obvious hate and phobia of the general public. If you know me then you know that I make no attempt to hide my utter contempt for Joe Six-Pack and Suzie-Q-Winecooler. Friends ask, “Are people really that bad?” My answer is absolute, “yes, yes they are, they are worse than your darkest fantasies could conjure.”
I’m convinced that 80 to 90% of the general public are mouth breathing, window licking, intolerant, evil, petty, racist, ignorant, filthy animals with consciousness. Don’t worry, if you’re reading this then I’m not talking about you. The people I’m speaking of don’t read anything except whatever monthly magazine most closely mirrors they’re own socio-economic background and beliefs. They are walking, talking cartoons.
Anyone who has ever had to work with the general public knows what I’m talking about. It can be extremely entertaining though, and if I didn’t laugh, I’d cry like a baby while cradling a shotgun. So it’s better to laugh and let it go.
The main reason that my perception of the GP is not PC probably stems from working on a turnpike for about 5 years as a toll collector. This was a very good job believe it or not. Really good pay, full benefits, tons of perks, you had to know somebody to get this job and most of my colleagues were very intelligent with college educations. They stayed at the turnpike because it was so cushy. All that plus a beautiful blue polyester uniform.
The only really bad part about the job was having to deal with 500-1000 people a day. When you see numbers like that it’ll really shake your faith in humanity. I could write a book about the horrors I’ve seen, but instead I thought I’d share a few with you. Don’t worry, I’m focusing on the funny today. The unfunny ‘incidents’ I put on a DVD. It was the video in “The Ring.” Anyway the very tip of the iceberg…
-I saw more fully naked people than I care to remember. At least 2-4 a week. Why is it that the only people willing to be naked in public are those that we would never, ever want to see naked?
-I’ve had enough people hand me money covered in bodily fluid to keep me in therapy for years. If I could tell ahead of time I would just let it fly out the window. If not, I kept a handy bucket of pure bleach nearby to dip my hands in.
-And how could so many people be bleeding so regularly? You’d think I was a vending machine at the “Psycho” house in Universal Studios. Maybe there was a phlebotomy school for people with Parkinson’s nearby?
-It’s funny how people that smoke dope all the time forget that it’s illegal. So many stoners would just continue to casually smoke a joint while trying to pay me. The best was a couple who kept passing a foot long bong back and forth while looking for a buck-fifty in loose change. Then when most ‘heads’ do find the money, after counting it 4 times, it’s not even in the ballpark of close.
-I’ve had people accidentally hand me drugs along with paper money. Once I separated the glassine baggie from the cash, the look on their face alone was worth the price of admission.
-People who are loath to interrupt their screaming match long enough to pay me, making me privy to information on life and love which inspired me to pour bleach into my ears with a suction straw. All the neighbors in the trailer park? At once? Really Diane??
-People who are incapable of emitting a single sentence to a stranger without uttering a string of profanities that would make an angry sailor go into anaphylactic shock. I’m not going to even attempt to recreate the mastery they displayed. My favorite though is the common “Fuckin-A-Right” when they are in a good mood. What does that even mean? Keep in mind that this was a big Northeastern city, not in Kentucky.
-I’ve had a woman tripping her proverbial balls off on mushrooms. (I know it was mushrooms because they were on a seat next to her.) She started screaming hysterically about the 4 Toyotas following her. They had been following her for 2 states and apparently wanted to harvest her organs for profit. The police had to come for that one, since she stopped in my lane, rolled up her windows, locked her doors, and covered her head with a blanket until they arrived.
-I love the people that want me to count their money. They just hand me their wallet or purse and say, “just take what you need.” Yes I swear to God this has happened, more than once. My reply is always the same, “Fuckin-A-Right!”
-Plus the ‘normal’ everyday traffic of crackheads, prostitutes, pimps, strippers, shaking alcoholics, stoned athletes, and cheating, small time politicians, all of which I had a friendly daily banter with.
Like I said though, this is just the tip of the iceberg of why I have no faith or trust in the general public. Why that phrase makes a part of me curl up and die. If you still work with the general public, God Bless You. Me, I have looked into the face of humanity and ran away screaming.