The Working Class Man

It was a hard day at work.  I come back feeling tired and miserable.  Immediately, I leave and head to the local tavern.  I sit on the barstool, head resting on my upright arm, and the bartender says in a very tv-sitcom manner, “What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey,” I reply, motioning with my hands in a lethargic manner, “Wait, scratch that.  I’ll have the half-pound angus beef burger.”

And it all happened so fast.  After the burger, I was downing some garlic fries.  After the fries, I ordered a 12-piece buffalo wing platter.  By now I was feeling woozy, my vision fading in and out.  It’s true, I am a foodaholic, and the bartender knew very well how to deal with people like me.

“It’s time for you to go home,” he said, still wiping a mug dry in a very tv-sitcom manner, “do you have anyone to drive you home?”

“No,” I blurted, burping as I said it, “I’m juss gonna walk home.”

And so I left the bar, clutching my to-go container of chicken fingers in a brown paper bag, mumbling obscenities at people passing by.  Some had their children with them, and as I neared, the parents held their children closer, telling them that food was a dangerous addiction, and making them promise never to have any until they were of age.

I finally stumble into my home, my breath reeking of garlic.  Now, all I wanted to do was commit domestic violence.  Unfortunately, I did not have a wife or kids.  So I’m just sitting here, wearing a wifebeater and talking about wife beaters, until sleep catches me by surprise, and I fall asleep on the couch, my arm slowly loosening its grip on my to-go box of chicken fingers, as they trickle onto the ground…

This story is loosely based on a true story.

-Anonymous

Work, Wackos, and Weird Shampoo

Work~
On the first day work, I was supplied an entire care package of safety equipment, all glimmering, new, and mine to keep.  On Thursday (the last day before the weekend since I work a 4-day 10-hour schedule) my supervisor comes into my room and stares at this care package and comments, “Damn, we’re paying you to take all our stuff.”  Which is completely accurate;  after all, I spent the entire week simply tagging along with the engineers on field trips into the refinery, incessantly spewing questions like the newbie I am.  And yes, I get paid 27 an hour for “working”.

Wackos~
After the workweek, I headed home to Fremont for the weekend, via my favorite mode of transportation, the BART.  I was sitting facing the back of the train, when suddenly a dark skinned lady walks in the doors on the El Cerrito stop, rubbing some sort of lotion onto her skin.  As the fumes of the lotion permeated throughout the car, I recognized the smell immediately: Icy Hot. 

She started pacing around the car, angrily yelling some sort of incoherent soliloquy as if she were reciting for a play, gesticulating wildly, and continuing to inelegantly rub that icy hot all over her face and limbs.  The other passengers avoided gawking and retained a posture of being seemingly unnerved by her awkward presence.  Unfortunately, for a split second, my eyes met with hers, and she began pacing towards me, still rubbing icy hot onto her body, still yelling incoherently.  I averted my gaze, and started tightly clutching my bag of dirty laundry close to my chest as if it were a teddy bear, possibly to shield me from an uppercut with that lady’s Michelle Obama-toned arms.

My eyes are now fixed at one my dirty socks, and her footsteps are approaching.  Cue suspenseful music and heartbeat soundtrack.  Closer and closer, the footsteps approached.  As she came right next to me, I held my breath, staring out of the corner of my eye to watch for sudden movements.  And… she passes by my seat, walking into the next car.  Sigh of relief, cut heartbeat soundtrack.  “This would make an okay  blog entry,” I thought to myself.

Shampoo~
My home bathroom seems to constantly go through brand changes every time I come home. This weekend, there was a new shampoo on the shelf: Selsun Blue, a medicated dandruff shampoo with Menthol.  A whiff of it reminded me of Chinese medicine.  After being thoroughly convinced by the long chemical names advertised on the back of the bottle, I decided to give it a shot.  Turns out, the putrid smell emitted by the potion was permanent.  Every time I ran my hands through my hair they would retain some of the smell, which was relatively unpleasant. 

 This leads me to the nonbiographical topic of today, part 1 of a 30000 part series “Stuff I find attractive in women”.  Today’s topic: Hair smell.

When I’m standing behind someone in line at the supermarket, and her hair smells like cherries, peaches, and sweat pea, it hardly matters what she looks like on the other side, or her personality, for that matter.  I’m in love.  I’d go as far as to say great smelling hair will bump girls up a full letter grade on my scorecard.  And when I say great smelling, it doesn’t include hair which smells like Pert Plus or Head and Shoulders.  In fact, I really don’t know what it is these girls dump on their hair to make them smell so darn good.  Herbal Essences?  Vanilla extract?  Tropicana?  Maybe some girls just naturally emit that scent?

Anyway, for all the girls out there with attractive-smelling hair, I dedicate this entry to you.