Oh Sweet Peacock Penis Have I Got A Crazy For You

I really feel as though I should seek employment with my Circle K because it seems like every major event in my life can be somehow Kevin Baconed back to a connection with that damnable Circkle K; and here's the latest:

I would like to tell you that what happened to me today was a terrible calamity. That somehow the negativity of the day's episode would change the course of my existence in some way or another. However, it was far less Draconian than all that and I could never really pull off the effective misanthrope thing.

No, what happened to me today was a mere inconvenience. One that cost more money and time than I would have liked, but a mere inconvenience none the less. Ironic it would happen to me outside of a Circle K.

I returned to my vehicle after puchasing an ice cold, sugar free Full Throttle, and a somewhat less titillating bottle of Aquafina water. I put the keys in the ignition, turned the key to the same degree I always do to start the car and. . . Lo and behold, no juice. Except there was juice. All the power came on, the A/C was pretending to be cold and all the bells and whistles lit up; but the engine wouldn't turn over. I had no idea what was wrong, so I started to freak out. But again it was more an, oh shit I'm missing the new episode of Desperate Housewives kind of freak out, as opposed to the, oh shit I'm missing the new episode of Family Guy; which would be a true tragedy in the Shakespearian sense of the word.

Okay, let's make what should never have become a long story short again by saying that it was the ignition. For patent reasons I had to go to the Ford dealership for a switch that cost $115.86, which I later found out actually costs a whopping $20.00 if you have connections. So I get the part back to my vehicle, my dad was with me at this point and we were going to attempt to do this ourselves, when I realize that we can't even get the old ignition out. I am going to blame this on shotty manufacturing, but it was probably just our own ineptitude. So, with much deliberation I call a locksmith, "sorry man, can't have anyone out until tomorrow." Then I call another, and another. Finally one of them refers me to this guy named Allen; at least I think that's what it was. Says he knows what he's doing and that I should call him because he can probably help me out right away. I was soon to learn why.

Allen the Locksmith rolls up in this very large former Wonder Bread, fading forest green truck; on which you can no longer read the name and number of this man's failing locksmith company.
He parks his beast, walks up to the doorless passenger side opening, and says. . .

I will pause the story for a moment here, for you must see the broken magnificence that I saw at that moment. He was tall, with deltoid length ratty blonde hair. His neck was too long for its own satisfaction and the wilted grey tank-top he wore was unpleasantly congruent. He had a gut/ beerbelly that was somewhat maintained by the shirt, and his fingernails reminded me of Gollum. Not just Gollum's fingernails but Gollums entire character. Everything that Tolkien intended to portray in that character was personified by this man's fingernails.

Now, I have worked my way down this man's physical make-up to this point, but I must say, from the waste down is the most magnificent of all. It's kind of like licking a schnozzberry.

Allen the Locksmith wore daisydukes the likes of which have never been seen. Half his arse was displayed for all who would never wish to behold such a monstrosity. Seriously, Ron Jeremy in an iron thong would have been more comfortable than this. Still, regardless of this spectacle there was something dangerously amiss. I looked as often as my stomach would permit to try and grasp just what it was, when suddenly I realized. . . This man had superb legs. I wish I were joking, but I realized how smooth and effortless this man's legs were; from perilous daisyduke hips to old worn socks and sandaled toes. It was then I decided to do more detailed research into this phenomenon. As I watched him do his locksmith thing I came to the disturbing observance that this Allen wore panty hose. And they must have been of good quality to peak my academic interest. Panty hose folks. Panty hose with man-daisydukes and velcro sandals with unwashed socks riddled with tiny holes of over use. This was the sight I beheld.

. . . "I'm gonna need the old ignition, along with the keys." His voice was distinctly Canadien, stressing the Os and speaking general irrelevance. If you have ever watched a Hockey game you know what I am talking about. He set the new ignition to the shape of my key in short time, had it set in my vehicle in even shorter time, and $60.00 later he was on his way. I do not dispute the man's aptitude for his particular field of work. He made my life normal again by simply doing what he does; and for that I thank him. I only hope he can do the rest of the social world a favor and take some of that $60.00 to buy himself a longer pair of shorts.

198 Degree Caramel Macchiatto Lady

Oh that's right, it's the same crazy.

This incident took place a couple of weeks ago, on a Thursday night; which just so happened to be more packed full of people than your highschool prom queen.

I had an awesome crew that night, so although it was like a war zone, we had a good time and just rolled with it. Well, about 20 minutes before close, 200 degree mocha lady shows up with what I hope, for his sake, was not her husband, for a night-cap of sorts. She gets to the counter and much to my chagrin, I am on the register, and orders a one hundred and ninety eight degree Caramel Macchiatto... Hmm. Apparently if there is caramel involved those two degrees will prevent the caramel from becoming liquid lava and creating duct work inside one's throat. How unfortunate.

Anyhow, she completes her order and her husband, or whatever he was pays, and they go and stand by the bar. She was the last customer I had in line at that particular moment, so I go over to the bar and help expidite beverage production... hmm?
You like that technical terminology don't you?
As I am standing there producing, I overhear the conversation that HN -that's short for Hitler's Niece, that's just what we'll call her from now on- is having with an innocent, unsuspecting bystander. I couldn't hear everything, but I heard one sentence quite distinctly and it was this, "yeah, I teach a highschool english class, and all my students hate me."

No kiddin'.
You mean they're not all beaming rays of sunshine reflecting off of your highness's divinity?
Cause that's what I would have assumed.

Alright, a little after that my Dad comes in the store to say hi, and I'm just chattin' it up with him where the line would be if there were one. She comes groping up to the counter reminiscent of a Buffalo having just been shot in the temple, looks in the pastry case for a second and asks one of my co-workers if we are going to throw anything out that she could have right then. My co-worker, the talented and sexy individual by the name of Matt who is my oh so prolific teammate on this blog says, "no sorry, I think we have already thrown out everything we were going to, the rest is good through tomorrow." Or something like that. She looks at me as I stand at the register talking to my Dad and begins to walk away. My Dad and I continue on in our unrelated conversation and suddenly she turns around, walks up to the counter and says, "you know, that's why I don't come in here that much any more. I just go somewhere else."

Okay, first of all, I would dissect my own left testicle, and with one hand behind my back feed it to a ferocious liger of the netherworld to make that true.

Second, where the hell did that come from? She addressed the comment to me. I wasn't doing anything that may have provoked such an outbreak. Just having a conversation with my dad about Buddy Guy (his CD was displayed on the counter at the time).

It's getting near closing time at this point, and I am beginning to get a little antsy, because if I have to go over and tell her that we are closing, I do believe there would be local law enforcement involved. And I don't want that to happen because it just means that we are all going to be there later than necessary.

Thank the good Allah above that it didn't come to that. She left two minutes before we were going to lock the doors, but not before her and her manbeast underwent the worst sting operation I have ever seen in my life. They slowly made their way to The New York Times stand, literally looking like rugrats up to no good, and hovered there for about twenty seconds. Then I watched her boy toy grab a paper and make for the front exit, as she covered him with these lucifer like stares in all directions; as though suddenly everyone who saw him steal the paper would be warded off by her evil and forget the last few moments of their lives.

It was genuinely the most pathetic thing I've seen since Michael Jackson busted out from behind stage on that Justin Timberlake performance at some awards show that happened within the last five or six years, and attempted to moonwalk his way back into his illustrious eighties career.

But then HN, a.k.a. 200 degree mocha lady, is just that pathetic.
Someday I will be rich and famous and I will give awards to the most pathetic wastes of consumer space; but until then, let's all just laugh and be merry. It's all we can do.

The Peddling Homelessman

Sorry for the delay, I know it has been a while since any of you have seen fresh content.

Well here is one that I have been chewing on for a little while now, it's another Circus K extravaganza.

About a week ago now I went into my Circle K, as it has been dubbed, and as I approached the front door I saw what appeared to be a middle aged homeless man -we assume he's homeless because it's a pretty safe stereotype- who had his blue backpack openly laid out on top of the trash can. I didn't think much of it as I was on my way in and he didn't interact with me at that time.

So I finished purchasing my Circle K paraphernalia and walked out. As I opened the door I heard this man on the trail end of his sentence asking another gentleman who was getting in his car if he would like something. Didn't hear what it was but saw the departing gentleman graciously decline. Okay, I'm intrigued. What ever could it be?

As I get closer to my car I look into this man's backpack and see some of the contents. Among them were things like cans of Chef Boyardee, Spam, Ramen and some bruised fruit that looked like it had just come from a bizarre fetish focused porn set. As I stepped off the curb into the parking lot this guy, with tattered camo fatigues and a frayed existence said with an impeccable Jackie Gleason from The Honeymooners inflection, "You wanna buy some vegetables?"

Wow, vegetables; right. I responded courteously that I was alright for the moment and in that same "to the moon" voice I heard, "how about an orgasm?"

What?
By this point in the transaction I was very nearly laughing out loud at this man's face. I had no idea how to respond to such an outrageous suggestion. Was he serious? Had I misheard him? The only thing I could think to say was the first thing that came to mind and that was, "no thanks, I've already had my homeless lovin."

And that was that. I'm not sure how well he made out that day, economically speaking; but he made my day. And being the butt end of a joke, especially a homeless one, should make anyone's day really.