Duck Feet

My previous experience with the Comcast assclowns was not so pleasant and totally made me want to gouge out my eyes with one of those little spoon-slash-forks from Kentucky Fried Chicken. I guess because I wasn't going for the super complicated installation of wireless internet they were able to downgrade the number of technicians sent out to my home to a whopping one! person, a guy who smelled like licorice. Which made me think of jagermeister, and please don't judge me if that's not spelled right because I hate that sickly sweet crap masquerading as liqour. But he DID smell like licorice which was slightly strange in that way that makes you wonder if it was a personal decision to smell like that or if it's something he's struggled with his entire life and was possibly teased mercilessly about as a kid. Like if he had cankles or wore tightrolled jeans after 1995.

I'd have teased his ass, too.

Before going any further I'd like to thank this kid for writing here for a few days while I sat in a cubicle and trained with a guy who's job I'm taking over. The only cool thing that came out of that was my swank ass digs with windows. And the whole BlackBerry, laptop and cellphone situation. Though it's really not as cool as one might originally think because who REALLY wants all that shit when it means They can get ahold of you at all hours of the day and night. But who am I kidding, I ate that shit up with a brita filter.

It's strangely freeing that I can sit in the privacy of my own home and write FUCK SHIT ASS CUNT HOLE MOTHERFUCKER and not worry that Someone is looking over my shoulder and blatantly judging me for my lack of vocabulary or utter offensiveness. (Or for the fact that that I'm totally not working.) It's so freeing, in fact, that even though I'd been practically salivating for two weeks in anticipation of getting my very own internet connection in my very own home (well, apartment, let's not be technical) I completely forgot about my plan to have a post that utilized the word Fuck in every sentence. It's probably too much to ask that it's freed me from my near-obessesive verbalization of the aforementioned words, though.

Sometimes my immaturity astounds EVEN ME.

Because I'm not in the mood to tell an entire story I'm going to give you some one brief look of what mi vida was like this past week:

Tuesday night I was at work until midnight. Please, contain your jealousy. I was tired and cranky and ohsovery exhausted when I walked out to my car, opened my door and was BLASTED with the smell of bleach. Now, I like bleach. You might even say I love bleach. I have an unhealthy obsession with using it, which means I can only buy white sheets because THEY MUST BE BLEACHED. But the car is not the place one wants to smell the bleach, being as how it's a CAR and not a BATHTUB. Slightly perplexed, I walked to the back of my car and popped the trunk where I quickly found out that leaving a gallon of bleach, even if accidentally, in the trunk of one's car is never a good plan. The high had reached 90 degrees that afternoon, rendering the gallon-o-bleach a veritable projectile of bleachniness. I didn't even have the energy to clean anything up; I just grabed the Febreeze from the backseat and sprayed it angrily at the airvents, hoping the smell might somehow magically dissipate.

About six minutes later I'm pulled over by one of the city's finest for going 82 in a 60. I won't even argue, it was my godamned fault. But it was late and the interstate was DESERTED I tell you, except for the red truck traveling beside me at the exact same motherfucking speed. Though I probably looked the most suspect seeing as how all my windows were down and I was repeatedly hanging my head out of the driver window to gulp a mouthfull of fresh air.
I'm too afraid to call the number on the ticket just yet because it's kind of nice living in ignorance of how much that ticket is going to cost me.