Sooo busy. So damn busy.
This is the first time all week I haven’t had a stack of twelve folders sitting on my desk screaming at me, “Edit me you lazy bastard!”
Yesterday, fueled on free soda and a sincere desire to impress the manuals people, I burnt through the stack of folders like a propane torch through the flesh of a rhino. It was slow, tedious, and very stinky, but I was so glad when it was over. Now I’m lounging around my cube eating plums surfing the net.
The typists aren’t so happy about my vigorous work because now they are stuck with the rhino and they only have a book of matches. Silly bitches.
Since I’ve been so busy I haven’t really had a chance to post about anything that’s been happening lately and there has been some cool shit going down. I won’t be able to relate all of the kickassery, but I might throw one nugget of coolness at you.
Cause I’m mining a whole mountain of coolness, baby. That’s right.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Strippers and Seventies Chairs
Sunday nights are stripper nights. I can’t talk about the details cause its kind of a secret and we don’t want to scare the strippers away by allowing Amish to find out where they’re hiding. He’d flush them out like a fox in a whorehouse...err...hen house.
Anyway.
Ryan and I stumbled into the secret stripper den a few weeks ago and we’ve been going back ever since. It’s been pretty damn amusing. There are typically between five or fifteen off-duty strippers at this bar, and strippers are like cops: they’re never really off duty. Cops always want to hassle you, and strippers always want to get freaky and naked.
Last Sunday I really wasn’t feeling the stripper vibe, so I left early. It was a nice night and the bar isn’t too far from where we live, so we had walked there. On my way home I passed a dumpster where three nice leather chairs were sitting. Three fucking leather chairs! I was thinking, “Who would throw away three perfectly good leather chairs?” So, being the un-wasteful fellow that I am, I decided I would recycle these nice chairs.
The chairs were sort of a retro seventies style, armless kitchen chair with a metal base and even though they weren’t as—say—Ryan’s TV, they weren’t very light either. Each probably weighted about fifteen or twenty pounds. That wouldn’t have been a big deal if I only planned to take one, but I was looking for the big score and in my slightly drunken state I thought I might be able to pull it off.
After a lot of struggling and positioning I decided that two was all I was going to be able to manage without the aid of a wheelbarrow or a pack mule. So I half carried, half drug these two chairs four blocks back to our apartment. These were seriously the most unwieldy sons-of-bitches I could’ve imagined trying to carry. I kept considering dropping one and coming back for it later, but I was like a soldier carrying two of his wounded buddies—I was leaving no man behind, even if it meant one chair hoisted over my shoulder smashing my face, while the other hung at my side smacking me in the ass with every step.
I tried to avoid the sidewalks since the scene might spark the curiosity of anyone who happened to see me, so I cut through backyards and empty lots. That probably wasn’t a good idea either, because midway into my trek I saw two police cruisers drive up the road in front of me. One stopped, backed up, looked at me for a moment and then went on. The other stopped and the cop got out of his car and waited for me to slowly trudge my ass to the street. Well, there was no way in hell that I was going to drag those chairs to the street if he was just going to make me drag them all the way back to the dumpster, so I dropped the chairs and walked up to the cop.
It didn’t occur to me until he took my ID and radioed it into the dispatcher that I was probably drunk enough to be taken in for public intox. Suddenly the chairs were the least of my worries.
Luckily, after he determined that I wasn’t wanted for anything more serious than dumpster diving, he let me go and told me, “In the future, you might want to ask the owner of the business before you take their garbage.” Yeah, I’ll try and do that officer. I’m sure they would appreciate a 1 a.m. call from some drunk wandering back from the bar, “Hey man, can I have those leather chairs you threw away?”
So I finished lugging those fucking chairs the rest of the way to my apartment. I briefly considered jumping in my car and going back for the third, but it was getting late and I felt like I had just got done competing in a piano throwing contest, so I called it a night.
The next morning my arms were covered in bruises and my legs were a little sore, but it was all worth it to see those beat up old leather chairs sitting around my kitchen table. Free furniture is the best furniture.
The chairs go great with the Old Style, too. Now I can drink the seventies while I’m sitting in the seventies! Now if only I could find a bed from the seventies, and a woman in her seventies...oh yeah.
Yesterday, fueled on free soda and a sincere desire to impress the manuals people, I burnt through the stack of folders like a propane torch through the flesh of a rhino. It was slow, tedious, and very stinky, but I was so glad when it was over. Now I’m lounging around my cube eating plums surfing the net.
The typists aren’t so happy about my vigorous work because now they are stuck with the rhino and they only have a book of matches. Silly bitches.
Since I’ve been so busy I haven’t really had a chance to post about anything that’s been happening lately and there has been some cool shit going down. I won’t be able to relate all of the kickassery, but I might throw one nugget of coolness at you.
Cause I’m mining a whole mountain of coolness, baby. That’s right.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Strippers and Seventies Chairs
Sunday nights are stripper nights. I can’t talk about the details cause its kind of a secret and we don’t want to scare the strippers away by allowing Amish to find out where they’re hiding. He’d flush them out like a fox in a whorehouse...err...hen house.
Anyway.
Ryan and I stumbled into the secret stripper den a few weeks ago and we’ve been going back ever since. It’s been pretty damn amusing. There are typically between five or fifteen off-duty strippers at this bar, and strippers are like cops: they’re never really off duty. Cops always want to hassle you, and strippers always want to get freaky and naked.
Last Sunday I really wasn’t feeling the stripper vibe, so I left early. It was a nice night and the bar isn’t too far from where we live, so we had walked there. On my way home I passed a dumpster where three nice leather chairs were sitting. Three fucking leather chairs! I was thinking, “Who would throw away three perfectly good leather chairs?” So, being the un-wasteful fellow that I am, I decided I would recycle these nice chairs.
The chairs were sort of a retro seventies style, armless kitchen chair with a metal base and even though they weren’t as—say—Ryan’s TV, they weren’t very light either. Each probably weighted about fifteen or twenty pounds. That wouldn’t have been a big deal if I only planned to take one, but I was looking for the big score and in my slightly drunken state I thought I might be able to pull it off.
After a lot of struggling and positioning I decided that two was all I was going to be able to manage without the aid of a wheelbarrow or a pack mule. So I half carried, half drug these two chairs four blocks back to our apartment. These were seriously the most unwieldy sons-of-bitches I could’ve imagined trying to carry. I kept considering dropping one and coming back for it later, but I was like a soldier carrying two of his wounded buddies—I was leaving no man behind, even if it meant one chair hoisted over my shoulder smashing my face, while the other hung at my side smacking me in the ass with every step.
I tried to avoid the sidewalks since the scene might spark the curiosity of anyone who happened to see me, so I cut through backyards and empty lots. That probably wasn’t a good idea either, because midway into my trek I saw two police cruisers drive up the road in front of me. One stopped, backed up, looked at me for a moment and then went on. The other stopped and the cop got out of his car and waited for me to slowly trudge my ass to the street. Well, there was no way in hell that I was going to drag those chairs to the street if he was just going to make me drag them all the way back to the dumpster, so I dropped the chairs and walked up to the cop.
It didn’t occur to me until he took my ID and radioed it into the dispatcher that I was probably drunk enough to be taken in for public intox. Suddenly the chairs were the least of my worries.
Luckily, after he determined that I wasn’t wanted for anything more serious than dumpster diving, he let me go and told me, “In the future, you might want to ask the owner of the business before you take their garbage.” Yeah, I’ll try and do that officer. I’m sure they would appreciate a 1 a.m. call from some drunk wandering back from the bar, “Hey man, can I have those leather chairs you threw away?”
So I finished lugging those fucking chairs the rest of the way to my apartment. I briefly considered jumping in my car and going back for the third, but it was getting late and I felt like I had just got done competing in a piano throwing contest, so I called it a night.
The next morning my arms were covered in bruises and my legs were a little sore, but it was all worth it to see those beat up old leather chairs sitting around my kitchen table. Free furniture is the best furniture.
The chairs go great with the Old Style, too. Now I can drink the seventies while I’m sitting in the seventies! Now if only I could find a bed from the seventies, and a woman in her seventies...oh yeah.
0 Replies:
Post a Comment
<< Home