Back Burner and a Box

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Shit hit the fan.

Not a small droopy plop that gives you a warm emotion because you can no finally get up, knowing you don’t have to excessively wipe your ass. No. I’m referring to the gut wrenching brand. The type that pours out of your ass like releasing an oil plug from a 69′ Chevy. Sometimes there’s a few chucks but we all pretty much know what the viscosity is before praying to the porcelain gods.

Friday, I go to work. Feels like a normal slow day.

10:00: Boss leaves for a impromptu funeral he only mentions to one person in passing. My co-worker shares this information with us. We ponder it over, but don’t think anything of it because, fuck it, we just got paid today.

11:45: Still no boss. This excites us as we make our lunch plans. Looks like Ol’ Darby and company may call it quits early this weekend. Hells to the yea! I got a bunch of writing to get done for this writers workshop. I’ve got a shitty first draft of a story that needs some work.

12:05: We stand by the Elevators, anticipating the awesomeness of heading to Chipotle for lunch. It’s a delicacy we never get to have but due to the boss out, we take advantage. Out of nowhere we see our boss’s boss. Incredibly strange considering he’s last told us he’s suppose to be on the east coast until Monday.

12:45: Chipotle is delicious. One of my higher ranking co-workers rambles on about Watergate type conspiracy theories of what might be going on with our department. I join in from time to time, and make jokes about keeping a cardboard box next to my desk, just in case.

1:00: We return to the office. I grab some water from the break room and see a box sitting by the recycling basket. I bring it back to my desk. I show everyone and they laugh hysterically.

1:30: I’m jamming out on some work when I hear a familiar Conan O’Brien type voice as to see my peer Bobby. I look back and see my boss’s boss walk him down the hallway into his office.

1:45: Bobby starts packing his things up and only says, “It’s happening!”

1:46: I start slamming everything from my desk into what was my Joke box. In addition, I run to the break room and through tons of fun-sized Lay’s BBQ chips in my back pack, ignoring the new camera that is supposedly “on”.

1:55: A fellow co-worker grabs me and another to walk to the conference room. Feeling nervous, I take a few more bags of Lays so I have something to make me feel better. He breaks down how, our boss is fired, another is laid off, and we are the only current safe employees. …….for now.

2:25: I make a joke about who gets my boss’s old office, then return to my messed up cubical.

2:30: I begin reworking my resume for the 4th time in 2018.

2:43: I realize that shit has really in deed hit the mother fucking fan. Time to get a few leads on the back burner. In addition, I leave my box under my desk for save keeping.

Featured Blogs That Get More Views Than Mine: “The Slutty Study”

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My phone dinged with a message that said “Jerri liked your post.”

Now this is nothing new for people who have real blogs with a bunch of followers and gross 500 views a day. But for Darbus E Cashed at Marble Tulips we take this kinda thing seriously. I mean having only your mom read a post where sex with you is compared to sanding a tunnel with a q-tip, kinda makes Christmas dinner a little awkward. Needless to say, I was intrigued.

The blog title grabbed me instantly. I clicked on the link labeled “The Slutty Study” and off I went. Questions formed in my head. Was she a Sorority chick in College, hens the play on words? Or did she bang a bunch of dudes in the name of science, like Trish the Dish from Mall rats? I mean who says the Scientific Method isn’t sexy? Shit the word ‘hypothesis’ just sounds like it’s begging to have an urban dictionary entry dealing with a bunch of plant leaves, petroleum jelly, and a kitty pool full of water.

Upon further digging, the term slut was not used in the ass leaking, ‘Back Door Sluts 9’ way we all know and love. Oh no. It was in the softer definition of the word, like how Molly Shannon from Superstar would’ve use it. A mixture of both raw and elegant like a man giving a light, well timed spanking to his girl at the county fair, forcing other couples to look at their intimacy issues. Basically, a term of liberation. Allowing yourself to go with the flow. Throw caution to the wind. Take life as it comes and feel something for once.

I dove into the “Yoga Guy” series like Harry Potter. I couldn’t help myself. I needed to know about the mysterious 47 year old limber man. Could he touch his toes? I get not being on the digital grid, but the unknown number? Weird. It reminded me about a date back in Halloween with someone I swore was going to be a catfish. Turned out, she literally was just the blonde bimbo that moved home from in Costa Rica a few weeks ago and didn’t have a U.S. number yet. Could’ve fooled me.

But to me the most interesting part is the entire premise of the blog. A sharp, witty, sometimes socially awkward, person moves to a new city to try and navigate there way around this crazy dating world. That sounds very familiar. Shit, that’s basically my first blog and even this one to some degree. I know the journey well, so it’s great it hear it from a different perspective.

Although, what’s up with a Canadian’s using ‘Mississippi’ to count? Like does everyone do that up there? I kinda thought that was an American thing and everyone else used the metric standard, ‘Banana’, for counting seconds.

In conclusion:

At the surface: A blog about dating in this crazy world from a woman’s view point? Awesome

At the depth: A blog about changing your beliefs about who you are and what you think you’re capable of? Truly Awesome!

Even Deeper: A blog with more than 6 followers? That’s Mother Fucking Awesome!

Overall – 9/10 with two strong thumbs ups.

Keep Scribbling homie.

 

-PS. Jerri if you ever find yourself traveling in the Lonestar State and want to trade dating stories with a 28 year old, half successful Engineer that has a bad ass record collection, and dreams of becoming a broke writer, let me know. My brother Jeremy is single.

 

If Tinder Profiles Were More Than 500 Characters: Pt. 1

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Me:

-Aspiring writer to be featured on “The Best of Craigslist”

-Professional at playing hide and seek from my boss for 8 hours straight.

-Blogger, but not in the conventional click bait “10 ways to be told how to do something by a person who’s currently forcing a giant brown log into porcelain because they don’t like working for someone else, need money for their Frosted Flakes dinner, and get a soft chub at the idea of telling someone else how to do something, they’ve done a few times.” I just write short fiction.

-Actual read profiles (sorry)

-Not really into poly relationships, mainly because (Insert a dad joke about angles and Geometry here)

– Would like to find the original girl that wrote “If your beard doesn’t connect, neither can we” and buy her a drink.

You:

-Must have personality, wit, and enjoy the occasional cocktail, which depending on both ends of the conversation, may lead to a shitload more of them.

-Consider a “Shitload” to be an actual unit of measurement and wished one day it would officially be entered into the metric system.

-Thinks the guy that invented the upside-down smiley emoji to be the face of our generation

-Have once tied your bootlaces so tight that you had to perform a surgical operation with a butter knife to remove them from your leg. But it really wasn’t a planed thing. Like you were just walking down busy McKinney Ave, near Shell Shack, with your omelet material for the week. Some of it says organic produce on the package, but it’s not from Whole Foods, so you’re kinda on the fence about it, but hey, we’re all trying to save some money and be healthy at the same time. Look the point is, you moved out of your way for the sweet old couple ahead of you wear matching SMU gear and the next thing you know, your left bootlace gets welded to the right, forcing you to move like you’ve seen way too many kidnap movies. The weeble-wabble finally falls to the pavement, leaving literally egg all over your face, where all the Alpha Gamma Delta girls sipping mimosas laugh hysterically.

-Like the Beatles

Hold Me Closer

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The outside smell of urine oozed it’s way into the stained hardwood floor below me. All the other restaurants I’d been in seemed to have a way to keep it out. Puzzling, considering how the Glenlivet bottles glowed over the glossy black piano. The Woman in the red dress was playing her ass off.

“Sing us the Song of Piano-man!” She belted.

The entire twelve person crowd went wild. Amazing they were still functioning at 3 am. Shit, it was amazing I was still awake but I couldn’t help it. The energy I got from this city was like a shot of cocaine.

“I bet yours is next,” Maria said.

We’d met earlier in the night when I asked if if she’d knew where a bathroom was. She said it was the worst pickup line she’d ever heard. I laughed because it wasn’t one and danced my way into the bathroom.

“I hope so. I have to hear it once before I go to bed,” I said.

DUH DUH DUH DUUUNNNNNHHHH

Just as the skeleton crowd began to cheer, the bright lights fired up, exposing everyone’s facial flaws. It’s the brightest thing I’ve seen since stepping foot in New Orleans. The Pianist waved to the crowd exiting the stage.

“What?” I said. “That’s it?”

“I guess so,” She said, standing up and fixing her jet black hair.

“No, it can’t be! I’ve got to hear it. I’ve just got to!” I yelled.

I looked around, most of the staff were picking up beer bottles. The closest one walked a giant black bag down the isle towards the entrance. “Screw it,” I thought, “I need a good story.”

I ran up the cracked brown steps to the small stage and took inventory of the instruments. “HEY!” I heard someone shout but there was no time. I removed the velvet strip over the seat in one fatal swoop, like a movies when a waiter yanks off a table cloth. The wooden protection cover flipped up, relieving the gold plated Yamaha lettering above the keys. I glanced at Maria, who let out a nervous laugh as I began to play.

“Blue Jean Baby. LA Lady. Seamstress for the Band.”

“OH Hell Yea!” someone in the back shouted and began singing along.

The keys hit like a sharp knife in hot butter. Due to earlier hand grenades, I expected to be screwing up somewhere but I didn’t. It was as if the late night audience wouldn’t allow it. I looked over and saw the trash bag waiter making his way up the stairs. Not now. At least let me get to my favorite part.

“Oh how it feels so real, Lying here, with no one near!”

More people started joining in, even the annoyed bartender cleaning the glass hummed along. I was almost there, one line away.

“When I say softly, SLOWLY!”

I felt to hands grab my shoulder back and two more grip my side. My hands slapped several notes making disdain come out the Yamaha. “Knock it off! That’s a $10,000 piano,” one yelled. They carried me down the stairs, but the song wasn’t over.

“HOLD ME CLOSER, TINY DANCER! COUNT THE HEADLIGHTS ON THE HIGHWAY!”

The full 12 person crowd came to life singing along and cheering as I tried to kick my way free. Their noise grew louder and louder as we went past the bar. One dark hair man with a trucker hat stood up clamping his hands at me.

“LAY ME DARLING, SHE’S SO BLANDLY!”

The two men tossed me threw the door and slammed it behind me. My elbow hit the aged brick sidewalk below. Faintly, I could hear the crowd still singing behind the door. I looked to my left and there stood Maria.

“Well what do you have to say for yourself, sir Elton?”

I glanced down at the dirt on my Levis, then looked at her pretty brown eyes and spoke.

“So… You wouldn’t happen to know where the bathroom is, would you?”

 

You Should Message Me If…. Pt. 2

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Part 1

If you laugh every time you see a sign that says parking in the rear.

But not an out loud, unexpected cackle, that sounds like a dying hyena. Instead more of an uncontrolled coughing burst of air that tends to arise out of no where at a serious moment, like say when you friend spills that her ‘Nema had surgery.

It might upset your friends because they want in on the joke, but you know they just wouldn’t understand. You don’t want to be rude and disrupt the mood. But of course it starts a fight and 14 years of friendship just gets thrown down the drain.

You’re ticked at first, cause like you know you’re never gonna get those cute strapless heals back that totally go with your blue dress. The same dress you wore at the wedding where you met the tall dark haired Freddy Prince Jr. look a like, who for some reason never returned your text.

But enough time passes and you become okay with it. Let’s be honest here, Jenny just hasn’t been the same person since she’s been with her new boyfriend, Steve. And of course she can’t fit into the dress because, hello, you can’t just miss 3 months of Yoga and expect nothing to happen to your shape.

So you decide it’s time to look towards new friends and try this whole online thing.

Classic Journalism

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The neon light glowing from my Timex yelled at me. Fuck. I danced the typical one legged pants dance to the door. It’d be easier with Levis but of course office life doesn’t allow it. I’d have to leave right now if I wanted to stop at 7-11 for coffee. It’s not that I was a big fan of their coffee, it’s just Top Pot closed down a few months back. Plus, the cashier from South Africa wasn’t bad to look at either.

I slammed my hand against the giant red Button labeled “PUSH TO EXIT” and forced myself out of the apartment gate. It wasn’t cold enough to see your breath yet but the brown leaves still took up most of the sidewalk. I turned the corner down Cedar Springs and looked at the “Parking in the Rear” sign behind Rocco’s Pizza’s. Cracked me up every time.

Up ahead near the Signe liquor, there was a mess of greenish steel, baskets, and rubber tires everywhere. Just tons of bikes laying round, almost blocking the path of the already barely visible sidewalk. “These things again?” I said to myself. Dallas had implemented a new bike share program all throughout downtown. You do some iPhone voodoo magic with an app and the bike unlocks. You ride it where you need to go, park it where ever, and lock it up. Apparently the parking part was the problem. But I laughed as I saw one in a tree once.

Carefully, he stepped around the bikes. Once he got through the metal jungle, he heard a loud yell.

“Excuse me, Sir!”

Mexican in a red sweater vest and nice Rayban glasses which complemented his facial features walked towards him. Best dressed homeless man I’d ever seen.

“I’m sorry man I’m running late, but I don’t have any cash on me.”

The guy chuckled. I noticed he was caring a black microphone with a triangle around it that said “FOX CHANEL 11.” Straight ahead another Mexican man holding a giant camera, blocked my path.

“It’s okay, I’m not homeless. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? It will only take a few minutes.” He asked.

“Yea I guess so.” I said. I wasn’t thrilled but everyone gets fifteen minutes right?¬† Why not use some now? The reporter jumped in.

“So what do you think of the bike share program in Dallas?”

“Overall, I think it’s a good thing. It’s mostly kids my age that use them and I’d rather have them ride a bike after the bar, then jump behind the wheel.” He paused for a second and looked at the bikes on the ground. “But yea there’s still some problems to work out, like that.”

The guy instantly fired off another question. “How do you think the problems should be solved?”

I’d seen bikes laying around downtown but never this many, and completely blocking the sidewalk like this.¬†Something clicked in my head. Oh shit. Classic journalism. Always one sided. Never the real story. This guy didn’t give a fuck what I thought. He had a job to do. He punched in the time clock, just like me. But he didn’t know I knew the craft. I may only have 6 followers on my blog, but dammit, I’m learning how to display things to reader. Only difference is, I don’t have any agenda behind my stories, just entertainment. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna just stand here and get blinded by the spotlight!

I took a deep breath. Looked up. I really wanted to use these words carefully. It had to be perfect. I’d seen it done a few times but never had the opportunity to say it myself, in the big stage. I shot a few air bullets to clean out my throat.

“You know what I think?….”

I paused one last time and took a deep breath. Looked dead center in the camera. The reporter instinctively pushed the mic closer to my face. I felt my lips touch the black fuzzy part. The camera guy focused the lens with his left hand. It was like a three way Mexican stand off where I was the only white guy and no one had guns. It’s time! I clutched the mic with my right hand.

“FUCK HER RIGHT IN THE PUSSY!!!!!”

 

(Edit)

*Complete Bullshit they didn’t use my take.

Still Fool

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Mary turned the corner of 12 and main sharply like she always did. Bonk! She looked back in the rear view and saw rubbing his head.

“Window caught you again huh. I’m sorry but you know that how I wake you up on long car rides.” She said.

Sly rubbed his 12 year old head, checking for the pain spots.

“He smiled awkwardly yea I know mom,” he answered.

The Lincoln roared as it pasted Houston street. Although the backfire problems had been fixed, the hole in the muffler had not, which made Mary wonder how Sly could sleep in the back.

Mary started, “Yea, how do you get any-”

She stopped herself as she was looking through the mirror. Typical. So typical. That boy is already back asleep. Looks like I’ll just wake him up when we get to the driveway.

The Lincoln squealed to stop at the red light at Kilgore. This light took forever. She could remember once how it skipped her several runs. When she finally got the nerve to run it, there was a black and white waiting at the Dunkin’ Doughnuts. Entrapment if you ask her. Just then something caught her attention.

“I’VE GOT MY PISTOL POINT COCKED NON STOP, READY TO SEE YO’R MONKEY ASS DROP!”

The sound pierced over the muffler and the popping of the smoke from the back of the tail pipe. Her eyes flailed around looking for the source. Not the Camry behind them, or the F150 in the left turning lane. She looked ahead and could see a tall man’s hand moving about.

“CAUSE IT’S DIE MOTHER FUCKER DIE MOTHER FUCKER STILLLL FOOOLLLLL!”

There stood a tall man caring a Panasonic, the newest boom box to come out this summer, on his shoulders. She could see his right arm are bulging, while the left was keeping the flow.

“Well this some bull shit music,” Mary thought. “Who is his mother? Where do you even find this music?”

The light finally turned green and she hit the gas on the old Lincoln. The Music got louder and louder, to the point where you could even hear it over the leak with the engine at full boar. She had to do something. so she slammed on the breaks. Donk!

“EXCUSE ME!” She yelled.

He turned the music down. “Yea can help you?” The tall man answered back.

“What the hell are you listening too? Talking about killings and STEALING!” she asked.

The tall man laughed a bit and grabbed his gold chain for good luck. “That’s the new Geto Boys. It’s fucking awesome!”

“Watch you’re mouth! Man I’m glad my son doesn’t listen to this stuff,” she said. Pleased with herself.

The tall man turned his head and noticed Sly rubbing his head. He smirked.
“Shit you mean Sly? Haha. He’s the one that dubbed the tape for me.”

Sly’s eyes got big. He’d wished he was still asleep.