Brohoof!

What an interesting day I had.

1) It all started in the morning, when I saw a woman in an electric wheelchair popping a wheelie across the street. at first I thought "cool" But now I wonder, hmm, maybe her chair has a short in it and she's zooming out of control. Oh, well, I'm sure we'll hear about it on the news.

2) A woman comes to my cash register. A) She's buying a handful of materiality sized dresses. B) she has a big stomach. C) She's complaining to me that she has to "live in these dresses." So with these pieces of evidence, I assume that she's tired of the lack pregnancy attire and can't wait to slim back to normal. To which she says: "What makes you think I'm fat?" Which of course I say: " Well, after a while, you'll lose all the weight." To which she says: "Maybe I like the way that I am." Which raises my antenna that she's not pregnant! just fat!

Stranger still than both of these, I got my yearly review or as I like to call it: 'here we go again.' But it was actually positive. I don't think it was because I became Mr. super Target team member, go-for-it bull shit. just that I've learned what their tolerance level is for talking to me and I try to stay right above that level. Perhaps they thought that since I'm hovering above shit level like a woman levitating over a toilet in a public rest room,  than I've joined the herd–brohoof!

Ain't gonna happen.

I notice that the drug dealing kid across the street has had a lot of his Bronnies coming and going lately. I actually thought he had quit the whole "illegal" thing. No reason for the air quotes, I just like using them.  Then again, maybe he's not selling pot anymore, maybe he and his friends are setting up an internet company or a baby sitting service, or perhaps a combo–a service that sells drugs and babies over the internet.  As for my business I don't like the fact I have to go back to art to try to dig myself out of another hole. Art should be a journey, not a distraction or the blue pill that fools you into thinking everything is going to be all right. Because it's not. Shit's going to happen (is it shit's or shits?). Sure, I had a good day today, but I'm sure a bad day is right around the corner, holding a baseball bat with nails in it. But so what. It's going to be there one way or another. At least I'll have lots of  pretty pictures in the world with my name on them, even if they don't sell. Whenever they talk about the famous artist that made lots of great art but never made a dime, they always talk about Van Gough. It's like some lesson to the failed artist: "Don't worry, you're not famous now, but when you're dead, you're gonna be rich...in heaven or hell." That's a question, is it better to be rich in heaven or hell? In heaven You really can't have a room full of strippers lying down in a row as you play a sexy game of steam roller, I'm pretty sure the Evangelical god hates that. On the other hand, I'm sure in hell there are no relaxing zen gardens where you can just chill out without somebody bothering you and offering you cocaine or a firey, demon blow job.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, Van Gough died and then became rich in hell. Big deal for him. I really have no interest in waiting until death before I sell an art piece, I want my stripper steamroller game now! What I have learned about trying to sell art is it's 5% talent, 35% who you know and 60% attitude. Back when I worked at Binder's Art Supplies in Atlanta, There was this guy I had to work with, let's call him Loud Mouth. L.M was a terrible artist. His paintings sucked and I'm not being petty. But L.M. Was good at one thing. He talked and bullshited about how great he was and was good at selling his awful shit for a thousand dollars a pop. What he would do was do a painting of a non-famous basketball player, take some photo's of that portrait (as horrible as it looked) to a game and show it to the player who would flip because after all, no one ever noticed them when they sit on the bench all the time. So he not only found a market but he was able to sell himself. Brohoof to him for that, negative props for society for supporting bad art. I saw a lot of bad art t that job, Once, a lesbian couple came in with a nice painting of yellow sun flowers on a blue back ground. They had us frame it with a brown mat and a black frame. It looked like shit. Perhaps they did it that way to match their ugly dog-stained furniture at home. I hated that job. I was really bad at framing and this guy that made the frames, called from another location and was complaining about how bad of a framing job I was doing.  By this point, I was moving to California, so I hung up on him. Lick my balls! (I wish I had also said).

 I was also dating a girl at work, I use the term dating loosely because after all we had been doing(stripper steam roller) while her boyfriend was in jail for urinating on the sidewalk (not a joke), as soon as he got out of jail, she let him move in with her. This was after me and my good friends helped her move out of her old apartment in one night, not an easy task because she apparently never heard of closets, drawers or anything else you put your stuff in. Clothes and crap were all over the floor and had to be packed away. So We broke things off and I had to work RIGHT NEXT TO HER! You talk about torture and suffering. Then she started dating this customer. I have no idea what happened to Mr. urine. Can you imagine working next to someone you dated and then they start dating someone that gets paraded in front of you?

There is a happy sequel tough.Because of what she did, I had no reason to stay in Atlanta.I moved to California and have a wife and kids. Without her horrible actions, my kids would have never been born!!! If we had stayed together with our Jerry Springier life, I'm sure she would have repeatedly cheated on me and heaven forbid if we lived together, our floor would have had a 2 feet deep carpet of garbage. Whew! That was a close one!.

Lesson, the red pill sucks but at least you get out of the Matrix.

That's it, E.M.

Mr. Snot

I realized that due to posting so much on FaceBook, I rarely get a chance to update this blog, so, here I go.
 Let's see, since last we spoke, I was working a Target , it sucked and I was feeling sad. Well, I'm still there, it still sucks but, It doesn't bother me as much because I've come to the conclusion that all jobs suck. look at Whitney Houston. career, fame, family. Not good enough; MUST–SNORT–MOUNTAIN–OF–COCAINE! I'm trying to focus on my art because a  shrink told me that it's that thing that keeps me for being on the 6 O'clock news as THAT guy that did the horrible thing with the you-know-what. Every year, right after Christmas, Target cuts your hours because the big rush is over and nobody want  to  buy anything. I mean, let's face it, you can't have a Martin Luther King Jr. sale: "I have a dream...and great prices on flat screen TVs!" Eventually, the closer you get to the next holiday, the more hours you get back. During that down time I started cranking out art and developing an actual plan to sell some shit. Suddenly, my hours went from 2 days per week to 5, What the fuck happened? One minute the mofos are complaining about how non-Target I am and the next they're shoving hours down my throat. I was so surprised by this, that I had forgotten that I listed Saturday and Sunday as being  available days to work. I haven't worked those days,  literally, in years. When I saw them on the schedule, I nearly pit my shants. Wha-wha what? work on a Saturday night. Saturday night is extra horrible at Target. It's like it turns into a football field sized 7-11. Drunks pimps and hoes are all there, getting their miserable purchases for their miserable lives and buying  their miserable breakfast cereals.
I cringe in fear every time I see three large women, in pajama pants  and hair curlers in their hair. What the fuck, THEM! I mutter. I discovered  If I shut my mouth, I have a vague chance that they will do the same and we can all get through this transaction without them flying off the handle like a rusty, broken machete. Worst than the customers, is the supervisor you have to work with. There's this guy, let's call him that Bald Ignorant Guy, Says Negative Offensive Things or: BIG SNOT. Even the most kind hearted people hate to work with him because he constantly criticizes you  and never sends you on your break. On many occasion people have just went on their own breaks after given up on him . Sometimes people have gone on their breaks 15 minutes before going home! I'm pretty sure this is illegal. I have no idea what his problem is but I do know he's very insecure about something out side of Target. Maybe his wife and kids like to tie him up and beat him like a piñata or maybe he WANTS  his wife and kids to tie him up and beat him like a piñata–what ever. When he comes to work he wants to spread it to you like a virus. I HATE MY LIFE, MUST TAKE REVENGE ON WORLD! After I figured this out, I was at least able to keep him from talking to me. If you say anything to him and heaven forbid, it's a contradiction to some stoooooooooooopid shit he says, then it's over, he'll spend the rest of the evening making your life a living hell and trying to get a rise out of you. Bully classic. Big Snot works every damn night which I guess makes him a lifer that has swallowed the blue pill with a Dixie™cup of purple Kool Aid™. I've heard that you should never vote for anyone that want to be president because, immediately there is something wrong with people that wants that much power. I think the same is true with anyone that wants t be a supervisor AND will never be promoted above that. The smart ones get transferred to another section of the store but not the ass hats that stick around for years. eventually, spines curves down, and they turn into charactertures of Montgomery Burns, becoming more bitter with every shift, and indulging in sadistic, emotional masturbation on any, that come  within reach of their 2 inch circumcised egos.  

But enough about Target, I mean really, enough about that stupid Job. Let's talk about something else:

Of the two nuisance houses we have: House #1 with the drug dealing teenager and house #2 with the people that were always on the front stoop yelling as if there was no inside to their house and it as just a facade. House two's occupants got kicked out of their house because they haven't paid their property taxes in three years. I had no idea you could get evicted from your own house if it's paid for.  We were so happy to see them go, but low and behold, in moves a new breed of yellers that had a party which ended in the loud sounds of: "Bitch this!" And  "Bitch that." Is that housed cursed by a very loud ghost? I'm hoping it's an isolated incident or the person doing the most yelling hates them and won't ever visit again. But really, what were they thinking?
"Hey, we got a house, with a roof and a toilet INSIDE the house!"
"Let's have a party!"
"Let's invite Henrietta, your neanderthal, extra loud-mouthed cousin!"
"I hate that bitch!"
"Look at you! Mr. Monopoly guy with the hat and monocle! Bought a house and already a snob!"

3AM there she was, refusing to leave the party, yelling at the host. Don't you love it when somebody drinks up all your liquor and then curses you out? I'm so glad I'm a concerned drunk. you know you have happy drunks, sad drunks and angry drunks, When I get drunk I wash your dishes or want to make sure the girls in the room aren't going to get raped. In collage I actually baby sat 3 girls and kept them for going home with strange creepy guys the whole night, what did I get for it? Nothing! What a sap. Like many guys, I always imagine what my life would be like if I were the creep and had taken advantage of the girls. Having daughters now all I can say is I hope my daughters have a nerdy friend like me, keeping ghetto sperm away from them. The only difference will be, I'll approach the boy, thank him for saving my daughter for marriage if not more high quality sperm and then slip him a hundred bucks: "This is for  your trouble. Keep up the good work. There's more where that came from and if you violate them yourself and they get an STD or pregnant and have to leave school, I'm going to take the rest of their collage fund and pay someone large and smelly to violate you. Maybe you can do something horrible to preserve your daughters chastity. Go on to a FaceBook chat with their friends and say how you heard they have a boyfriend in prison who's going to escape on prom night just to murder her prom date. Or the only reason she's so nice is because of the cup full of meds she takes every morning to curb her obsession, cutting hot dog shaped objects in half with scissors.

Every now and then they mention how they have crushes on boys in class. It's sounds cute but I guess that's how it starts: I have a crush on the boy that eats paste; I have a crush on the boy that collects Pokemon cards; I have a crush on the boy with the car, that snorts glue and plays poker.

One of my girls got a valentine of some type of Lego action figure, lightning bolts coming from it's hand and the words: FACE YOUR FEAR! on it. How romantic I thought. I guess the boys in their class are still in girls, yuck! mode. If only they could keep that up until the girls graduate form college and get a good job and travel around the world, after that, get pregnant all you want. If there is a God it should have made it so woman have a thick, spiky fold of skin that covers the vagina and doesn't open up until they have fulfilled their life dreams. Imagine you couldn't have sex unless you really worked on your life first, and men would be motivated to help them: Porn magazine would be full of women doctors, chemist and other successful women with fully developed sex organs. Everywhere, crys of: "C'mon honey! Study damn it! Don't you want to become a doctor! What do you mean I'm being selfish? I love fracturing my Johnson on that dangerous trampoline thing on you crotch.


That's it: E.M

Still Here

So much to remember since the last time I put anything on this blog thing. Okay, still working at Target. I hit my 3 year mark even tough every year I said: "This will be my last Christmas here." They actually let you get a small gift-thing once you hit 3 years. Everything had a Target logo on it so I declined. Why do I want Target to enter into my world outside the walls of Mordor? There are people who seem to like working there. The Orks and trolls; and speaking of which. The troll Chinese supervisor guy I had, actually got fired for being an Asshole. I'm not kidding. I'm sure it was because he was inefficient or some shit like that but either way, I actually give the upper management mad props for spreading the love evenly. Then there was the Gollum-like Japanese, girl supervisor. She actually transfered to the back of the store. unsure if that was because she wasn't cutting it or if she said, if I help one more customer, I'm going to put foot to ass so fast, It'll take 3 proctologist to remove it. So they bought in this "new" guy supervisor who met with all of the cashiers and was like "I want to make this a fun place to work." and " I don't want people all stressed here I want to be open to talk to" and blah blah blah blah I'm running out of italics. If I had a watch on my wrist, I would have had something to look at as I counted down the seconds of how long his attitude would change to the usual Supervisor bullshit or as I like to call it STD or "Something To Do." style. Meaning, their entire job is for you to look busy, not be busy with actual work because, after Christmas, when it's dead, there is nothing to do, The store is spotless, there are no customers or even anything to put away. So we either stand around and talk or the Supervisors makes up jobs so that THEIR bosses see that THEY are actually doing something by bossing us around with the most asinine task you can think of.

"Could you wipe down the registers even tough these motherfuckers are so clean, you can check a babies CSF (Cerebral Spinal Fluid) on them?"

Yawn! I'm so board with the same old crap, The customers making the same comments. Recently, I was so used to ignoring their negative comments that I didn't even realize that they were insulted until the Black-girl supervisor told me that they had complained about me. "Wha? I thought? If I'd known they were going to complain about me, I should have put some effort into it. The good news is, it was two old ladies, so they'll be dead soon enough.

Harsh!

Okay, fine. They won't be dead, they'll live another 100 years, sucking the blood out of cashiers and babies, lying on the belt waiting for their CFS to be checked.

It takes so much effort to be an asshole to a cashier. Here's an idea. Either: A) Be nice; B) Shut the fuck up about how I Didn't give you 5 cents credit for your stupid shopping bags; C) Shut the fuck up about how I wouldn't change the roll of $24 paper towels to $16; D) Shut the fuck up about how Target checks everybody's driver's license when you buy booze and no, I don't know or give a fuck what they to with your information, or you can; E) shut the fuck up and get your stupid crappy landfill, plastic, Earth-killing garbage, go to your Earth-killing SUV, drive up to the hills to your house with view of God's back yard, drink your wine, yell at the illegal alien cleaning lady, take your pills. ignore your kids with names like Sky, Dakota and Maya as they play 50 hours of Wii and leave me the hell alone.

It's not my fault that you're old!

It's not my fault that you have everything and yet are still unhappy.

It's not my fault you're poor and your credit card is declined.

It's not my fault you hate men. Blacks, Gays, Democrats, Liberals or Peace.

It's not my fault you named your son Travis or Dillon, gave them a mohawk and are surprised that they act like a little monster.

It's not my fault you have no other outlet for your misery except a defenseless cashier, trying to make it to the end of their day and go to that place where you are not.

That's all, E.M.