When you see a soft drink that's Artificially Colored Purple...what flavor immediately comes to mind? I'll even give you a moment to think about that. ... ... Grape, right? Pretty simple. Ubiquitous even. I'm sure that 72% of you agree. The other 28% are Contrarian Trolls or you work for MiO Liquid Water Enhancers (a division of Kraft Foods...I like their cheese...).
You see, I'm trying to drink more H2O rather than soda. It's cheaper (mostly), there's less sugar (again, mostly), and it probably way more healthy (not that it's ever that much of a concern). But Modern Man simply cannot subsist on water exclusively (you need food, too). And to be honest, I'm not really digging the taste of the water at the Shop. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure the boss just fills old 5 gallon jugs with tap water from a hose. But who am I to complain? (Right?)
So instead of bitching about something stupid to people who allow me to collect a paycheck which keeps a roof over my head, I decided to try out that MiO stuff. A few friends have tried it and told me it was...aah...pretty okay. That's about the best I could get, anyway. But why not, right? I can make it strong like Coca-Cola™ or weak like Vitamin Water©. My choice.
Oh!! I get the product name now!! Wow, that's clever!!
Kidding.
Now, this isn't a rant on how shitty their product is. It's everything that I hoped it would be. And by that I mean...aah...pretty okay. I mean it's just Sugar Juice to make my cruddy tap water not taste quite so "tappy". My complaint is that their stupid fucking bullshit marketing and color system made me buy a flavor I never would have picked if I had been aware of what I was buying. Or...you know...if I had actually been paying attention.
While I was grocery shopping (this time I was actually buying MORE than just cat food) I cruised over to the "Powdered Drink" aisle and scoped out the MiO section. Okay, cool. There's even generic store brand alternatives for slightly cheaper. But I wanted to go Brand Name on this, at least to try it out. What can I say, advertising works.
Being that my favorite flavor of Gatorade© (the closest equivalent that I've experienced) happens to be FIERCE Grape™, I purposely and directly reach out and grab the "Purple" bottle. You know, color of Royalty and all that? Didn't even look at the flavor name, just instinctual knowledge.
Well, I brought it to work this morning, with the intention of immediately trying this new-fangled drink flavoring system. And sure as shit...it looked like FIERCE Grape Gatorade©. Well...more like the Gatorade Rain©, you know...the "watered down" crap they tried to push on us to compete with Vitamin Water™ (a Glaceau™ product)? Point being, it looked good.
So I took a sip.
It didn't hit me at first...but after a couple minutes, it dawned on me. This ain't no motherfuckin' Grape Drank.
Nope. I looked at the bottle, and low & behold...Berry Pomegranate. Berry...FUCKING... Pomegranate. I don't drink goddamn Pomegranate Juice. You know who does? Douche-bag Middle Class Snobs with "Refined" Taste. I'm a Working Class Avenger. I drink Grape Drank, motherfucker.
But to be honest, I wasn't all that angry. It didn't taste horrible; it just wasn't the flavor my mind and taste buds were expecting. Fuckers.
The irony (?) of this whole scenario is that I bought two (2) different flavors. The other flavor was colored blue, and I certainly checked what flavor it was cuz we all know that not every Blue Flavor is the same. This one was Blueberry Lemonade. And it was fucking excellent.
***WARNING***
Depending on your own personal sensibilities and your own personal concept of Racism...aaahhh...this might get a little intense. So, ah...there's a possibility that you might wanna stop yourself right the fuck here...
So...tonight...last night...when-the-fuck-ever... I kinda sorta got kicked the fuck outta New World Brewery in Ybor City. It was my own fucking fault, and I take full, personal responsibility for it. My Own Personal Bad...if you will.
Listen. I had a fucking great fucking night. I got to travel to Tampa without having to goddamn drive (always a fucking plus) and I got to get...relatively hammered on reasonably priced Past Blue Ribbon (which is a feat unto itself, despite what you may think about drinking cheap, shitty beer). I got to see some good friends play a fantastic set, and I experienced some great independent musicians do...their thing...
Then...well...I made a pretty shitty mistake. I grabbed one more beer for "the road" and as my good friend was paying his tab, I casually said, "Oh, look at this Fancy Nigga, with his Fancy-ass Bank Account..."
And that, ladies & gents, is where I went wrong.
The bartender serving my friend looks at me and asks "What did you just say?" And I, as a fucking douch-y white motherfucker, tried to play it off saying "Look at this 'motherfucker' with his fancy-ass bank account..."
But no. He full-on calls me on my shit, and say "No...What. Did. You. Just. Say..?"
Busted. I used a...semi-racial epithet. And I owned up to it, cuz he's absolutely NOT WRONG to call me out. However, he...basically flips his shit. And me, as an actual NON-Racist, accept that I committed a social faux-pas, and excuse myself, apologizing profusely. It was the end of the night, and I just wanted to go home without causing a real incident.
Owning up to my stupid bullshit, let me give you some perspective. It was NOT an African-American (to use a stupid euphemism) gentleman giving me shit. It was a fucking White Dude. I'm sitting here at a STRAIGHT UP hipster bar, making a fucking idiotic, semi-racial comment about a friend's financial situation...and this guy just loses his mind.
Like I said, I removed myself with what I considered an empathetic and sincere apology. And I go to my other friends saying "Hey, we gotta get going soon, I think I just pissed off one of the staff." And I start chugging my PBR. Well my buddy (the guy with said Bank Account) comes out with this overly sensitive purveyor of alcohol somewhat in tow, still having a conniption fit over apparent racism, trying to halt the situation before it goes into a complete meltdown. And as my buddy is making HIS apologies pretty much on my behalf, I look the man in the eye and I assure him that I'm not the White Supremacist he may have pegged me as. It was a slip of the tongue (so to speak) and it was incredibly insensitive of me.
And he...well, doesn't look me in the eye, cuz I'm about 30-40 lbs larger than him, but he goes on about how I wouldn't say "that word" in front of an ACTUAL Black Guy...I wouldn't say it if "his wife" was sitting there, right?
And there it was. This man was involved in an interracial relationship. Okay. As an actual NON-Racist, I find interracial relationships absolutely beautiful. It's a testament to the love and beauty that we as human beings are truly capable of. But this guy has a fucking chip on his shoulder. And with obvious good reason. He and his wife have probably had to deal with some real shit. Some REAL racist bullshit. From people who represent the worst that our American society has to offer.
And my heart goes out. I was wrong. And I know this and I have absolutely zero fucking pride and can admit that I fucked up and I said something wildly inappropriate. And I apologized. Like...6 fucking times. And I just tried to make that abundantly fucking clear and only wanted a handshake in perfect human solidarity. But this guy? No. He was absolutely not having it. Wouldn't shake my hand; would not accept a heartfelt apology.
And that's his own personal Hell.
Because I know, that in MY life, I've been reprimanded for wearing a shirt that said "I LOVE BLACK PEOPLE" ...cuz the assholes I worked for are fucking racist cunts. And fuck them and their children's children.
Just like every fucking white asshole...some of my friends are black. No, I'm not kidding. And I've used the word "nigga" WITH the soft 'a' in their fucking presence and not felt any racial heat. (I'm not absolutely 100% sure that they didn't get at least a little offended, but it's on THEM to go ahead and say something to me) I'm not above being wrong.
Was it wrong of me to say it? Possibly yes. But seriously, bro...it's the goddamn 21st Century. We don't all hate Black People anymore. And to any of my ethnically African friends who get offended if I use that culturally ubiquitous term...my apologies. I never want to make you feel like less of an American or less than a human being. And if you feel like I'm wrong, then come correct me. I'm not gonna cop a fucking idiot white-boy attitude and I will adjust myself accordingly. Real Talk™.
Long time readers/friends may know this about me, but for those that don't...I used to be severely Anti-Pet. Well, mostly anti-dog, but seriously...people's dogs tended to annoy me. I have a shattered kneecap and when dogs jump up on me I get pretty apprehensive about it.
Well about a year ago, I became a Proud Pet Owner. I have two beautiful tuxedo cats named Betty & Veronica. I didn't name them, so don't give me shit. I just kept the names because Fuck You, they're adorable. Veronica Mars (cuz I'm a Kristen Bell fan) and Betty White-Nose (cuz she has a little white nose and Betty White fucking rules). They've changed my life completely for the better and they've warmed my heart to people's pets and animals in general.
Problem was, they came with fucking fleas.
It's an embarrassing problem and I have so little experience with this that I had no idea what the fuck to do. It's so bad that Miss Veronica has a sore on the back of her neck that will barely heal cuz she's scratching it all the damn time. It's heart breaking and I feel like shit. I should be better than this.
I'm pretty sure I lost out on the girl of my fucking dreams because I've been too embarrassed to have her over. Well, that and I'm a broke fucking loser and I have emotional problems...but that's MY Personal Hell.
Enough is e-fucking-nough. I've got plans to see some friends play in Ybor City, so I bathed them with Flea Shampoo (it says dog & puppy and I hope it doesn't make them sick) and it seemed to be pretty effective. They're staying at a good friend's place over night and I packed all their shit up for the trip. They freaked out when they got there. I believe they're hiding under his bed, the little scaredy cats!
Tonight, it's Bombs Away!! Castle Discordia is pretty small so one bomb outta take care of it. Got tile floor and very little cloth furniture so no problems there. Mostly I'm just tired of everything being such a fucking hassle. But I gotta admit, it's worth it. I love them very very much. When I got fired from my last job, my only real concern was making sure I could take care of them. To the point that I bawled my fucking eyes out in public drunkenly making an ass of myself in McCabes Irish Pub (fucking assholes gave me tequila).
So I guess things should be alright. At least I hope so. And to top off the day, I ran over a stupid goddamn nail in my car port. That'll learn me to clean up the goddamn fucking wood pile. I'm such a fucking doofus.
A couple years ago, I wrote a blog (essay, article) about how much I hate Bike Assholes. You can find it here. But it really wasn't so much about Bike Assholes as much as Rich Assholes pushing people around. Well, the world has come kinda full circle, because I'm contemplating becoming one of those Bike Assholes.
I fucking hate driving, man.
I really fucking do. And it's not just the usual reasons of "Oh, there's too many fucking assholes on the road that don't know how to drive!" Which is, of course, abso-fucking-lutely true. Teenagers, Soccer Moms, Blue Haired Old Ladies, Canadians; it's a goddamn nightmare out on the road these days. And maybe it's just "Season" down here in Sunny Southwest Florida, but seriously. I really doesn't get that much better when the Snowbirds from "everywhere else" go back to wherever they goddamn came from. Especially the fucking Canadians, man.
I honestly chalk it up to growing up...I dunno...in a weird situation..? I learned how to operate an automobile here in Venice, FL. But I learned to "drive" in California. There's a world of difference trust me. (For example, in Cali, when the light turns green, drivers press DOWN on the accelerator.) But it wasn't just the driving experience, it was the fact that being stationed aboard Marine Corps Base Camp Pendelton, if you really want to do anything fun, you have to drive.
So going out to the bars in Carlsbad was about a 10-15 mile trip. San Diego is 30 miles, Los Angeles; 70. That's a lot of time in a car no matter how you swing it. Sure, we did 90 mph down the 5 Freeway, but it's still pretty far.
When I came home from The War, I stayed in Venice with my dad. There's fucking nothing to do in Venice. So my happy ass was hopping in the Hate-mobile and driving 20 miles to Sarasota, not just to be around my friends, but to have a job actually worth going to. And I did this for YEARS. Quite a few, really, and for far longer than I should have.
The thing about having to drive 20 miles (40 if I wanted to go to Bradenton) every goddamn time I wanted to do anything is that driving is Dead Time. It's time I spend not doing the things that I want or hanging out with the people I want to be around. And I don't know about anyone else but I'm also not terribly aware of my surroundings. Even though I traveled on US Highway 41, I hardly knew where anything was between my home and my usual destinations because I would Zone The Fuck Out. Chuck Palahniuk, in his novel Rant: the Oral History of Buster Casey, describes it as Limnal Time. The book is also about using that for time travel...and I don't wanna give it all away and you should go read that book right now.
Seriously, it'll take you six hours. I timed it once.
Point is, I've fucking grown tired of it. The Moon Rover (the 1998 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo that replaced the Cripple-Wagon, a 1980something GMC Conversion Van that replaced the Hate-Mobile, itself a 1998 Jeep Cherokee) is falling the fuck apart and I'm too fucking poor to really fix it. At least right now anyway. It's not dead yet, but the thing needs to be put on semi-retirement for awhile. It's a dangerous rattle-trap that I'm actually quite scared to operate after the sun goes down. The headlights are goofed up, the transmission is wonky, and it doesn't even have a driver's side window.
That was my own fault; I don't know if you know this but I have a few anger issues..?
Anyway, fuck that noise. I live 15 blocks from Downtown Bradenton. It's only a 30 minute walk to InCahoots (the OTHER bar I hang out at) and it's only 8 miles or so to the Shop I work at. I'm getting a fucking bike and that is fucking it.
I had THE worst experience at a fucking Publix today.
If you aren't familiar with Publix Supermarkets, founded by George Jenkins in Lakeland, FL in...I dunno 1947 or some shit... They are ALL ABOUT Customer Service. Trust me I worked there for several years in my youth. (Fun Fact™: I was fired for swearing too much...huh, go fuckin' figure...)
But today was just a goddamn nightmare.
I recently started a new job, and I've been trying to get an idea of what was around for lunch. One of my co-workers, Austin, let me tag along with him to Publix (which was actually about 10 minutes away, but I wasn't driving so, fuck it) and I was suddenly hardcore jonesing for a delicious Publix Deli Sub. If you've never had one, get your ass to a fucking Publix and eat that shit. You will understand.
Now usually when I roll up to a Publix Deli, they have their shit wired tight. Fucking squared away and on lock. Tight as a drum, if you will. But today, I drop in at around 12:30 pm, and this Sub Station...well, it looks a little rough. I give them the benefit of the doubt cuz it's probably just after a lunch rush and I don't expect it to look Spic & Span. Alright, so this kid walks up and disinterestedly asks what I need. He's standing there, all 500 disgusting pounds of him. And I'm not usually one to Fat Shame, but seriously? Have you ever done a sit up? Walked more than 30 feet? Put the fucking fork down, you greasy slob...
I tell this Mouth Breather, I want a footlong Italian on Whole Wheat, Provolone, with peppers, onions and lettuce. Real simple shit. Well, they've got the meat pre-sliced and wrapped in paper. Good on 'em, very efficient. That's why I usually like their service. He throws the peppers on, but he's out of onions. And so is the other station.
"One minute," he say to me. Okay, I'm patient. Cuz believe it or not, I really DO try to NOT be an asshole in public. I really do. But this walking ball of grease is back there what seems like another 10 minutes, and he comes back out with an onion. AN Onion. As in, One Whole Unchopped Goddamn Onion. He takes one of the dullest knives in stock and proceeds to try to slice this yellow onion.
Fuck.
Okay, still being reluctantly patient. But I'm getting pretty aggravated at this point, but I'm trying to let it go (Let it Goooooooo!!). But then he asks what else I wanted. "Lettuce, please." So he takes these...lettuce scrapings...and tried to plop them on my delicious sandwich.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, guy. Don't put that on my sandwich. That's gross." Well, that's all he had left. And all that the other station had left. And there wasn't any back up.
"One minute," the douche-nozzle tries to say. And that was it. I've already wasted more than half my 30 minute lunch break waiting for this lazy, fat tool to slap together a fucking sandwich, I wasn't wasting more time.
How fucking hard is this? How hard is it to make sure that you are prepared for the business that you're here to fucking operate? I know how this shit works, because I've done it before and I use similar methods in other fucking jobs. Preparation!! Efficiency, motherfucker!! Jay-sus Fuck Christ, you are goddamn useless.
"No, not One Minute. I'm done, I'm out. Fuck it..." I say as I walk away trying to find one of those pre-made sandwiches (which are still pretty good, but lack the defining characteristics of a full submarine sandwich...hoagie, po' boy, grinder, what-have-you) eg. vegetables and condiments. I look around uncomfortably cuz I'm still in this bullshit sham of a "deli" and there's some fucking old geezer (I fucking hate old people...) attempting to stock the sandwiches. Great.
"Can I help you?"
"No, you can't help me. You people couldn't help yourselves out of a wet Publix Paper Bag..." I grumble as I grab...I forget what kind it was, probably Ham & Cheese or some shit...
"You're welcome!" the crusty, nursing home escapee tries to call out to me as I stalk away towards the registers. "Suck my fucking dick you mongoloid!" I holla back. I really shouldn't be allowed out in public, let alone Publix (it's a family establishment).
I get to the registers and my heart drops again. Lines out the wazoo. Fuck Fuck Fuck. So dump the sandwich into a front end cooler (cuz I'm not a complete asshole) and I barrel out the front door. Fuck this joint. It's seriously the worst goddamn Publix I've ever been to. And I've been to quite a few.
I make my way back to Austin's car, and I'm visibly pissed.
"What, no food?"
"Don't get me started..." I mumble and then proceed into a tirade to match anything by Moussolini bitching about train schedules.
Understand that Austin has known me only one whole week and has never seen Jaymz in his fucking element. We try Subway, no go. Bullshit. So we drive back to the Shop, and I have to disappoint my boss, Matt, cuz I was supposed to grab him some fried chicken (actually Austin was supposed to, but since I was going Deli, I got handed that task) but if they can't figure out a sandwich, I wasn't trusting them to do a Non-Heinous job with actual cooking involved. Plus...you know...embarrassing. Sorry bro.
I grab my keys and haul ass to the Bodega down the way and try my luck with some sketchy gas station cheeseburgers cuz I'm that fucking hungry. Awesome.
And now everyone knows my secret. I'm the fucking Angry Guy. And I was doing so well...
