I am Jack's piece of mind...
First rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club. Second rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club. *Siiiiiigh* Tyler Durden, why oh why didn't we go to prom together? Anyway, Angela and I were cruising the mall Friday evening and happened across Fight Club in the 7.99 bin at our F.Y.E. We bought every copy they had. Which was only two but when I say we bought every copy they had it paints a more entertaining picture and that's all I want to do. Entertain you. You love me. I know it.
Me and Angela had alot of fun on Friday. She showed me the pictures from Graduation that she finally got developed. I can't really explain to you the hilarity without showing you the pictures (which haha, I don't have) but I can give you some of the wonderful quotes Angela said and you can draw your own assumptions,
"...and there's you driving...what the fuck is on your hand in that picture?"
"Wow. You. Look. Stoned."
"And here's the shot of you trying to fit through Zoe's dog door! Remember that day?!"
Oh, but here's the creme de la cool. Remember a few posts back when I told our heroing tale of chasing about the janitor at the mall who looked like Santa? SHE GOT THAT PICTURE DEVELOPED! AND YOU CAN FUCKIN' SEE HIM! Well, okay the shot is a touch blurry but you can totally make out who we're talking about and it is appallingly clear that this man is fucking St. Nick. I'll try to bribe Angela into letting me borrow that photo so I can scan it and share it with the world...errr the people who read my lj...errr Ed.
So me and Angela waltzed about the mall chat-chitting, laughing, and generally having a really great time. I don't really remember what we were talking about but I remember laughing alot and ending half our conversations with "Shut up Angela!". Then me and Angela chat-chitted briefly debating if we are excluded individuals or exclusive individuals amongst our group of friends. One just sounds nicer. Than we got pretty goofy and decided that we're gonna find an anime-convention to go to over the summer. We don't care if we have to cross 3 states (3's the limit though) to get to one but we're fucking going. This of course led to a conversation of who we would want to dress up as. This led to much hilarity. I am Jack's sense of humor.
We then hung out at--you guessed it! Jewel Osco. However, afterwards we travelled into unknown territory for us. The White Castle after 10 p.m. There were only 3 other people in the restaurant. All women crowded around a table with a 30 piece Crave Case. Can we say munchies? Angela and I assumed as much as we watched them attempt to make a pyramid out of the discarded burger boxes. Well, I ate my 3 cheese burgers and Angela drank her vanilla shake and we chewed the fat for a bit and then proceeded to notice the "HELP WANTED" sign on the wall. We were suddenly and wildly entertained by the thought of working at the White Castle. I may infact go back to apply and if I apply Angela applies. Can you really see us two slinging burgers? It'd be like the Simple Life except neither of us are rich. We were driving back in the direction of our houses blasting "Miss Murder" (thanks for gettin' that stuck in my head by the way, Angela!) and we caught a train. Angela was laughing at me because I stopped at least 12 feet before the train. This of course prompted a discussion of my intense fear of trains. If someone can guess why I'm afraid of trains (particularly the disembodied sound of a train) I'll buy them a Lionel train set. Seriously, make your guesses in your comments. I'll buy you a fuckin' train.
Saturday morning I got a call to baby sit. I was de-fucking-lighted. It was the richest couple I baby sit for. They pay me in cash and gas cards. But we'll get to that chapter in a minute. I knew I needed to eat something before I left and Ed and I always talk about what eat from Chinese restaurants. Ed always has General Tso's chicken. So thinking fondly of my friend and missing him a little bit I decided to pick up some General Tso's. Big-fucking-mistake. I've been sick all weekend. Anyway more on that in about a paragraph.
Let's Pulp Fiction this bitch, back to the begining of the story. The couple I baby sit for is rich. Crazy rich. Like walk into their house and instantly feel inferior. This certain special brand of inferior then clings to you and your clothing and rubs off on every material possession you own back at your house. This couple also happens to be black and they act in the way that white people think black people act. They're both highly successful with intelligent and well-groomed children. There house is a museum of African Masks and art and of course with copies of Ebony magazene on the coffee table. This is a black family straight from a sit-com a white person has written. But they pay well. Unbelieveably well. I'm Jack's sense of greed.
Their children are well-behaved for the most part. They really don't even need a baby sitter. Infact they shouldn't call me a "baby sitter" they should call me a "peace keeper". My job is to keep the children (all girls) from fist fighting. No joke. Infact "referee" may be even more appropriate. Of course my job would be about 120% easier if all these girls didn't have at least 20 pounds on me. No kidding. All these girls are bigger than me. And I don't mean combined they're bigger than me I mean each individual girl has at least 20 pounds on me. The oldest girl is also about a half head taller than me. I'm not kidding you. So when I run upstairs because I hear a punch thrown I got a problem. I throw my skinny white ass in the middle of these violent cat-fights and I come out burger. These kids could shred me. However, this is not a frequent occurance and thank Rock for that.
Anyway on this particular Saturday night all is calm on the western front. The girls have made themselves dinner (yeah they made themselves dinner that's how cushy this baby sitting job is) and are now in the adjacent room watching TV and generally getting along just fine. I am comfortably nestled in a corner of the couch watching Food Networks Wedding Weekend when suddenly I become all to aware that I'm not feeling all so great. Yeah and we Pulp Fiction this again to the part of the story where I am very very sick. Nauseous is a silly-time play word for what I'm feeling right now. What I'm feeling is that my stomach has suddenly become a tsunami. Seriously, I can feel my stomach rolling. I have just become Jack's raging bile duct.
Now I have a thing about other people houses. You'll know I'm comfortable at your house if I do three things,
A) Eat at your house
B) Use the bathroom at your house
and
C) Sleep at your house
I am not willing to do any of those things here because,
A) This house is something like a museum and I will be damned if I get cookie crumbs on the Shroud of Turin
B) If I vomit on the porcelin they may take it from my check
And
C) That's irresponsible when children's lives are in my idle hands
So it's very obvious. I can't vomit here. I can't. By this point I am twitching. My palms are sweating and I've got that thick, salty, syrupy-like saliva on my tongue. What made me sick I wonder? Than it hits me. DAMN YOU GENREAL TSO! DAMN YOU AND YOUR CHICKEN! Seriously. General Tso was the only thing I ate on Saturday. This is the only thing that could've made me sick. So I'm sprawled on my charge's couch in absolute agony and then I think: DAMN YOU ED FOR INTRODUCING ME TO GENERAL TSO! Serisously, if I ever meet this General Tso in person I am going to kick him in the nuts...but I may have to be careful, afterall he's a General so I'm assuming he's very good in hand combat.
Anyway as I lay there dying I am very close to breaking my 3 year streak and praying that the parents arive home quickly. But than I begin to wonder if I am even capable to drive myself home. Then I'm torn from my thoughts to hear a loud pitched wail and a,
"Why'd you hit me!?"
Crap. Crap. Crap. Crappity. Crap. Crap. I pull myself up on my feet and stagger into the adjacent room. I lean against the door frame trying to look intimidating but really I'm just using the door frame to stay on my feet. I lift a shaky hand and get a finger poised for shaking,
"Hey, hey, hey, now, (pause to swallow the vomit in my throat) I don't want to hear any (discreat burp) fighting going on in (swallow) here. Got that?"
There are vigorous nods and I stumble back to the couch where my stomach continues it's very fine impression of the paciffic ocean. I am no longer able to watch Food Network as the mere thought of putting anything in my mouth makes me queasy. This also rules out watching that 20/20 on Monika Lewinsky (WOAH BURN!). So, I flip channels and find that The Sixth Sense is on. I tune in at that crucial part where little Cole is looking right at the view through the screen and whispers,
"I see dead people"
...I'm not dead yet! It was just bad General Tso's! Suddenly I'm hit with chills and just sit shivering on the couch. I continue flipping and find that SWAT with SLJ is on the Spanish Channel. I can dig this. I suffer through in agony for the rest of the night and finally like Bono to the starving children the parents come home and give me a wad of cash and some free Shell gas cards.
I slip behind MoFo's wheel and am having a hard time focusing enough on anything to get the key in the ignition but I magage and drive home in a haze. No worries though, I know I didn't hit anything because I checked the grille of my car today. Pretty as a picture. Anyway I crawled right into bed. I had on warm flannel PJ pants, my thick PowderPuff hoodie, and I was curled up under my big warm comforter. I could not stop shivering. I was sicker than a pig dog. And if you've ever seen a pig-dog you know how sick that is. I knew something was severely wrong with me because I had a dream I went to Cubs game. Now that's just ten-kinds of wrong.
This morning I woke up feeling better but still not very good and I watched my diet carefully but speant most of the day in my room watching Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children. I have a terrific rant about FFVII: AC but I'll save it for another day. It has to do with who I would've chosen to do the American voices. And oh, do I ever have some good ideas when I'm delusional because I'm sick.
It's 11:55 on Sunday night as I finish typing this. My stomach is still gurgling and rolling from time to time but I'm feeling better. The urge to vomit isn't even half as strong. Go to Hallmark and buy a "get well" card. Go on, do it. Don't have anyone in mind, but it's always handy to have those things on hand. At least that's what Martha Stuart says. Of couse she's pure-fuckin'-evil.
Pop-pop Fizz-Fizz,
MFB
Me and Angela had alot of fun on Friday. She showed me the pictures from Graduation that she finally got developed. I can't really explain to you the hilarity without showing you the pictures (which haha, I don't have) but I can give you some of the wonderful quotes Angela said and you can draw your own assumptions,
"...and there's you driving...what the fuck is on your hand in that picture?"
"Wow. You. Look. Stoned."
"And here's the shot of you trying to fit through Zoe's dog door! Remember that day?!"
Oh, but here's the creme de la cool. Remember a few posts back when I told our heroing tale of chasing about the janitor at the mall who looked like Santa? SHE GOT THAT PICTURE DEVELOPED! AND YOU CAN FUCKIN' SEE HIM! Well, okay the shot is a touch blurry but you can totally make out who we're talking about and it is appallingly clear that this man is fucking St. Nick. I'll try to bribe Angela into letting me borrow that photo so I can scan it and share it with the world...errr the people who read my lj...errr Ed.
So me and Angela waltzed about the mall chat-chitting, laughing, and generally having a really great time. I don't really remember what we were talking about but I remember laughing alot and ending half our conversations with "Shut up Angela!". Then me and Angela chat-chitted briefly debating if we are excluded individuals or exclusive individuals amongst our group of friends. One just sounds nicer. Than we got pretty goofy and decided that we're gonna find an anime-convention to go to over the summer. We don't care if we have to cross 3 states (3's the limit though) to get to one but we're fucking going. This of course led to a conversation of who we would want to dress up as. This led to much hilarity. I am Jack's sense of humor.
We then hung out at--you guessed it! Jewel Osco. However, afterwards we travelled into unknown territory for us. The White Castle after 10 p.m. There were only 3 other people in the restaurant. All women crowded around a table with a 30 piece Crave Case. Can we say munchies? Angela and I assumed as much as we watched them attempt to make a pyramid out of the discarded burger boxes. Well, I ate my 3 cheese burgers and Angela drank her vanilla shake and we chewed the fat for a bit and then proceeded to notice the "HELP WANTED" sign on the wall. We were suddenly and wildly entertained by the thought of working at the White Castle. I may infact go back to apply and if I apply Angela applies. Can you really see us two slinging burgers? It'd be like the Simple Life except neither of us are rich. We were driving back in the direction of our houses blasting "Miss Murder" (thanks for gettin' that stuck in my head by the way, Angela!) and we caught a train. Angela was laughing at me because I stopped at least 12 feet before the train. This of course prompted a discussion of my intense fear of trains. If someone can guess why I'm afraid of trains (particularly the disembodied sound of a train) I'll buy them a Lionel train set. Seriously, make your guesses in your comments. I'll buy you a fuckin' train.
Saturday morning I got a call to baby sit. I was de-fucking-lighted. It was the richest couple I baby sit for. They pay me in cash and gas cards. But we'll get to that chapter in a minute. I knew I needed to eat something before I left and Ed and I always talk about what eat from Chinese restaurants. Ed always has General Tso's chicken. So thinking fondly of my friend and missing him a little bit I decided to pick up some General Tso's. Big-fucking-mistake. I've been sick all weekend. Anyway more on that in about a paragraph.
Let's Pulp Fiction this bitch, back to the begining of the story. The couple I baby sit for is rich. Crazy rich. Like walk into their house and instantly feel inferior. This certain special brand of inferior then clings to you and your clothing and rubs off on every material possession you own back at your house. This couple also happens to be black and they act in the way that white people think black people act. They're both highly successful with intelligent and well-groomed children. There house is a museum of African Masks and art and of course with copies of Ebony magazene on the coffee table. This is a black family straight from a sit-com a white person has written. But they pay well. Unbelieveably well. I'm Jack's sense of greed.
Their children are well-behaved for the most part. They really don't even need a baby sitter. Infact they shouldn't call me a "baby sitter" they should call me a "peace keeper". My job is to keep the children (all girls) from fist fighting. No joke. Infact "referee" may be even more appropriate. Of course my job would be about 120% easier if all these girls didn't have at least 20 pounds on me. No kidding. All these girls are bigger than me. And I don't mean combined they're bigger than me I mean each individual girl has at least 20 pounds on me. The oldest girl is also about a half head taller than me. I'm not kidding you. So when I run upstairs because I hear a punch thrown I got a problem. I throw my skinny white ass in the middle of these violent cat-fights and I come out burger. These kids could shred me. However, this is not a frequent occurance and thank Rock for that.
Anyway on this particular Saturday night all is calm on the western front. The girls have made themselves dinner (yeah they made themselves dinner that's how cushy this baby sitting job is) and are now in the adjacent room watching TV and generally getting along just fine. I am comfortably nestled in a corner of the couch watching Food Networks Wedding Weekend when suddenly I become all to aware that I'm not feeling all so great. Yeah and we Pulp Fiction this again to the part of the story where I am very very sick. Nauseous is a silly-time play word for what I'm feeling right now. What I'm feeling is that my stomach has suddenly become a tsunami. Seriously, I can feel my stomach rolling. I have just become Jack's raging bile duct.
Now I have a thing about other people houses. You'll know I'm comfortable at your house if I do three things,
A) Eat at your house
B) Use the bathroom at your house
and
C) Sleep at your house
I am not willing to do any of those things here because,
A) This house is something like a museum and I will be damned if I get cookie crumbs on the Shroud of Turin
B) If I vomit on the porcelin they may take it from my check
And
C) That's irresponsible when children's lives are in my idle hands
So it's very obvious. I can't vomit here. I can't. By this point I am twitching. My palms are sweating and I've got that thick, salty, syrupy-like saliva on my tongue. What made me sick I wonder? Than it hits me. DAMN YOU GENREAL TSO! DAMN YOU AND YOUR CHICKEN! Seriously. General Tso was the only thing I ate on Saturday. This is the only thing that could've made me sick. So I'm sprawled on my charge's couch in absolute agony and then I think: DAMN YOU ED FOR INTRODUCING ME TO GENERAL TSO! Serisously, if I ever meet this General Tso in person I am going to kick him in the nuts...but I may have to be careful, afterall he's a General so I'm assuming he's very good in hand combat.
Anyway as I lay there dying I am very close to breaking my 3 year streak and praying that the parents arive home quickly. But than I begin to wonder if I am even capable to drive myself home. Then I'm torn from my thoughts to hear a loud pitched wail and a,
"Why'd you hit me!?"
Crap. Crap. Crap. Crappity. Crap. Crap. I pull myself up on my feet and stagger into the adjacent room. I lean against the door frame trying to look intimidating but really I'm just using the door frame to stay on my feet. I lift a shaky hand and get a finger poised for shaking,
"Hey, hey, hey, now, (pause to swallow the vomit in my throat) I don't want to hear any (discreat burp) fighting going on in (swallow) here. Got that?"
There are vigorous nods and I stumble back to the couch where my stomach continues it's very fine impression of the paciffic ocean. I am no longer able to watch Food Network as the mere thought of putting anything in my mouth makes me queasy. This also rules out watching that 20/20 on Monika Lewinsky (WOAH BURN!). So, I flip channels and find that The Sixth Sense is on. I tune in at that crucial part where little Cole is looking right at the view through the screen and whispers,
"I see dead people"
...I'm not dead yet! It was just bad General Tso's! Suddenly I'm hit with chills and just sit shivering on the couch. I continue flipping and find that SWAT with SLJ is on the Spanish Channel. I can dig this. I suffer through in agony for the rest of the night and finally like Bono to the starving children the parents come home and give me a wad of cash and some free Shell gas cards.
I slip behind MoFo's wheel and am having a hard time focusing enough on anything to get the key in the ignition but I magage and drive home in a haze. No worries though, I know I didn't hit anything because I checked the grille of my car today. Pretty as a picture. Anyway I crawled right into bed. I had on warm flannel PJ pants, my thick PowderPuff hoodie, and I was curled up under my big warm comforter. I could not stop shivering. I was sicker than a pig dog. And if you've ever seen a pig-dog you know how sick that is. I knew something was severely wrong with me because I had a dream I went to Cubs game. Now that's just ten-kinds of wrong.
This morning I woke up feeling better but still not very good and I watched my diet carefully but speant most of the day in my room watching Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children. I have a terrific rant about FFVII: AC but I'll save it for another day. It has to do with who I would've chosen to do the American voices. And oh, do I ever have some good ideas when I'm delusional because I'm sick.
It's 11:55 on Sunday night as I finish typing this. My stomach is still gurgling and rolling from time to time but I'm feeling better. The urge to vomit isn't even half as strong. Go to Hallmark and buy a "get well" card. Go on, do it. Don't have anyone in mind, but it's always handy to have those things on hand. At least that's what Martha Stuart says. Of couse she's pure-fuckin'-evil.
Pop-pop Fizz-Fizz,
MFB