Three Very Pointless Tales
---------- Lobsters have feelings too... -----------------------------------
There’s a number of things I’ve come to expert from my chosen career path, and by career, I mean soul-crushing financial imprisonment.
1. My co-workers will be, by in large, both incompetent and selfish. While I don’t expect the sort of comradely I’ve come to know and love from a community as selfless as Revo, a certain level of courteously is generally appreciated. Not purposely hiding from customers or misleading them so that I’ll take the brunt of the work, respecting the fact that when I am in charge, they are not, and while I’ll gladly treat them with respect, spending half an hour defying me because you don’t want to scrub the shitter or, god forbid, earn your pay, is grounds for me to tear your ass asunder like a fresh transfer to Cell Block D.
2. Customers will come in three categories, and three categories only. The variety that is, for all intensive purposes, non-existent, passive-aggressive asshats who generally don’t comprehend basic hygiene, and the sort that is by all accounts clinically fucking batshit. Technically speaking.
3. The rate at which you ascend the corporate latter will be inversely proportionate to your ability.
What I do not expect is take precious reading time out of my shift to grind my dangly parts against the sweaty back of a forty-year-old.
…I’ll explain.
By 10:30, the store was dead. That fact that my continued presence was required was insulting, if not comically wasteful. Despite my desire for sleep, I hardly mind being paid to research no calibers and the three billionth 1911 clone. But as with all things, my peace and quite was shattered by a gaggle of brick-house upper-middle class mid-lifers with far more time on their hands than was conceivable.
“Quick, where are you mouse traps!?”
“Do you have live lobsters?!”
Why anyone would need either of these things this late at night in such a dramatic rush I couldn’t understand. To my chagrin, the odd took a turn for the creepy.
“What sort of car do you drive? We need to sit in an animal car!”
“…Uh… I… wait, what?”
I came to find that these people were far to enthusiastic about a scavenger hunt, the origins of which I didn’t not wish to know.
“Can I hug you? I need to hug a stranger. On camera.”
The mental process took maybe three seconds to determine that a MILF with impressive perk in her sweater deserved a hug, even if I hesitated only to avoid suspicion. The next request was met with a far bit more surprise. The bulkier male of the group asked if, of all things, he could give me a piggyback ride.
The prospect of hopping on another man’s back, let alone one I met moments ago, is not something I generally look forward to. Besides which, the unavoidable event of crotch to lower-back-I-refuse-to-say-ass contact was hardly appetizing. I don’t think I need to say it in simpler terms; I was wholeheartedly against the idea.
So I hopped on the guys back, received the gut-wrenching fact that my junk had been firmly pressed against another guy’s back, and sent them on their merry way.
Well, at least I got a story out of the event.
---------------------------------- Dirty Harry think's I'm a dick ---------
I’ve been hoarding my pennies relentlessly for the last few months, knowing that I’d just barely make the quota necessary for RevoCon by literally one check if I didn’t go a dime over budget.
Apparently, I was closer to 1000 dimes over. For the public-school crowd, that’s two Franklins, or ten dime-bags of skunk.
At this point however, my parents had decided to front me the remainder, knowing full well I’d have two checks awaiting me and I hardly had the ability to bail on the check when we happen to share a roof.
Empowered by the promise of an interest free-loan, I did what any money-wise adult would do. I hit the shops.
Various amounts of swag, toiletries, clothes, and amusements later, I settled on one deciding factor. I need to shoot a gun, and it needed to be huge.
You can’t get much larger that a .44 Desert Eagle. Okay, so you can, it’s called a .50, but they didn’t have one. All the same, and auto-loader chambered in a revolver caliber is nothing to sneeze at.
I took my place at the line looking entirely idiotic with ear-muff two-sizes-too-big for my head, and set my target at seven feet. For the Counter-Strike addicted out there, you can stop the comments about the lack of long range right now. A real gun, let alone something with as much kick as a 240 grain .44, is a pain in the ass to keep on target, and if you’re preparing for home-defense, seven feet is generally plenty.
At least that’s what I thought. The kick on the pistol was to massive to control, and while I could generally plug the target, it wasn’t anything impressive. This embarrassment was only amplified by the fact that people were pegging targets at 50ft. without a care, while my danm ear muffs were being shaken off by the kick on this hand-cannon. Fun, but way to large for anything I’d consider practical. People claim it’s for pistol hunting, but unless your prey is, say, a van, I don’t thing you’ll be needing a shot that can rip through…. anything.
One thing I’d like to dispel however, is the pain of the recoil associated with the .44. I’ve heard revolver caliber recoil likened to taking a baseball bat to the palm, and possessing the ability to knock you flat on your rounder bits. This is bullshit. I’m hardly a male Adonis, and I was fully capable of firing the Eagle one handed. I wouldn’t suggest I however, as you’re not going to hit a danm thing, but then this is true for calibers as low as 9mm.
------- Many a cloven-hoofed fear lurks in my lobes... -------------
My arm’s killing me, my computer is, in the words of Autistic Billy ‘bonkers,’ and I’m booked solid to Tuesday.
Tomarrow, well… today, I wake in four hours for a 7am shift, followed by a trip to the lake house for the night that will bore me to tears, followed by an early drive back for a shift until ten at night, followed by another full-day, late-night shift. That basically leaves me the majority of Tuesday the freak the fuck out before RevoCon.
Like all things of importance, I’m predicting chaos and mayhem on a level comparable to the Rapture, with a chance of rain, mild hail, and frogs. 70% chance of burning sulfur.
Don’t misunderstand me. The prospect of meeting everyone, placing a face to a screen name, I’m ecstatic. It’s all the general what-if’s that accompany such a plunge that are plaguing me.
As much as I’d love to continue waxing on arrogantly as though any of this pointless tripe matters, I can’t. Sorry to end so abruptly, but it’s later, or early depending on your perspective, and my arm is trying to rend itself from my body. Danm cheap import limbs…
Goodnight one and all.
Also: DEADLY DEADLY BEES!
There’s a number of things I’ve come to expert from my chosen career path, and by career, I mean soul-crushing financial imprisonment.
1. My co-workers will be, by in large, both incompetent and selfish. While I don’t expect the sort of comradely I’ve come to know and love from a community as selfless as Revo, a certain level of courteously is generally appreciated. Not purposely hiding from customers or misleading them so that I’ll take the brunt of the work, respecting the fact that when I am in charge, they are not, and while I’ll gladly treat them with respect, spending half an hour defying me because you don’t want to scrub the shitter or, god forbid, earn your pay, is grounds for me to tear your ass asunder like a fresh transfer to Cell Block D.
2. Customers will come in three categories, and three categories only. The variety that is, for all intensive purposes, non-existent, passive-aggressive asshats who generally don’t comprehend basic hygiene, and the sort that is by all accounts clinically fucking batshit. Technically speaking.
3. The rate at which you ascend the corporate latter will be inversely proportionate to your ability.
What I do not expect is take precious reading time out of my shift to grind my dangly parts against the sweaty back of a forty-year-old.
…I’ll explain.
By 10:30, the store was dead. That fact that my continued presence was required was insulting, if not comically wasteful. Despite my desire for sleep, I hardly mind being paid to research no calibers and the three billionth 1911 clone. But as with all things, my peace and quite was shattered by a gaggle of brick-house upper-middle class mid-lifers with far more time on their hands than was conceivable.
“Quick, where are you mouse traps!?”
“Do you have live lobsters?!”
Why anyone would need either of these things this late at night in such a dramatic rush I couldn’t understand. To my chagrin, the odd took a turn for the creepy.
“What sort of car do you drive? We need to sit in an animal car!”
“…Uh… I… wait, what?”
I came to find that these people were far to enthusiastic about a scavenger hunt, the origins of which I didn’t not wish to know.
“Can I hug you? I need to hug a stranger. On camera.”
The mental process took maybe three seconds to determine that a MILF with impressive perk in her sweater deserved a hug, even if I hesitated only to avoid suspicion. The next request was met with a far bit more surprise. The bulkier male of the group asked if, of all things, he could give me a piggyback ride.
The prospect of hopping on another man’s back, let alone one I met moments ago, is not something I generally look forward to. Besides which, the unavoidable event of crotch to lower-back-I-refuse-to-say-ass contact was hardly appetizing. I don’t think I need to say it in simpler terms; I was wholeheartedly against the idea.
So I hopped on the guys back, received the gut-wrenching fact that my junk had been firmly pressed against another guy’s back, and sent them on their merry way.
Well, at least I got a story out of the event.
---------------------------------- Dirty Harry think's I'm a dick ---------
I’ve been hoarding my pennies relentlessly for the last few months, knowing that I’d just barely make the quota necessary for RevoCon by literally one check if I didn’t go a dime over budget.
Apparently, I was closer to 1000 dimes over. For the public-school crowd, that’s two Franklins, or ten dime-bags of skunk.
At this point however, my parents had decided to front me the remainder, knowing full well I’d have two checks awaiting me and I hardly had the ability to bail on the check when we happen to share a roof.
Empowered by the promise of an interest free-loan, I did what any money-wise adult would do. I hit the shops.
Various amounts of swag, toiletries, clothes, and amusements later, I settled on one deciding factor. I need to shoot a gun, and it needed to be huge.
You can’t get much larger that a .44 Desert Eagle. Okay, so you can, it’s called a .50, but they didn’t have one. All the same, and auto-loader chambered in a revolver caliber is nothing to sneeze at.
I took my place at the line looking entirely idiotic with ear-muff two-sizes-too-big for my head, and set my target at seven feet. For the Counter-Strike addicted out there, you can stop the comments about the lack of long range right now. A real gun, let alone something with as much kick as a 240 grain .44, is a pain in the ass to keep on target, and if you’re preparing for home-defense, seven feet is generally plenty.
At least that’s what I thought. The kick on the pistol was to massive to control, and while I could generally plug the target, it wasn’t anything impressive. This embarrassment was only amplified by the fact that people were pegging targets at 50ft. without a care, while my danm ear muffs were being shaken off by the kick on this hand-cannon. Fun, but way to large for anything I’d consider practical. People claim it’s for pistol hunting, but unless your prey is, say, a van, I don’t thing you’ll be needing a shot that can rip through…. anything.
One thing I’d like to dispel however, is the pain of the recoil associated with the .44. I’ve heard revolver caliber recoil likened to taking a baseball bat to the palm, and possessing the ability to knock you flat on your rounder bits. This is bullshit. I’m hardly a male Adonis, and I was fully capable of firing the Eagle one handed. I wouldn’t suggest I however, as you’re not going to hit a danm thing, but then this is true for calibers as low as 9mm.
------- Many a cloven-hoofed fear lurks in my lobes... -------------
My arm’s killing me, my computer is, in the words of Autistic Billy ‘bonkers,’ and I’m booked solid to Tuesday.
Tomarrow, well… today, I wake in four hours for a 7am shift, followed by a trip to the lake house for the night that will bore me to tears, followed by an early drive back for a shift until ten at night, followed by another full-day, late-night shift. That basically leaves me the majority of Tuesday the freak the fuck out before RevoCon.
Like all things of importance, I’m predicting chaos and mayhem on a level comparable to the Rapture, with a chance of rain, mild hail, and frogs. 70% chance of burning sulfur.
Don’t misunderstand me. The prospect of meeting everyone, placing a face to a screen name, I’m ecstatic. It’s all the general what-if’s that accompany such a plunge that are plaguing me.
As much as I’d love to continue waxing on arrogantly as though any of this pointless tripe matters, I can’t. Sorry to end so abruptly, but it’s later, or early depending on your perspective, and my arm is trying to rend itself from my body. Danm cheap import limbs…
Goodnight one and all.
Also: DEADLY DEADLY BEES!