Prompted
ETA This entry is for the Prompt community.
As Jonesie puts it: Some friends and I have conspired to put together an lj community for stimulating wacky true anecdotes. Kind of an lj laugh-du-jour community.
Here's how it works: Somebody, anybody - you even! - pick a word prompt. People reply with wacky real life anecdotes that have some direct or tangential link to that word.
One of the words was "car" and there are already a few funny stories. Modesty prohibits me from saying who wrote one of them. (meeeeeeeeee).
It's very new. Come look and comment and join and add. Help make lj a safer place for insanity.
http://www.livejournal.com/community/fromtheprompt/
Here is my story.
When I was younger and thinner and generally dumber, I got a job working as a hostess in a nightclub. I almost instantly disliked it and grew to hate it within about six months. We were required to wear high heels and nice clothes and standing at a podium type thing in heels and tight skirts on a concrete floor for 8 hours is not comfortable. Watching drunk people gyrate on the "dance" floor for 8 hours is not so comfortable either. One guy developed some sort of crush on me and would express his affection by punching me on the arm or pushing me everytime he walked by my little hostess podium area...which he did a lot. It was like attracting the affections of a 12 year old boy. Then there were the oh so suave men who thought the way to compliment me was to tell me I looked like I would really "dominate" in bed. "Betcha you're a real wildcat, aren't you, honey?" Yes, all the cool guys flock to my banner.
My boss at this establishment was a hugely muscular young man with a temper. The temper was probably due to his frequent use of steroids and cocaine. When I eventually did quit, he called me into his office to ask me why. When I explained that I just had a lot going on in my life at the moment, he asked "Did you break up with your boyfriend?" Um, no. "Are you pregnant?" No. "Then you don't have a problem." Yes, thank you for those words of wisdom, Mr.Boss. I'll just be letting myself out through the window now.
One night we ran out of change. Mr. Boss called me over, handed me the keys to his Porsche and told me to go out to Safeway and get some more. I didn't want to drive Mr. Boss's car. He was obsessive about the thing. I knew something would go wrong. I knew I'd crash it or scratch it or get lost or something and then he would kill me by taking my little pinhead between his ginormous forearms and squeezing until grey stuff popped out. But he insisted and shoved the keys into my hand. Then he said over the thumping bass of the music "Oh, be careful...doors inside...keys...window open...Get going!" And out I went into the parking lot.
I was incredibly nervous as I approached Mr. Boss's car. I unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. The door slammed behind me with a solid sounding "CHUNK!". I put the keys into the ignition and turned. Nothing happened. I tried again. The car sort of turned over and then went dead. I took the keys out of the ignition. I had a quick panic attack. I put the keys back in and turned. No response. I took them out. This went on for a bit until I realized there was just no way I was going to drive Mr. Boss's baby anywhere and resolved to go inside and ask my friend Chris to give me the keys to his car instead. Yes, this was a good plan. I would take unscary Chris's little unscary Honda to Safeway, get the change, come back and hand Mr. Boss the money and his keys and he would never be the wiser. I liked this plan. And so I went to get out of the car. And discovered what Mr. Boss had been trying to tell me as I was leaving the club. There were no door handles on the inside of the car.
So, there I was, trapped inside a Porsche in the parking lot of the night club. The windows only unrolled electronically and I couldn't get the damn car to turn on (turns out there was some trick to it that Mr. Boss had tried to tell me over the thumping music), so that wasn't an option. Frantic searching of the interior revealed no secret doors to the outside, no James Bond buttons that would cause the doors to fly open and no teleport pad. Hitting the door as hard as I could several times in a row suprisingly did nothing at all. I was stuck and fucked. What the hell was I going to do? Then suddenly a man appeared out of the shadows of the Wells Fargo. I plastered myself to the car window ala Brent Spiner from Independence Day. "Release me!" I croaked. Well no, I actually banged on the window and yelled "Help!" as loud as I could. The man looked over. I smiled as widely as I could and made "Come here" gestures. He came over to the car, looking very hesitant and nervous. When he got within a foot of the vehicle, I began explaining loudly that I needed him to open the door for me. He looked confused. Turns out he was Hispanic and spoke almost no English at all. So, I start the mother of all Charade games, pointing to the door handle and making turning gestures. Then I make opening motions with my hands. This goes on for a minute or two until light dawns upon his face and he makes the universal "You want me to open the door" gesture to me. "YES!" I estatically nod. He opens the door and I fly out of the car, thanking him profusely. I think he was disapointed that I wasn't going to offer him a "Oh, my hero! You *saved* me!" kiss, but I'm not that kind of girl and anyway, I had to get going. So, I thanked him over and over, as I ran back into the club, grabbed Chris by the shirt(he was a bouncer at the club, by the way, so he was right by the door)and demanded his keys. Got the keys, got to Safeway, got the money and got back to the club and dumped everything in Mr. Boss's lap.
"Any problems with the car, Jen?" he asked.
"Oh no, everything was fine."
As Jonesie puts it: Some friends and I have conspired to put together an lj community for stimulating wacky true anecdotes. Kind of an lj laugh-du-jour community.
Here's how it works: Somebody, anybody - you even! - pick a word prompt. People reply with wacky real life anecdotes that have some direct or tangential link to that word.
One of the words was "car" and there are already a few funny stories. Modesty prohibits me from saying who wrote one of them. (meeeeeeeeee).
It's very new. Come look and comment and join and add. Help make lj a safer place for insanity.
http://www.livejournal.com/community/fromtheprompt/
Here is my story.
When I was younger and thinner and generally dumber, I got a job working as a hostess in a nightclub. I almost instantly disliked it and grew to hate it within about six months. We were required to wear high heels and nice clothes and standing at a podium type thing in heels and tight skirts on a concrete floor for 8 hours is not comfortable. Watching drunk people gyrate on the "dance" floor for 8 hours is not so comfortable either. One guy developed some sort of crush on me and would express his affection by punching me on the arm or pushing me everytime he walked by my little hostess podium area...which he did a lot. It was like attracting the affections of a 12 year old boy. Then there were the oh so suave men who thought the way to compliment me was to tell me I looked like I would really "dominate" in bed. "Betcha you're a real wildcat, aren't you, honey?" Yes, all the cool guys flock to my banner.
My boss at this establishment was a hugely muscular young man with a temper. The temper was probably due to his frequent use of steroids and cocaine. When I eventually did quit, he called me into his office to ask me why. When I explained that I just had a lot going on in my life at the moment, he asked "Did you break up with your boyfriend?" Um, no. "Are you pregnant?" No. "Then you don't have a problem." Yes, thank you for those words of wisdom, Mr.Boss. I'll just be letting myself out through the window now.
One night we ran out of change. Mr. Boss called me over, handed me the keys to his Porsche and told me to go out to Safeway and get some more. I didn't want to drive Mr. Boss's car. He was obsessive about the thing. I knew something would go wrong. I knew I'd crash it or scratch it or get lost or something and then he would kill me by taking my little pinhead between his ginormous forearms and squeezing until grey stuff popped out. But he insisted and shoved the keys into my hand. Then he said over the thumping bass of the music "Oh, be careful...doors inside...keys...window open...Get going!" And out I went into the parking lot.
I was incredibly nervous as I approached Mr. Boss's car. I unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. The door slammed behind me with a solid sounding "CHUNK!". I put the keys into the ignition and turned. Nothing happened. I tried again. The car sort of turned over and then went dead. I took the keys out of the ignition. I had a quick panic attack. I put the keys back in and turned. No response. I took them out. This went on for a bit until I realized there was just no way I was going to drive Mr. Boss's baby anywhere and resolved to go inside and ask my friend Chris to give me the keys to his car instead. Yes, this was a good plan. I would take unscary Chris's little unscary Honda to Safeway, get the change, come back and hand Mr. Boss the money and his keys and he would never be the wiser. I liked this plan. And so I went to get out of the car. And discovered what Mr. Boss had been trying to tell me as I was leaving the club. There were no door handles on the inside of the car.
So, there I was, trapped inside a Porsche in the parking lot of the night club. The windows only unrolled electronically and I couldn't get the damn car to turn on (turns out there was some trick to it that Mr. Boss had tried to tell me over the thumping music), so that wasn't an option. Frantic searching of the interior revealed no secret doors to the outside, no James Bond buttons that would cause the doors to fly open and no teleport pad. Hitting the door as hard as I could several times in a row suprisingly did nothing at all. I was stuck and fucked. What the hell was I going to do? Then suddenly a man appeared out of the shadows of the Wells Fargo. I plastered myself to the car window ala Brent Spiner from Independence Day. "Release me!" I croaked. Well no, I actually banged on the window and yelled "Help!" as loud as I could. The man looked over. I smiled as widely as I could and made "Come here" gestures. He came over to the car, looking very hesitant and nervous. When he got within a foot of the vehicle, I began explaining loudly that I needed him to open the door for me. He looked confused. Turns out he was Hispanic and spoke almost no English at all. So, I start the mother of all Charade games, pointing to the door handle and making turning gestures. Then I make opening motions with my hands. This goes on for a minute or two until light dawns upon his face and he makes the universal "You want me to open the door" gesture to me. "YES!" I estatically nod. He opens the door and I fly out of the car, thanking him profusely. I think he was disapointed that I wasn't going to offer him a "Oh, my hero! You *saved* me!" kiss, but I'm not that kind of girl and anyway, I had to get going. So, I thanked him over and over, as I ran back into the club, grabbed Chris by the shirt(he was a bouncer at the club, by the way, so he was right by the door)and demanded his keys. Got the keys, got to Safeway, got the money and got back to the club and dumped everything in Mr. Boss's lap.
"Any problems with the car, Jen?" he asked.
"Oh no, everything was fine."