I rode my trainer out in the garage for an hour about a week ago. Watched the ’95 Tour on video cassette. It was 44 degrees when I started. In the garage. 44 degrees.
It sucked. Straight up.
While I was watching tanned, drug addled rockstars put down the Big Hurt, my mind wandered to, among other things, the people I work with. Nothing like staying focused on the task at hand.
One guy I work with draws Satan on everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. I asked him, you know, why(?!) the other day. And he told me, “It makes me happy.”
Great. I work with a Satanist. Good thing I’m an Atheist. I can still drink with him unbothered, unmolested and unconcerned by his dark leanings.
Full disclosure: I have no idea if this mother fucker is a Satanist or not. I’m just busting his balls. And when we work together again next week and he asks me, you know, why(?!) I’ll tell ‘em, “It makes me happy.”
Another guy I work with is considering going back to school to pursue a Masters in English. Maybe even an MFA. Yeah, I had to ask – it means “masters in fine arts.” What that has to do with English escapes me at the moment. I encouraged him; he can write quite well indeed. You should see the repair tickets this young Shakespeare puts to paper – they are fucking masterpieces.
Last person I heard about with an MFA is a chick working at Bookman’s eight bucks an hour.
Just shoot me.
Now, I’d consider something similar, higher education on borrowed dollars, party now & pay later, but I fear I couldn’t write my way out of a paper bag. And a wet bag at that. But ya’ll already know that. My first novel tanked.
Or was that a novella?
Third guy I work with was convinced one day he had diabetes. Why? Because he didn’t eat lunch till four in the afternoon and it made him feel real bad. Real bad, yo. Bad and shit. Bad. Could it have been that he didn’t eat lunch till four in the afternoon? Nope. Diabetes. Had to be.
He’s no more diabetic than I am talented.
Last guy I work with was certain he had a kidney stone. He even went through the trouble of naming said kidney stone. Turns out he didn’t have a kidney stone after all. Good on ya. Way to duck that bullet. But now the name given to said non-existent kidney stone is just floating around out there in the ether, in need of something to stick it on. Shit’s like a ghost, a soul with no home. Maybe one day he’ll have that stone (got my fingers crossed for ya buddy) and that poor name will be lost no more.
Till then, he’s parking that shit over at meandrosco.blogspot.com.by