Here are links to the two articles I wrote about da crazy biatch discussed below:
http://alternative-religions.suite101.com/article.cfm/religion-for-profit-part-1-sherry-shriner
http://alternativespirituality.suite101.com/article.cfm/religion-for-profit-part-2-who-is-sherry-shriner
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
From the WTF Files...
What the fuck doesn't even come close to these ever so fucked up lunatics I friended on the Facebook a while back thinking at the very least I could gain some insight into their bizarre hybird movement of Biblical Codes and Alien destructors. I was firmly convinced it was mostly a put-on, especially the "Orgone blasters" that use a crystal to direct water that can burn the skin of the aliens as the cruise around in their UFO's.
For a while I just let them post their various warnings about chemtrails being used to kill us and "actual audio" of aliens in their ships screaming from the orgone attacks, mysteriously yelling in English. But the constant warning and fear-inducing tone of the posts from their ringleader finally got to me and the following exchange took place:
Let's starts with her actual warning that got everybody to wet themselves in its disturbing accuracy:
Attack of Poliomyelitis coming soon via Chemtrails! Beware folks!! They are gearing up to attack the public with deadly chemtrails carrying this Polio virus! This is a debilitating disease that can paralyze your muscles and cause difficulty breathing. The Bible Codes indicate they're planning this from July 22 on...the next 3 weeks they're ramping it up!
Get all the areas you visit protected...stores, churches, anywhere you go so you're not breathing their deadly chemtrails! The Bible Codes indicate this attack is 'close, near"
I don't know when they'll attack...but over the next 3 weeks they're gearing up to hit hard with chemtrails, storms, etc...we were able to diffuse a HAARP lightening storm with orgone they were trying to hit my area with and you can do the same to storms
For a while I just let them post their various warnings about chemtrails being used to kill us and "actual audio" of aliens in their ships screaming from the orgone attacks, mysteriously yelling in English. But the constant warning and fear-inducing tone of the posts from their ringleader finally got to me and the following exchange took place:
Let's starts with her actual warning that got everybody to wet themselves in its disturbing accuracy:
Attack of Poliomyelitis coming soon via Chemtrails! Beware folks!! They are gearing up to attack the public with deadly chemtrails carrying this Polio virus! This is a debilitating disease that can paralyze your muscles and cause difficulty breathing. The Bible Codes indicate they're planning this from July 22 on...the next 3 weeks they're ramping it up!
Get all the areas you visit protected...stores, churches, anywhere you go so you're not breathing their deadly chemtrails! The Bible Codes indicate this attack is 'close, near"
I don't know when they'll attack...but over the next 3 weeks they're gearing up to hit hard with chemtrails, storms, etc...we were able to diffuse a HAARP lightening storm with orgone they were trying to hit my area with and you can do the same to storms
15 hours ago · · 1 personWichlep Hazard likes this.
Chaffee Cline
Turn on all your ozone, purification air purifier machines. I am getting all of mine out of storage...thx Sherry.
13 hours ago ·
Sherry Shriner
you can also boil orgone water in your yard via campfire if you have land and the ability to do so...put a pot of water over a campfire with a POE orgone puck in it and let it boil into and saturate the air. Put orgone pucks on your satellite dishes etc...
13 hours ago · · 2 peopleLoading...
Shelly Long
Thank you for the warning Sherry! We've already been nailed by their practice runs,it landed my son in the hospital for 3 days. You can actually slightly smell it in the air, and it causes a burning/tingling sensation in your nostrils. The Black/Grey clouds overhead and hazy sky :time for the gas masks, and staying inside.
4 hours ago ·
Christopher Nadeau
in the meantime I'll continue to speculate on the possibility of an alien presence without turning it into a ludicous religious dogma and wasting hundreds of dollars on snake oil alien repellant.
about an hour ago · ·
Shelly Long
Chris,If you dont want it dont buy, it.. a very simple decision.. As for me, I have enough.. You will see someday I guess..Maybe when the giants are ripping you limb from limb eating your flesh and poisons from the chemtrails put you on your deathbed...
Shelly Long
Ok , then put your head back under the sand and talk to THEM, they supposedly live under the earth too, right?
37 minutes ago ·
Christopher Nadeau
sure with all the other demons and pixies and tooth fairies you guys claim the Bible warned us about in the Book of Crazy.
35 minutes ago · ·
Christopher Nadeau
no thanks they are no less nutty and lacking in logic. speculating on an alien presence doesn't make one new age when considering the vastness of the universe and the amount of stars and planets out there. But throwing all of that into the Bible as a great evil is just another form of millenialism which, I hope, the ringleader doesn't actually believe.
15 minutes ago · ·
12 minutes ago · ·
Danny Araujo
I love it when people like this guy ^ is think they found the truth in the new age shit i will not feel bad when they are getting torned apart by the giants. ps how can people ignore the huge bones we found of people that are 19 - 30 feet tall.
9 minutes ago · · 1 personLoading...
John Smith
orgone blasters cost money to be made, I know I have spent hours and time making them, it's not cheap and tossed many away, but sherry needs to keep going making the stuff, I reckon she's put more money into making it herself than whoever is buying the stuff from her.
9 minutes ago · · 1 personLoading...
Christopher Nadeau
who the hell are you even talking about? There's no truth in the new age shit either, you idiot! I'm referring to actual SCIENTIFIC SPECULATION, that thing that is anathema to insane fanatics seeking codes in the biggest work of fiction ever written. What proves you're nuts is that you think because I disagree with you and still think aliens are possible, I'm automatically a new ager! I didn't even know who Blossom what's-her-ass was until I Googled her a minute ago.
7 minutes ago · ·
John Smith
Resin is expensive i do know myself, so is the copper needed and plus the crystals and the shavings, it's no cheap, it's dedication and hard work.
7 minutes ago ·
Christopher Nadeau
okay I'm obvioously speaking to someone too far gone to think rationally so I'll say only this: You are coming from a supposition that these things are anything more than a clever con. perhaps they're not, but it is highly unlikely. But at least I'm capable of admitting the remote posibility.
5 minutes ago · ·
John Smith
hey once you start to get hit with ELF waves/ chemtrails and get sick then you'l tend to wonder what to do about it. don't say I didn't warn you.
3 minutes ago ·
Christopher Nadeau
Okay, and once the men in white coats tell you you're not ready to rejoin society, don't say i didn't warn YOU.
2 minutes ago · ·
Christopher Nadeau
doubtful but perhaps you'll return to reality at some point. I can only hope. You seem like a well-meaning guy.
about a minute ago · ·
Christopher Nadeau
you might find this interesting: http://www.abovetopsecret.
7 minutes ago ·
go the the pit you beast from hell
Sherry Shriner
he's out of here...i don't have time for idiots...
39 seconds ago
Shelly Long
hes not a skeptic but a beast from the pit, return to the abyss beast
36 seconds ago
Apparently, they don't cotton to harsh and smelly evidence. LMAO!!!
I need your help to stay on the air!
And with your generous donations I could perhaps buy some land with a heated garage or building. Perhaps even a permanent headquarters for my international ministry.
Almost every country in the world including those on islands are listening to my show, reading my articles, and visiting my websites.
I do this for YOU and I need your financial support to keep this ministry international and to be able to stay focused full time on the things the Most High wants me to do.
For the past ten years I've given freely of myself to the entire world...and there's been hundreds of thousands who have benefited from my ministry yet don't support it. It's time to step up and be a supporter of this ministry. I need your help.
Sherry Shriner
P.O. Box 531
Carrollton, Ohio 44615
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Right-Wing "humor" reposted from Facebook.
DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZIE. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARAH FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN
The above is the name of a Facebook fanpage that finds humor in imploring the Almighty to snuff out the President of the United States. It speaks to a certain depravity in the Right Wing mind, I think, and it is a window into the soul of a truly hateful group of people.
How do I know they think it’s funny? Simple, the comedian who created it wrote the following:
"haha i'm up to 30,000 fans it's kinda hard to believe. I just wanted to let some people who were wondering know that we are not really praying for the death of obama it is just some humor to show our disapproval of our current president"
Well, in that case what am I bitchin’ about? I mean, I was just “wondering” about you wishing my president dead. There’s nothing more hilarious than saying, “Hey, God. Over here. I don’t like that guy. Kill him!” Pardon me while I try not to create any typos, my fingers are kind of weak from the wild guffaws of laughter.
So, what’s my bone of contention with this kind of heedless idiocy? I have a few. Number one, although I’m by no means a fan of Western religion, even I am given pause when someone asks God to murder someone because they don’t like them or what they do. Even in jest, it seems to me that these people that claim to follow God are woefully full of shit. Second, these would be the same people screaming “Traitor” if anyone on the Left made the same unfunny comment about one of their sacred cows. And third, the idea that it’s amusing to throw the nation into utter chaos with the death of a president you don’t like is the best example of political ignorance this side of the Teabagger movement.
I am all for freedom of expression and I would never try to stop someone from making a stupid comment, especially when that comment can help my side win. But the pathetic attempt at humor that is a death threat can only be the product of a twisted mind consumed with hate. So much for compassionate conservatism.
The above is the name of a Facebook fanpage that finds humor in imploring the Almighty to snuff out the President of the United States. It speaks to a certain depravity in the Right Wing mind, I think, and it is a window into the soul of a truly hateful group of people.
How do I know they think it’s funny? Simple, the comedian who created it wrote the following:
"haha i'm up to 30,000 fans it's kinda hard to believe. I just wanted to let some people who were wondering know that we are not really praying for the death of obama it is just some humor to show our disapproval of our current president"
Well, in that case what am I bitchin’ about? I mean, I was just “wondering” about you wishing my president dead. There’s nothing more hilarious than saying, “Hey, God. Over here. I don’t like that guy. Kill him!” Pardon me while I try not to create any typos, my fingers are kind of weak from the wild guffaws of laughter.
So, what’s my bone of contention with this kind of heedless idiocy? I have a few. Number one, although I’m by no means a fan of Western religion, even I am given pause when someone asks God to murder someone because they don’t like them or what they do. Even in jest, it seems to me that these people that claim to follow God are woefully full of shit. Second, these would be the same people screaming “Traitor” if anyone on the Left made the same unfunny comment about one of their sacred cows. And third, the idea that it’s amusing to throw the nation into utter chaos with the death of a president you don’t like is the best example of political ignorance this side of the Teabagger movement.
I am all for freedom of expression and I would never try to stop someone from making a stupid comment, especially when that comment can help my side win. But the pathetic attempt at humor that is a death threat can only be the product of a twisted mind consumed with hate. So much for compassionate conservatism.
Friday, April 16, 2010
New Posts on the Scribe-Horizon
I've got a slew of upcoming posts in mind so don't you worry, my one remaining reader. In the meantime, before my full, triumphant, erection-induing return, please, please try to...
Saturday, February 20, 2010
POST #200- AGAIN!
This is not my first post #200, since this blog was started over in 2008 due to prying eyes locating its predecessor. You might want to reference this classic post (http://scribesorganizedchaos.blogspot.com/2008/12/great-betrayal-or.html)before reading ahead...
I ain't got all day muhfuka, daaamnnn!!!!
Okay, finally. Here's the latest.
As I wrote in that post, I decided to bide my time and wait until Senor Bitch-ass fucked up royal. I thought it would take longer than it did, but his latin lustfulness apparently cannot be caged. Finally, after two more years of pretending to like him the few times we saw him and watching him send his little cutesy-poo text messages to you-know-who, he did the unthinkable.
He called drunk one night supposedly leaving a work party alone. He didn't call me, his male friend at this late hour, he called her.
"Ed?" she said.
"Yesssss," he slurred.
"Are you okay?"
"Yesssss."
"Are you drunk?"
"Yesssss."
"Do you need to come over?"
"Umm...yesssss."
Former EFB decided she would not be in the immediate vicinity when he walked in. When I opened the door, I was a bit shocked. I'd never seen him look so fucked up. His eyes danced around in his head like two dark brown marbles, his was complexion splotchy and he reeked of booze. I took him into the family room and sat down and started interrogating him. We thought there had been some trouble with his woman and he needed to reach out and talk to someone.
The jury's still out on that because as soon as former EFB walked in, his eyes took on a different sort of glaze and began roaming up and down her. We asked him repeatedly if there was trouble at home and he denied it, then said, "Damn woman. Damn life," over and over.
We didn't understand why she'd allowed him to go to a work party where there was liquor and vagina around within her, but she did. She has apparently had it with his drinking and is indulging in some misguided tough love. I suppose if he'd crashed into soemthing and died, that would have been the toughest love of all. True there would've been one less bitch-ass sell-out in the world, but she seems to have a fondness for him.
Eventually, we insisted that he either crash on the couch in the den or we take his drunk ass home. He agreed to allow this so I went into the bedroom and started putting on my outdoor clothes. From the living room, I could hear former EFB laughing uncomfortably and yelling Ed's name over and over. Later, I would discover that he'd made some awkward move on her where he basically said, "Let's just do it right here," and pressed her against the wall. Being a martial artist, she was in no danger but the point was the real Ed was finally coming out.
I decided to drive Ed in his car while she followed behind. As we left the house, Ed jumped in the car with her as I got in his car and backed around my own so she could get out. As soon as she cleared the driveway, Ed hopped out of her car and got in with me.
During the drive to his house, a fucking thirty minute minute at elevenm o'clock on a weeknight drive I might add, he effectively shot himself in the foot. He asked me if I wanted to see naked pictures of his wife in exchange for some of Former EFB. He offered to switch women with me. He asked me if I minded if he "molested" Former EFB and was baffled when I said yes. He told me he thinks the world of Former EFB and that I knew that. He then said I should marry her because he loves her.
JACKPOT, BITCH!!! Keep talkin'...
And he did, until his wife called wondering where he was. She decided to stay up until he got home. I pulled his car into the garage and decided to go knock on the door and tell her what happened. I knocked and rang the bell for about five minutes but she never answered. Meanwhile, Ed was putting more nails in his coffin.
Standing next to Former EFB's car, he told her he loved her and begged her to have us all hang out that weekend. He then stroked her hair and kissed her hand. According to her, he seemed to come to his senses a bit and realize what he was doing as his head rose. Suddenly, he had to go and go fast.
Now, you might think Former EFB would never want to see him again after that. Most women I know would have ended the supposed friendship right then and there. But for some reason she claims to understand it. "All my male friends have developed feelings for me," she said.
"Did they all try to fuck you in a hallway?" I asked.
Despite my insistence that it doesn't matter what he feels, she is willing to overlook this incident because he was drunk. Besides, it is her contention that Ed doesn't take me seriously in all this or hw wouldn't have done what he did. I tried to explain to her that it's her he doesn't take seriosuly because he thinks I don't mind if he has his way with her but she didn't seem to get it. Besides, does it fucking matter? Isn't the point his inappropriate behavior?
The next day his wife texted me and asked if he acted stupidly. He claimed he had no memory of what happened but knew it must've been bad if I said it was. Bullshit. He started sobering up during those last few seconds. I was going to tell her everything but I like her and didn't want her to have to suffer needlessly...at this point. So, I told her that yes he had acted very stupidly. He became too embarrassed to hang out with us anymore. I'd finally had what I wanted! That traitorous punk-ass bitch was out of my life! Fuck him and fuck him often! WOOOO HOOOOO!!!!
He was gone and that was all that mattered.
Then dumb-ass went and texted him a few weeks later and told him it was okay. He was resistant but since he's in love with her, he relented predictably fast. Now I'm the asshole because I won't have anything to do with him.
Oh, but some of you "like" her, right? Then maybe you can explain what the fuck happened here and make it sound rational...
I ain't got all day muhfuka, daaamnnn!!!!
Okay, finally. Here's the latest.
As I wrote in that post, I decided to bide my time and wait until Senor Bitch-ass fucked up royal. I thought it would take longer than it did, but his latin lustfulness apparently cannot be caged. Finally, after two more years of pretending to like him the few times we saw him and watching him send his little cutesy-poo text messages to you-know-who, he did the unthinkable.
He called drunk one night supposedly leaving a work party alone. He didn't call me, his male friend at this late hour, he called her.
"Ed?" she said.
"Yesssss," he slurred.
"Are you okay?"
"Yesssss."
"Are you drunk?"
"Yesssss."
"Do you need to come over?"
"Umm...yesssss."
Former EFB decided she would not be in the immediate vicinity when he walked in. When I opened the door, I was a bit shocked. I'd never seen him look so fucked up. His eyes danced around in his head like two dark brown marbles, his was complexion splotchy and he reeked of booze. I took him into the family room and sat down and started interrogating him. We thought there had been some trouble with his woman and he needed to reach out and talk to someone.
The jury's still out on that because as soon as former EFB walked in, his eyes took on a different sort of glaze and began roaming up and down her. We asked him repeatedly if there was trouble at home and he denied it, then said, "Damn woman. Damn life," over and over.
We didn't understand why she'd allowed him to go to a work party where there was liquor and vagina around within her, but she did. She has apparently had it with his drinking and is indulging in some misguided tough love. I suppose if he'd crashed into soemthing and died, that would have been the toughest love of all. True there would've been one less bitch-ass sell-out in the world, but she seems to have a fondness for him.
Eventually, we insisted that he either crash on the couch in the den or we take his drunk ass home. He agreed to allow this so I went into the bedroom and started putting on my outdoor clothes. From the living room, I could hear former EFB laughing uncomfortably and yelling Ed's name over and over. Later, I would discover that he'd made some awkward move on her where he basically said, "Let's just do it right here," and pressed her against the wall. Being a martial artist, she was in no danger but the point was the real Ed was finally coming out.
I decided to drive Ed in his car while she followed behind. As we left the house, Ed jumped in the car with her as I got in his car and backed around my own so she could get out. As soon as she cleared the driveway, Ed hopped out of her car and got in with me.
During the drive to his house, a fucking thirty minute minute at elevenm o'clock on a weeknight drive I might add, he effectively shot himself in the foot. He asked me if I wanted to see naked pictures of his wife in exchange for some of Former EFB. He offered to switch women with me. He asked me if I minded if he "molested" Former EFB and was baffled when I said yes. He told me he thinks the world of Former EFB and that I knew that. He then said I should marry her because he loves her.
JACKPOT, BITCH!!! Keep talkin'...
And he did, until his wife called wondering where he was. She decided to stay up until he got home. I pulled his car into the garage and decided to go knock on the door and tell her what happened. I knocked and rang the bell for about five minutes but she never answered. Meanwhile, Ed was putting more nails in his coffin.
Standing next to Former EFB's car, he told her he loved her and begged her to have us all hang out that weekend. He then stroked her hair and kissed her hand. According to her, he seemed to come to his senses a bit and realize what he was doing as his head rose. Suddenly, he had to go and go fast.
Now, you might think Former EFB would never want to see him again after that. Most women I know would have ended the supposed friendship right then and there. But for some reason she claims to understand it. "All my male friends have developed feelings for me," she said.
"Did they all try to fuck you in a hallway?" I asked.
Despite my insistence that it doesn't matter what he feels, she is willing to overlook this incident because he was drunk. Besides, it is her contention that Ed doesn't take me seriously in all this or hw wouldn't have done what he did. I tried to explain to her that it's her he doesn't take seriosuly because he thinks I don't mind if he has his way with her but she didn't seem to get it. Besides, does it fucking matter? Isn't the point his inappropriate behavior?
The next day his wife texted me and asked if he acted stupidly. He claimed he had no memory of what happened but knew it must've been bad if I said it was. Bullshit. He started sobering up during those last few seconds. I was going to tell her everything but I like her and didn't want her to have to suffer needlessly...at this point. So, I told her that yes he had acted very stupidly. He became too embarrassed to hang out with us anymore. I'd finally had what I wanted! That traitorous punk-ass bitch was out of my life! Fuck him and fuck him often! WOOOO HOOOOO!!!!
He was gone and that was all that mattered.
Then dumb-ass went and texted him a few weeks later and told him it was okay. He was resistant but since he's in love with her, he relented predictably fast. Now I'm the asshole because I won't have anything to do with him.
Oh, but some of you "like" her, right? Then maybe you can explain what the fuck happened here and make it sound rational...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
WHY SCRIBE QUIT HIS NEW JOB AFTER 2 WEEKS, conclusion
Having located the correct townhouse, Rob had me once again stand outside in full view of snipers and pissed off broke people while he jogged around back and pounded the windows. Apparently while he was back there, one of the customer’s neighbors started to say something about dog food before realizing Rob didn’t live there.
“What are you doing?” the man asked.
“I’m here to pick up some merchandise they haven’t been paying for,” Rob said.
“Get ‘em,” the man replied.
I hate to keep referring to my online trainings, but another thing they told us never to do was divulge personal account information to anyone except the actual customer or that person’s spouse. Yet another rule broken in the field.
Rob kept up his knocking for a while, came back around to see if anyone had shown up in the front, then went back to knocking. He told me before leaving that he’d spoken with the store and had been advised that the customer’s dad was on the way to make her open the door and return the living room set. Supposedly, she had to go pick up her kids from school in a few hours. Naturally, Rob went and blocked in her vehicle.
I glanced around for any sign of he dad’s arrival, freezing my hot ass off. Sub-zero temperatures and winds whipped through my pull-over fleece and bounced off my ski cap as I looked. I saw a gray minivan cautiously approach the area before coming to a stop in the parking lot. This happened a couple times and then a cop car showed up. Sighing, I waited for what I expected to be a negative situation. Instead, the cop slowly approached me, his posture stopped over, his face plastered with a grin, and said, “Welcome to Clarkston!” He started laughing. I told him why we were there and where Rob was the cop, still chuckling, walked around and got him. The two of them emerged from the back laughing and smiling.
The idiot in the SUV slowly pulled in the parking spaces across from us and backed out and left, no doubt feeling like a total dumb-fuck. How they couldn’t have seen the van with the multi-colored rent-to-own sign is beyond me. Rob and the cop bullshat for a while and the cop finally left us there. Rob informed me that our presence is considered a civil dispute and the cops can only make us leave if the home-owner or lease-holder requests it. Since the woman was still pretending she wasn’t home, (Rob saw her from the window in the back) we didn’t have to go anywhere.
Rob told me one time a customer’s hysterical girlfriend asked to have them removed from the property and the cop told them to go but since she wasn’t the home-owner, they waited until the cop left and went right back to start knocking on doors and windows again.
What a fucked up career choice, I thought. We remained there for a while longer; the woman never did come out to get in her car. Eventually, Rob received word from the store that they wanted us to come back at 5:30.
“I don’t know how the fuck they think we’re gonna be able to pick up the shit at the next place and this stuff. They better send help.”
As it turned out, we wouldn’t have to come back. We headed out to the town of Highland next, a tiny speck of uneventful that makes Clarkston look like Gotham City. After a stopover at Wendy’s to grab lunch where the staff was so slow-paced we nearly screamed at them, we headed to yet another house.
“See, this is why this store is so fucked up,” Rob told me. “Look how fucking far some of their customers are. We would never have a customer this far away ‘cause what if we have to run ‘em?”
“I was wondering why they had somebody so far out,” I replied. “Didn’t really make sense to me.”
It soon would, however, but first we had to find the damn place. It took longer than expected. Rob stopped at a gas station where a pimply-faced teen happily told us which way to go. Once back on the road, Rob chuckled.
“That kid seemed pretty excited to give us directions, didn’t he?”
I laughed. “It’s probably the biggest thing to happen here in a decade.”
We laughed. It was good to have that moment because then the tension really hit us. Hard.
We got to the tiny house in Highland and went to the door. A Hispanic kid came to the door. Now I understood it. They must have lived in Pontiac and moved. Rob, in possession of balls as big as church bells, had the kid show his ID to prove he was eighteen so we would enter the house with his permission. The kid had Rob call his dad who grew highly upset. Rob had him call the store and try to work out a payment arrangement which apparently didn’t happen because we got he call to start removing the merchandise. We had to take out a huge kitchen table and chairs with benches and a child’s bed made of heavy wood.
As we started taking out the kitchen stuff, a car suddenly pulled up and a fat-faced Latino started yelling from his window. “Why you didn’t wait for me, mane? Why you didn’t wait for me? What the fuck? You just start taking my chit?”
“Sir, please don’t yell at me,” Rob said. “We’re just doing what we’re told.”
“This is billchit!” the man got out of his car, followed by two young kids and his portly wife. “Why you going in my fucking house? I didn’t give to you permission!”
“Your son said...”
“No, he didn’t! My son said that? No, he didn’t! Which one?”
“Your son inside, sir.”
The man walked in and spun back around, pointing to someone on the couch. “Him? He’s only fourteen!”
“Not him. It was George.”
Deflated, the man switched gears. “You don't come in my house and take my chit without me home, OK? You dont’ go in my fucking house! I pay all the time! You taking my chit ‘cause I didn’t pay?”
“Sir,” Rob said, voice quivering a bit. “Please don’t yell at me. I don’t even know your situation.”
“I pay all the fucking time!”
“Sir, I don’t even work at that store, I’m just helping out, okay? Please try to remain civil.”
“I’m not mad at you!” the man yelled. “I’m mad at the whole fucking place!”
“I understand that, sir,” Rob replied. “I’m just doing what they told me to...”
“Fine, take the chit but dont’ fucking scratch nothing!”
We started loading the “chit” as carefully as possible. Amazingly, the man left us there with his wife and kids and sped off, hopefully to work or something. We felt for the guy. How humiliating it must have been to have his neighbors seeing this, not to mention the fact that we were removing a child’s bed and leaving nothing in its place.
The bed was a nightmare to remove. We had to dismantle it and carry it down the narrowest stairway I’ve ever seen. Loading everything on the truck took twice as long as it should have because of how cramped it was. One the way back, Rob bitched and moaned about what a poorly run store it was and how he was being taken advantage of because he offered to help out but he would continue to do so because he wanted to be a manager. I listened and nodded and felt my mind leaving the van and looking into the future and I didn’t like what I saw.
The next morning Biggie Smalls the manager approached me and said, “So, you ready to run some customers on your own?” Before I could reply, he said, “I mean, you went out with me and Jack and Wil and Rob. That’s more than they did for me when I started.”
What the fuck else could I say at that point except yes? Son of a bitch. He gave me a route that showed all but one of five customers in Pontiac. The words of Rob from the day before came back to me, “Now, I wouldn’t do a lot of this shit in Pontiac. Hell, I got robbed at gunpoint there at a gas station!”
As I hit the road, I realized how much I didn’t want to do this. I drove past customer’s homes in areas where obvious drug dealer lookouts lingered on the corner and stared at me. I went into neighborhoods with houses so decimated you could see straight through them to the other side of the street. I saw hostile, psychotic looking people of white, black and Hispanic origin and I said, “Fuck this shit!”
After having gone to the door of a customer whose son has grown increasingly hostile with the running according to the notes, I drove around and tried to figure out what the hell I was going to do. Should I lie and say no one was home? Some of them weren’t. Or should I just go back and tell Biggie it wasn’t for me and, as my friend Anthony used to say, get the fuck on down the rock? I finally decided I needed to contact the only other person this would affect. She agreed with me that I couldn’t do that job.
“Why should you work a job where people are constantly worried about you?” she said.
Shocked, I decided right then and there to go back to the store and quit. She called back a few minutes later and insisted that I should tell him I had a family emergency first, leave early and apply for unemployment, making sure I was still eligible. I told her he wouldn’t believe that and she said it didn’t matter and that it was even better if he thought I was full of shit. All good points.
As I walked back inside, the district manager who had dealt with the screaming chick said, “Hey, Scribe! I was startin’ to get worried that you got beat up or somethin’!”
I ignored his comment and stupid laughter and went into the Biggie’s office and handed him the paperwork. I told him nobody was home and that I didn’t get to the last place because I got a call that my "fiancé" was in a car accident. He didn’t believe me, I could see it. He asked me her name, which is against every Human Resources law on the books, not to mention when he asked which hospital. I gave him two possibilities and left.
The Unemployment lady told me I was eligible and so I filed. As if now I’m still waiting. I mailed a resignation letter thanking Biggie for the opportunity to learn about rent-to-own but wasn’t interested in being a repo man and never looked back.
That’s me story, ladies and gents. Up next, the earth-shattering post 200!
“What are you doing?” the man asked.
“I’m here to pick up some merchandise they haven’t been paying for,” Rob said.
“Get ‘em,” the man replied.
I hate to keep referring to my online trainings, but another thing they told us never to do was divulge personal account information to anyone except the actual customer or that person’s spouse. Yet another rule broken in the field.
Rob kept up his knocking for a while, came back around to see if anyone had shown up in the front, then went back to knocking. He told me before leaving that he’d spoken with the store and had been advised that the customer’s dad was on the way to make her open the door and return the living room set. Supposedly, she had to go pick up her kids from school in a few hours. Naturally, Rob went and blocked in her vehicle.
I glanced around for any sign of he dad’s arrival, freezing my hot ass off. Sub-zero temperatures and winds whipped through my pull-over fleece and bounced off my ski cap as I looked. I saw a gray minivan cautiously approach the area before coming to a stop in the parking lot. This happened a couple times and then a cop car showed up. Sighing, I waited for what I expected to be a negative situation. Instead, the cop slowly approached me, his posture stopped over, his face plastered with a grin, and said, “Welcome to Clarkston!” He started laughing. I told him why we were there and where Rob was the cop, still chuckling, walked around and got him. The two of them emerged from the back laughing and smiling.
The idiot in the SUV slowly pulled in the parking spaces across from us and backed out and left, no doubt feeling like a total dumb-fuck. How they couldn’t have seen the van with the multi-colored rent-to-own sign is beyond me. Rob and the cop bullshat for a while and the cop finally left us there. Rob informed me that our presence is considered a civil dispute and the cops can only make us leave if the home-owner or lease-holder requests it. Since the woman was still pretending she wasn’t home, (Rob saw her from the window in the back) we didn’t have to go anywhere.
Rob told me one time a customer’s hysterical girlfriend asked to have them removed from the property and the cop told them to go but since she wasn’t the home-owner, they waited until the cop left and went right back to start knocking on doors and windows again.
What a fucked up career choice, I thought. We remained there for a while longer; the woman never did come out to get in her car. Eventually, Rob received word from the store that they wanted us to come back at 5:30.
“I don’t know how the fuck they think we’re gonna be able to pick up the shit at the next place and this stuff. They better send help.”
As it turned out, we wouldn’t have to come back. We headed out to the town of Highland next, a tiny speck of uneventful that makes Clarkston look like Gotham City. After a stopover at Wendy’s to grab lunch where the staff was so slow-paced we nearly screamed at them, we headed to yet another house.
“See, this is why this store is so fucked up,” Rob told me. “Look how fucking far some of their customers are. We would never have a customer this far away ‘cause what if we have to run ‘em?”
“I was wondering why they had somebody so far out,” I replied. “Didn’t really make sense to me.”
It soon would, however, but first we had to find the damn place. It took longer than expected. Rob stopped at a gas station where a pimply-faced teen happily told us which way to go. Once back on the road, Rob chuckled.
“That kid seemed pretty excited to give us directions, didn’t he?”
I laughed. “It’s probably the biggest thing to happen here in a decade.”
We laughed. It was good to have that moment because then the tension really hit us. Hard.
We got to the tiny house in Highland and went to the door. A Hispanic kid came to the door. Now I understood it. They must have lived in Pontiac and moved. Rob, in possession of balls as big as church bells, had the kid show his ID to prove he was eighteen so we would enter the house with his permission. The kid had Rob call his dad who grew highly upset. Rob had him call the store and try to work out a payment arrangement which apparently didn’t happen because we got he call to start removing the merchandise. We had to take out a huge kitchen table and chairs with benches and a child’s bed made of heavy wood.
As we started taking out the kitchen stuff, a car suddenly pulled up and a fat-faced Latino started yelling from his window. “Why you didn’t wait for me, mane? Why you didn’t wait for me? What the fuck? You just start taking my chit?”
“Sir, please don’t yell at me,” Rob said. “We’re just doing what we’re told.”
“This is billchit!” the man got out of his car, followed by two young kids and his portly wife. “Why you going in my fucking house? I didn’t give to you permission!”
“Your son said...”
“No, he didn’t! My son said that? No, he didn’t! Which one?”
“Your son inside, sir.”
The man walked in and spun back around, pointing to someone on the couch. “Him? He’s only fourteen!”
“Not him. It was George.”
Deflated, the man switched gears. “You don't come in my house and take my chit without me home, OK? You dont’ go in my fucking house! I pay all the time! You taking my chit ‘cause I didn’t pay?”
“Sir,” Rob said, voice quivering a bit. “Please don’t yell at me. I don’t even know your situation.”
“I pay all the fucking time!”
“Sir, I don’t even work at that store, I’m just helping out, okay? Please try to remain civil.”
“I’m not mad at you!” the man yelled. “I’m mad at the whole fucking place!”
“I understand that, sir,” Rob replied. “I’m just doing what they told me to...”
“Fine, take the chit but dont’ fucking scratch nothing!”
We started loading the “chit” as carefully as possible. Amazingly, the man left us there with his wife and kids and sped off, hopefully to work or something. We felt for the guy. How humiliating it must have been to have his neighbors seeing this, not to mention the fact that we were removing a child’s bed and leaving nothing in its place.
The bed was a nightmare to remove. We had to dismantle it and carry it down the narrowest stairway I’ve ever seen. Loading everything on the truck took twice as long as it should have because of how cramped it was. One the way back, Rob bitched and moaned about what a poorly run store it was and how he was being taken advantage of because he offered to help out but he would continue to do so because he wanted to be a manager. I listened and nodded and felt my mind leaving the van and looking into the future and I didn’t like what I saw.
The next morning Biggie Smalls the manager approached me and said, “So, you ready to run some customers on your own?” Before I could reply, he said, “I mean, you went out with me and Jack and Wil and Rob. That’s more than they did for me when I started.”
What the fuck else could I say at that point except yes? Son of a bitch. He gave me a route that showed all but one of five customers in Pontiac. The words of Rob from the day before came back to me, “Now, I wouldn’t do a lot of this shit in Pontiac. Hell, I got robbed at gunpoint there at a gas station!”
As I hit the road, I realized how much I didn’t want to do this. I drove past customer’s homes in areas where obvious drug dealer lookouts lingered on the corner and stared at me. I went into neighborhoods with houses so decimated you could see straight through them to the other side of the street. I saw hostile, psychotic looking people of white, black and Hispanic origin and I said, “Fuck this shit!”
After having gone to the door of a customer whose son has grown increasingly hostile with the running according to the notes, I drove around and tried to figure out what the hell I was going to do. Should I lie and say no one was home? Some of them weren’t. Or should I just go back and tell Biggie it wasn’t for me and, as my friend Anthony used to say, get the fuck on down the rock? I finally decided I needed to contact the only other person this would affect. She agreed with me that I couldn’t do that job.
“Why should you work a job where people are constantly worried about you?” she said.
Shocked, I decided right then and there to go back to the store and quit. She called back a few minutes later and insisted that I should tell him I had a family emergency first, leave early and apply for unemployment, making sure I was still eligible. I told her he wouldn’t believe that and she said it didn’t matter and that it was even better if he thought I was full of shit. All good points.
As I walked back inside, the district manager who had dealt with the screaming chick said, “Hey, Scribe! I was startin’ to get worried that you got beat up or somethin’!”
I ignored his comment and stupid laughter and went into the Biggie’s office and handed him the paperwork. I told him nobody was home and that I didn’t get to the last place because I got a call that my "fiancé" was in a car accident. He didn’t believe me, I could see it. He asked me her name, which is against every Human Resources law on the books, not to mention when he asked which hospital. I gave him two possibilities and left.
The Unemployment lady told me I was eligible and so I filed. As if now I’m still waiting. I mailed a resignation letter thanking Biggie for the opportunity to learn about rent-to-own but wasn’t interested in being a repo man and never looked back.
That’s me story, ladies and gents. Up next, the earth-shattering post 200!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
WHY SCRIBE QUIT HIS NEW JOB AFTER 2 WEEKS, part 3
(I apologize in advance that this is yet another installement to be continued, this tale is taking a lot longer to tell than I'd anticipated)
Following the experience with the “Ya’ll muthafukas gonna gimme mah shit” chick and the running of delinquent accounts in fabulous Pontiac, MI., I was feeling understandably pissed and annoyed. Here I had hired in to a store in a better area for this line of work and had reconciled myself to staying there until something better came along when suddenly I was shipped off to Fort Apache: The Bronx!
I’d only worked in the second store for three days and already knew I had to get out of there. Wednesday was my day off, thank Christ, but that also afforded me ample time to email resumes and reflect on my shitty choice o’ jobs. By Thursday morning, I was looking for any excuse not to have to go in. I actually got all the way to Pontiac (a nearly 40-minute drive) before deciding I would call in with “Car trouble.” Unfortunately, the “stupid fat bitch” as that customer called her who was helping out basically over-talked me and loudly repeated that I would let them know when I could make it in that day. Not at all what I was planning, that forced me into thinking mode: Did I really want to miss an entire day during my second week even at this shit-hole?
I decided to go along with the program. Since I was in the area, I found a place to park and eat and waited about an hour before showing up. One of the reasons I’d attempted to call off that day was because I knew the gung-ho management wanna-be from the other store was coming in to help out. I figured I wouldn’t be missed. When I walked in, Biggie Smalls told me I would be riding out with that guy running customers. I was fine with it. Anything to get out of that fucking store!
The guy showed up around 12:30pm. Let’s call him “Rob,” because that’s his name and I’m tired of coming up with pseudonyms. Rob’s a pretty cool young man. He grew up in Southwest Detroit and moved to the Novi area when he was a teenager. He has equal parts street wisdom and suburban know-how, making him an ideal candidate for what he does. When we got in the van, he advised me that we would be running customers for most of the day. Biggie Smalls was taking advantage of his presence and willingness to help put to send him into towns that were pretty far away.
I soon learned that Rob was chosen for a good reason. To describe him as tenacious wouldn’t even come close to the reality of his approach to running customers. The little bastard doesn’t give up for shit! We reached the first house about fifteen minutes after getting in the van, a reasonable nice home located in a semi-rural area. This particular customer had been holding onto a 26-inch flat screen TV and had not paid on it for a few weeks. I figured such a small item would have us there and gone rather quickly. I was wrong.
Once we were both out of the vehicle, Rob started to knock on the door...and every fucking window in the front of the house. Unsatisfied with the lack of response, he walked to the side and back of the house and started pounding on things there, leaving me to stand out front like a good little target until he returned. The only response received came from a little dog that barked up a storm each time Rob knocked at the front door. Finally, after about fifteen minutes of knocking, he decided we should go sit in the truck and wait some more. That’s when I made my stupidest mistake of the day.
I looked up in time to see some guy walk quickly past the front window moving heading to the right side of the house and mentioned it to Rob.
“Well, fuck that. We’re gonna go knock more, then,” he said.
And we did. Again Rob started pounding on the doors and windows like an angry cop which, in some ways, I think he sees himself as when he does this. Finally, some weird-looking white guy with stopped over posture, skinny as a rail and wearing thick glasses walked up demanding to know what we wanted.
“We’re here to pick up the TV,” Rob said.
“There’s no TV here,” the man replied. “Get the fuck off the property.” He turned to walk away.
“Sir, are you Charles.” Rob followed him.
“No!” the man yelled.
“Are you the home owner, sir?”
“Get the fuck off the property!” He walked back inside the house.
Rob turned to me and said, “We don’t have to leave unless he’s the owner. Even the cops can’t make us go.”
I would find out how true that was at the next place. Rob continued his persistent knocking, concentrating on what looked to the guy’s bedroom window until he re-appeared in the picture window near the front door.
“What the fuck do you want?” he yelled.
“We’re just here for the TV, sir,” Rob said. “Are you Charles?”
“Tell you what,” the guy said. “Why don’t you let me go into your truck and take something I want?”
“Sir, are you Charles?” Rob said.
“No. What’s your name? Rob? Okay, good.” He walked away again.
For a second, when the guy walked away I thought he was gonna come back with a sawed-off. Apparently, he called the complaint line for the company and mentioned the perceived harassment. Bear in mind, this was everything the online trainings had told us not to do. How this didn’t constitute harassment I didn’t know.
“We just want our stuff back, Charles!" Rob yelled while pounding. “Let’s be civil about this!” he repeated this sentence at least a dozen more times.
Eventually, Rob decided we needed to get back in the truck. For a fleeting instant, I thought with great relief that we were leaving. Then he pulled around the other side of the circular driveway and blocked the guy’s goddam cars!
“I talked to the store and they said he called complaining that he has to go to work in a half hour so he’ll have no choice but to come talk to us now,” Rob said.
What the fuck? We are BLOCKING IN HIS CAR on what could be his property? I thought. This is insane! How is this legal? How is this smart? How is this safe?
We sat there for a good twenty minutes before another car pulled up outside and a nice woman approached the truck asking if she could help us.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rob said happily. “We’re here to get the TV back from Charles.”
She happily cooperated, even calling Charles on her cell phone. The guy inside wasn’t him after all, nor was he the home owner. Charles had lied and listed his sister’s house as his residence. He was somehow available for her call and, through her, asked how much it would be the pay off the TV. Her facial expression told us everything we needed to know when Rob relayed the ridiculously high amount. She had Rob come in and get the TV while I remained in the truck.
Upon his return, Rob advised me that they were high-fiving at the store right now because “we” got the merchandise back, this being such an apparent rarity. Then we were off the next place, a townhouse in the town of Clarkston, a Podunk in the middle of Michigan’s least important section. Low crime, small population, bored cops.
The townhouses were nice, much nicer than one would expect from someone having to use a rent-to-own service for furniture. We walked up the door and Rob said he was going around back. He didn’t even knock up front, which turned out to be a really stupid-ass move. Moments later, a guy who looked like he could have been George Michael’s stand-in circa 1985 but with man-boobs in a tank top opened the front door with a befuddled smile on his face.
“Um, hi?” he said. “Why is he knocking on my back window?”
I identified the name of the store and, still smiling, he said. “Okaaayyyyy?”
I went and got Rob who came and advised him we were there for living room furniture.
“You’ve got the wrong house,” the flamboyant fellow said.
Rob read off the address which was off by one digit, the stupid, squinty-eyed fuck!
“And I don’t need to buy rent-to-own!” the man said indignantly.
So now we’d gone to the wrong house and offended a nice gay guy with good credit! Rob thanked him and we got back in the van. The correct address was in the next row of townhouses. And this time, the cops would actually come~
To Be Continued
Following the experience with the “Ya’ll muthafukas gonna gimme mah shit” chick and the running of delinquent accounts in fabulous Pontiac, MI., I was feeling understandably pissed and annoyed. Here I had hired in to a store in a better area for this line of work and had reconciled myself to staying there until something better came along when suddenly I was shipped off to Fort Apache: The Bronx!
I’d only worked in the second store for three days and already knew I had to get out of there. Wednesday was my day off, thank Christ, but that also afforded me ample time to email resumes and reflect on my shitty choice o’ jobs. By Thursday morning, I was looking for any excuse not to have to go in. I actually got all the way to Pontiac (a nearly 40-minute drive) before deciding I would call in with “Car trouble.” Unfortunately, the “stupid fat bitch” as that customer called her who was helping out basically over-talked me and loudly repeated that I would let them know when I could make it in that day. Not at all what I was planning, that forced me into thinking mode: Did I really want to miss an entire day during my second week even at this shit-hole?
I decided to go along with the program. Since I was in the area, I found a place to park and eat and waited about an hour before showing up. One of the reasons I’d attempted to call off that day was because I knew the gung-ho management wanna-be from the other store was coming in to help out. I figured I wouldn’t be missed. When I walked in, Biggie Smalls told me I would be riding out with that guy running customers. I was fine with it. Anything to get out of that fucking store!
The guy showed up around 12:30pm. Let’s call him “Rob,” because that’s his name and I’m tired of coming up with pseudonyms. Rob’s a pretty cool young man. He grew up in Southwest Detroit and moved to the Novi area when he was a teenager. He has equal parts street wisdom and suburban know-how, making him an ideal candidate for what he does. When we got in the van, he advised me that we would be running customers for most of the day. Biggie Smalls was taking advantage of his presence and willingness to help put to send him into towns that were pretty far away.
I soon learned that Rob was chosen for a good reason. To describe him as tenacious wouldn’t even come close to the reality of his approach to running customers. The little bastard doesn’t give up for shit! We reached the first house about fifteen minutes after getting in the van, a reasonable nice home located in a semi-rural area. This particular customer had been holding onto a 26-inch flat screen TV and had not paid on it for a few weeks. I figured such a small item would have us there and gone rather quickly. I was wrong.
Once we were both out of the vehicle, Rob started to knock on the door...and every fucking window in the front of the house. Unsatisfied with the lack of response, he walked to the side and back of the house and started pounding on things there, leaving me to stand out front like a good little target until he returned. The only response received came from a little dog that barked up a storm each time Rob knocked at the front door. Finally, after about fifteen minutes of knocking, he decided we should go sit in the truck and wait some more. That’s when I made my stupidest mistake of the day.
I looked up in time to see some guy walk quickly past the front window moving heading to the right side of the house and mentioned it to Rob.
“Well, fuck that. We’re gonna go knock more, then,” he said.
And we did. Again Rob started pounding on the doors and windows like an angry cop which, in some ways, I think he sees himself as when he does this. Finally, some weird-looking white guy with stopped over posture, skinny as a rail and wearing thick glasses walked up demanding to know what we wanted.
“We’re here to pick up the TV,” Rob said.
“There’s no TV here,” the man replied. “Get the fuck off the property.” He turned to walk away.
“Sir, are you Charles.” Rob followed him.
“No!” the man yelled.
“Are you the home owner, sir?”
“Get the fuck off the property!” He walked back inside the house.
Rob turned to me and said, “We don’t have to leave unless he’s the owner. Even the cops can’t make us go.”
I would find out how true that was at the next place. Rob continued his persistent knocking, concentrating on what looked to the guy’s bedroom window until he re-appeared in the picture window near the front door.
“What the fuck do you want?” he yelled.
“We’re just here for the TV, sir,” Rob said. “Are you Charles?”
“Tell you what,” the guy said. “Why don’t you let me go into your truck and take something I want?”
“Sir, are you Charles?” Rob said.
“No. What’s your name? Rob? Okay, good.” He walked away again.
For a second, when the guy walked away I thought he was gonna come back with a sawed-off. Apparently, he called the complaint line for the company and mentioned the perceived harassment. Bear in mind, this was everything the online trainings had told us not to do. How this didn’t constitute harassment I didn’t know.
“We just want our stuff back, Charles!" Rob yelled while pounding. “Let’s be civil about this!” he repeated this sentence at least a dozen more times.
Eventually, Rob decided we needed to get back in the truck. For a fleeting instant, I thought with great relief that we were leaving. Then he pulled around the other side of the circular driveway and blocked the guy’s goddam cars!
“I talked to the store and they said he called complaining that he has to go to work in a half hour so he’ll have no choice but to come talk to us now,” Rob said.
What the fuck? We are BLOCKING IN HIS CAR on what could be his property? I thought. This is insane! How is this legal? How is this smart? How is this safe?
We sat there for a good twenty minutes before another car pulled up outside and a nice woman approached the truck asking if she could help us.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rob said happily. “We’re here to get the TV back from Charles.”
She happily cooperated, even calling Charles on her cell phone. The guy inside wasn’t him after all, nor was he the home owner. Charles had lied and listed his sister’s house as his residence. He was somehow available for her call and, through her, asked how much it would be the pay off the TV. Her facial expression told us everything we needed to know when Rob relayed the ridiculously high amount. She had Rob come in and get the TV while I remained in the truck.
Upon his return, Rob advised me that they were high-fiving at the store right now because “we” got the merchandise back, this being such an apparent rarity. Then we were off the next place, a townhouse in the town of Clarkston, a Podunk in the middle of Michigan’s least important section. Low crime, small population, bored cops.
The townhouses were nice, much nicer than one would expect from someone having to use a rent-to-own service for furniture. We walked up the door and Rob said he was going around back. He didn’t even knock up front, which turned out to be a really stupid-ass move. Moments later, a guy who looked like he could have been George Michael’s stand-in circa 1985 but with man-boobs in a tank top opened the front door with a befuddled smile on his face.
“Um, hi?” he said. “Why is he knocking on my back window?”
I identified the name of the store and, still smiling, he said. “Okaaayyyyy?”
I went and got Rob who came and advised him we were there for living room furniture.
“You’ve got the wrong house,” the flamboyant fellow said.
Rob read off the address which was off by one digit, the stupid, squinty-eyed fuck!
“And I don’t need to buy rent-to-own!” the man said indignantly.
So now we’d gone to the wrong house and offended a nice gay guy with good credit! Rob thanked him and we got back in the van. The correct address was in the next row of townhouses. And this time, the cops would actually come~
To Be Continued
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
WHY SCRIBE QUIT HIS NEW JOB AFTER 2 WEEKS,part 2
As I mentioned before, “running” customers entails going from home to home, banging on windows and doors until someone comes out and lets you in to snatch up the merchandise they haven’t been paying for.
Basically, the rent-to-own business preys on the poor for its profits. Some might say they provide a service to those without the means to obtain these items through other means, but some ain’t me and some can kiss my two-toned ass!
During my first few days with the new store, I became acquainted with the running procedure. The first store is newer and in a better area so I never had the opportunity to experience it there. One of the first people I ran was the customer who came into the store yelling, “Black bitches can read!” Apparently, an agreement was reached for her to surrender anything she currently had (appliances, I believe) and stop being a customer. Jack the fearless whitebread avenger and I went to her house and he knocked and knocked. Naturally, no one came to the door, despite the fact that she had told the store to come out and get the stuff. We could see a TV light flickering in the window.
I took a lot of online trainings during my first week and all of them that dealt with running stated and restated not to pound on a customer’s door over and over. Nobody seems to follow that rule, however.
Once the knocking had proved pointless, a door hangar is placed on the customer’s doorknob advising to call the store right away and the experience is logged into the computer system. I was told that most people do not come to the door.
The next day I went running with a guy I will call “Ronnie,” a young, well-spoken black guy who sounds a bit like Wil Smith and has lips that make him look like a suction eel. Ronnie told me that standard procedure when making runs involves one person doing the knocking while the other one stands back and watches the windows to see if anyone looks out, thereby making himself a perfect target for some crazy asshole with a gun. (I added that last part)
The runs I went on with Ronnie both took place in the same apartment complex. The first one was a waste of time. The second one was the home of some chick named Ebony I had heard Ronnie calling daily to get her to make her payments. She had also called to have us come pick up her stuff but when we got there nobody came to the door. Ronnie decided to call her from his cell phone and she said she wanted to come in and make the payments, so we left.
Still at this point running seemed like a thing that was done as a CYA move more than anything else. I had yet to see anyone open the door and fly into a blind rage over start making threatening gestures.
That would happen the next day.
(To Be continued)
Basically, the rent-to-own business preys on the poor for its profits. Some might say they provide a service to those without the means to obtain these items through other means, but some ain’t me and some can kiss my two-toned ass!
During my first few days with the new store, I became acquainted with the running procedure. The first store is newer and in a better area so I never had the opportunity to experience it there. One of the first people I ran was the customer who came into the store yelling, “Black bitches can read!” Apparently, an agreement was reached for her to surrender anything she currently had (appliances, I believe) and stop being a customer. Jack the fearless whitebread avenger and I went to her house and he knocked and knocked. Naturally, no one came to the door, despite the fact that she had told the store to come out and get the stuff. We could see a TV light flickering in the window.
I took a lot of online trainings during my first week and all of them that dealt with running stated and restated not to pound on a customer’s door over and over. Nobody seems to follow that rule, however.
Once the knocking had proved pointless, a door hangar is placed on the customer’s doorknob advising to call the store right away and the experience is logged into the computer system. I was told that most people do not come to the door.
The next day I went running with a guy I will call “Ronnie,” a young, well-spoken black guy who sounds a bit like Wil Smith and has lips that make him look like a suction eel. Ronnie told me that standard procedure when making runs involves one person doing the knocking while the other one stands back and watches the windows to see if anyone looks out, thereby making himself a perfect target for some crazy asshole with a gun. (I added that last part)
The runs I went on with Ronnie both took place in the same apartment complex. The first one was a waste of time. The second one was the home of some chick named Ebony I had heard Ronnie calling daily to get her to make her payments. She had also called to have us come pick up her stuff but when we got there nobody came to the door. Ronnie decided to call her from his cell phone and she said she wanted to come in and make the payments, so we left.
Still at this point running seemed like a thing that was done as a CYA move more than anything else. I had yet to see anyone open the door and fly into a blind rage over start making threatening gestures.
That would happen the next day.
(To Be continued)
Saturday, January 16, 2010
WHY SCRIBE QUIT HIS NEW JOB AFTER 2 WEEKS, part one.
So, here’s where it all started to go wrong:
At first, things seemed okay. My manager turned out to be a highly intelligent man who shared my love Kurt Vonnegut novels and my basic philosophy on the evils of organized religion. Talking to him was great and we even exchanged a few books. I worked at that store for four days before I got reassigned to the cultural wasteland of Pontiac, MI.
Just as I’d begun feeling somewhat at home with my new shitty job, I returned from a delivery only to be told that the manager had received a call while I was gone. Apparently some dumb-ass Hispanic guy had just been fired for “loss prevention” issues, meaning they accused him of stealing, and they needed a replacement ASAP. Luckily, I was gone when the call came and so the up and coming assistant manager volunteered to pitch in for the day.
Still, I was told that tomorrow, that following Saturday, I was to report to the Pontiac stores.
Most of you are unfamiliar with Michigan so let me provide a basic description of “Yak Town” for you: BEIRUT WITH NICER HOUSES!
Pontiac is, ironically, the Oakland County Seat. What makes that important is that Oakland County is the third wealthiest county in the nation, yet even in that county there are ghettos. In this case, Pontiac, which is a multi-ethnic county the likes of which you usually only see in movies on TV. The population is black, white and Hispanic yet they all basically act the same. Its crime rate is vastly disproportionate to its population and has in the past had a higher murder rate per capita that Detroit. See for yourself:
http://www.cityrating.com/citycrime.asp?city=Pontiac&state=MI
Unlike Detroit, the entire city is built like a maze, with streets winding and intersecting to the point of causing madness after mere seconds of driving. The GPS on my cell phone was actually telling me to make turns on streets I couldn’t access due to dead ends! I worked in Pontiac not long ago and used to close the office building to the soothing sounds of automatic gunfire and police car sirens.
I expressed my unease with working in Pontiac again and the manager pulled up the location on the computer to assure me I wouldn’t be in the dangerous part. Yeah, maybe not the physical location of the store itself but he didn’t take into account where the customers live.
As I mentioned before, an unfortunate aspect of the job involved making deliveries to peoples’ homes. Not a big deal. However, it also involved going to peoples’ homes when they haven’t paid on their rental agreements and pounding on the fucking door to get the merchandise back! I’m not joking. We functioned as some bizarre combination of bounty hunter and repo man! None of us was bonded, nobody ever had a police escort and there we were headed deep into Pontiac’s bizarre hodgepodge of ghetto, barrio and white trash dwellings banging on fucking doors and windows! This is known as “running” a customer and everybody swears nothing ever happens to anybody who goes out. Well, nothing ever happens ‘til it happens and goddamit I wasn’t gonna be the first one it happened to!
My first few days were rather uneventful as far as that part went. Most people weren’t home when we ran them. Mostly we delivered shit and picked it up. At one point we were loading up the van for a delivery and the manager came out to stop us because he’d decided the customer was too fucked up and unpredictable. The woman had been ordering furniture for her daughter and there was some strange dispute over the delivery time that caused her to have continuous nervous breakdowns and crying fits.
A few hours later, the daughter showed up while I was in the backroom waiting for the sales manager, a young and seemingly fearless white bread guy who I will call “Jack.” As the door to the backroom swung open, I heard the distinct sound of a screaming bitch. Jack came in with his face all scrunched up, explained who she was and that she was upset over the cancellation of her order.
Because the merchandise we were about to delivery was on the sales floor, Jack and I had no choice but to walk back out there and right past her as she yelled. I didn’t get the whole story until later, but here is what happened:
She called up and threatened to spit in the manager’s face when she arrived. Fortunately for him, the district manager was present at the time. The store manager went inside his office and closed the door, leaving the DM to deal with her. The store manager is a big fat black guy who sounds a lot like Biggie Smalls and the DM is a clean shaven white guy with a goatee who looks like every asshole you’d see at a sports bar laughing too loudly and acting like he’s a ladies man.
This woman was so loud and profane that someone tripped the alarm, a flashing blue light rotating above the counter as she went on and on for minutes on end. She called the DM a “Faggot-ass Mr. Clean.” When she was told the manager was calling the police, she said, “That punk-ass Fat Albert ain’t callin’ the po-lice! He callin’ the pizza place!” She referred to the heavyset white lady in the other office as a “stupid fat bitch” and she kept yelling “Ya’ll muthafukas gonna gimme mah shit!” over and over.
Her “shit” was the company’s paperwork regarding the voided agreement. The DM explained that it was company property and she wasn’t getting it. She claimed the company could somehow claim she still owed money because “I know how ya’ll muthafukas do!” She refused to believe the DM was who he says he was because it seemed like too much of a coincidence, even when he showed her his card.
Jack and I walked into the backroom where he told me how he planned to just stay out of the situation even when she mentioned him. “I’m the one that sold it to them in the first place,” he laughed nervously.
A moment later we went back to the sales floor in time to see the DM reading the terms and conditions to her, which infuriated her further.
“You ain’t gotta read dat to me!” She yelled. “I can read! Black bitches can read! Black bitches can read! BLACK BITCHES CAN READ!”
“Ma’am, come on!” the DM yelled. “Nobody said anything like...”
“Ya’ll muthufukas gonna gimme mah shit!”
Jack and I walked over to get a TV and I heard her friend on her cell phone telling whoever was on the other end that it was the company’s fault for promising an incorrect delivery time. In reality, the mom kept changing it, crying, changing it, and having nervous breakdowns.
“Call the muthafukin’ po-lice then! I ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til ya’ll muthufukas gimme mah shit!”
I heard a tiny sneeze behind me and looked over to see a little boy sitting one some of the furniture in the showroom. I looked at the other chick and shook my head. God only knows if she knew why.
Eventually, the customer did get the DM to shred something but it wasn’t the company’s paperwork. We left a moment later.
Later that day the manager turned to me and said, “I would’ve lost my job today if (DM) hadn’t been here.”
That was day two of my adventures in the rent-to-own industry in Pontiac. We haven’t even gotten to why I quit yet!
To Be continued~
At first, things seemed okay. My manager turned out to be a highly intelligent man who shared my love Kurt Vonnegut novels and my basic philosophy on the evils of organized religion. Talking to him was great and we even exchanged a few books. I worked at that store for four days before I got reassigned to the cultural wasteland of Pontiac, MI.
Just as I’d begun feeling somewhat at home with my new shitty job, I returned from a delivery only to be told that the manager had received a call while I was gone. Apparently some dumb-ass Hispanic guy had just been fired for “loss prevention” issues, meaning they accused him of stealing, and they needed a replacement ASAP. Luckily, I was gone when the call came and so the up and coming assistant manager volunteered to pitch in for the day.
Still, I was told that tomorrow, that following Saturday, I was to report to the Pontiac stores.
Most of you are unfamiliar with Michigan so let me provide a basic description of “Yak Town” for you: BEIRUT WITH NICER HOUSES!
Pontiac is, ironically, the Oakland County Seat. What makes that important is that Oakland County is the third wealthiest county in the nation, yet even in that county there are ghettos. In this case, Pontiac, which is a multi-ethnic county the likes of which you usually only see in movies on TV. The population is black, white and Hispanic yet they all basically act the same. Its crime rate is vastly disproportionate to its population and has in the past had a higher murder rate per capita that Detroit. See for yourself:
http://www.cityrating.com/citycrime.asp?city=Pontiac&state=MI
Unlike Detroit, the entire city is built like a maze, with streets winding and intersecting to the point of causing madness after mere seconds of driving. The GPS on my cell phone was actually telling me to make turns on streets I couldn’t access due to dead ends! I worked in Pontiac not long ago and used to close the office building to the soothing sounds of automatic gunfire and police car sirens.
I expressed my unease with working in Pontiac again and the manager pulled up the location on the computer to assure me I wouldn’t be in the dangerous part. Yeah, maybe not the physical location of the store itself but he didn’t take into account where the customers live.
As I mentioned before, an unfortunate aspect of the job involved making deliveries to peoples’ homes. Not a big deal. However, it also involved going to peoples’ homes when they haven’t paid on their rental agreements and pounding on the fucking door to get the merchandise back! I’m not joking. We functioned as some bizarre combination of bounty hunter and repo man! None of us was bonded, nobody ever had a police escort and there we were headed deep into Pontiac’s bizarre hodgepodge of ghetto, barrio and white trash dwellings banging on fucking doors and windows! This is known as “running” a customer and everybody swears nothing ever happens to anybody who goes out. Well, nothing ever happens ‘til it happens and goddamit I wasn’t gonna be the first one it happened to!
My first few days were rather uneventful as far as that part went. Most people weren’t home when we ran them. Mostly we delivered shit and picked it up. At one point we were loading up the van for a delivery and the manager came out to stop us because he’d decided the customer was too fucked up and unpredictable. The woman had been ordering furniture for her daughter and there was some strange dispute over the delivery time that caused her to have continuous nervous breakdowns and crying fits.
A few hours later, the daughter showed up while I was in the backroom waiting for the sales manager, a young and seemingly fearless white bread guy who I will call “Jack.” As the door to the backroom swung open, I heard the distinct sound of a screaming bitch. Jack came in with his face all scrunched up, explained who she was and that she was upset over the cancellation of her order.
Because the merchandise we were about to delivery was on the sales floor, Jack and I had no choice but to walk back out there and right past her as she yelled. I didn’t get the whole story until later, but here is what happened:
She called up and threatened to spit in the manager’s face when she arrived. Fortunately for him, the district manager was present at the time. The store manager went inside his office and closed the door, leaving the DM to deal with her. The store manager is a big fat black guy who sounds a lot like Biggie Smalls and the DM is a clean shaven white guy with a goatee who looks like every asshole you’d see at a sports bar laughing too loudly and acting like he’s a ladies man.
This woman was so loud and profane that someone tripped the alarm, a flashing blue light rotating above the counter as she went on and on for minutes on end. She called the DM a “Faggot-ass Mr. Clean.” When she was told the manager was calling the police, she said, “That punk-ass Fat Albert ain’t callin’ the po-lice! He callin’ the pizza place!” She referred to the heavyset white lady in the other office as a “stupid fat bitch” and she kept yelling “Ya’ll muthafukas gonna gimme mah shit!” over and over.
Her “shit” was the company’s paperwork regarding the voided agreement. The DM explained that it was company property and she wasn’t getting it. She claimed the company could somehow claim she still owed money because “I know how ya’ll muthafukas do!” She refused to believe the DM was who he says he was because it seemed like too much of a coincidence, even when he showed her his card.
Jack and I walked into the backroom where he told me how he planned to just stay out of the situation even when she mentioned him. “I’m the one that sold it to them in the first place,” he laughed nervously.
A moment later we went back to the sales floor in time to see the DM reading the terms and conditions to her, which infuriated her further.
“You ain’t gotta read dat to me!” She yelled. “I can read! Black bitches can read! Black bitches can read! BLACK BITCHES CAN READ!”
“Ma’am, come on!” the DM yelled. “Nobody said anything like...”
“Ya’ll muthufukas gonna gimme mah shit!”
Jack and I walked over to get a TV and I heard her friend on her cell phone telling whoever was on the other end that it was the company’s fault for promising an incorrect delivery time. In reality, the mom kept changing it, crying, changing it, and having nervous breakdowns.
“Call the muthafukin’ po-lice then! I ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til ya’ll muthufukas gimme mah shit!”
I heard a tiny sneeze behind me and looked over to see a little boy sitting one some of the furniture in the showroom. I looked at the other chick and shook my head. God only knows if she knew why.
Eventually, the customer did get the DM to shred something but it wasn’t the company’s paperwork. We left a moment later.
Later that day the manager turned to me and said, “I would’ve lost my job today if (DM) hadn’t been here.”
That was day two of my adventures in the rent-to-own industry in Pontiac. We haven’t even gotten to why I quit yet!
To Be continued~
Friday, January 15, 2010
LOOKS LIKE I'M STAYING AFTER ALL!
at least for now. This year is already off to a shit-stained beginning and there is nowhere else more suitable for unloading as it happens. At this rate, the Scribe of 2005 might be making a goddam comeback!
My life officially sucks swollen, unwiped ass again.
Next up, why I quit my new job...
My life officially sucks swollen, unwiped ass again.
Next up, why I quit my new job...
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
RANT THE NEXT! (Trannies later)
Pardon me whilst a bust a quick, out of my ass but appropriate rap: (Ahem)
So yeah muthafukas it’s 2010
And my whole punk-ass life done started over again!
Ain’t shit worked back in 2009
But now all my shit is on the decline!
I ain’t nothin’ but a joke and ya’ll know that’s real
Been fucked so many times in da ass I can’t even feel
It don’t matter anymore thought ain’t nobody gonna care
When I get me a gun and blow my fuckin’ brains through the air!!!
Bitch...
Thank you for indulging me. This particular rant may be a return to form for those of you have been reading me over the years, but it’s a return to Job’s dung heap as far I’m concerned. Back in 2006 I thought I’d finally done it. After six years of suffering shitty jobs and constant humiliation from insecure intellectual inferiors (alliteration rules) I though I’d finally found a home at the job I held for the next three and a half years.
Sure, it wasn’t my ideal job but it paid the bills for the most part and it offered good benefits...some of those benefits came in the form of my favorite female body part, nice, round asses of the juicy variety. I looked but never touched. I am not a louse or a cockhound, at least not when I take my job seriously and don’t want to fuck it up with stupid behavior.
Now that I have lost said job (see my end of the year post) I have found myself once again adrift in that wasteland of bad economic times and a perverse willingness to accept any decent paying job that comes along. Apparently my resume has become much more impressive, as what might have taken me months before took 24 hours this time. I updated my resume on www.jobfinder.com and within a day had already received a call for an interview with a place that pays pretty much the same and offers similar benefits, albeit later than the last job offered them.
Still in shock from my termination, I gave what was probably the best interview I’ve ever given. I answered all the questions correctly, said exactly what an employer wants to hear, and aced the online tests. Getting a kid to piss in a plastic bag for me so I could pass the drug test was no problem! I’m kidding. I flirted with the lab tech and used hers. I am nothing if not ethical!
I got the job obviously and although it bears some resemblance to my previous occupation, it is also different in some significant ways. For one thing, there’s heavy lifting involved. What do I mean by heavy, you ax? Well, on my first day of training I assisted one of the guys with the delivery of an entire living room and dinette set up treacherous stairs through an apartment corridor with a door that refused to stay open. It has been years since lifted anything heavier than a busty woman’s jugs and my back paid the price. Today was my second day and since there were no deliveries to be made, I sat in front of a computer for ten hours and took online trainings.
At this point, you’re probably wondering what I do now. If not, how about you go have a seat and put your head back so I can squat over you and provide my own special sauce to your hairline!!!??? Don’t fuck with me this day! I am PISSED as HELL!!!!
I work for a company that does the rent-to-own thing. For those of you of decent backgrounds who are most likely educated, I will dumb it down a shade and provide my working daffynition of the concept...
Rent-to-Own- A service provided to truly fucked up people living in trailer parks or in the ‘hood who have shitty credit, no cash and might just decide to keep the shit they’re renting, thereby forcing said company to sue them.
My title is “Customer Account Representative.” Being in Michigan, I was lucky as hell to get this job, so of course I’m still looking around for something else. The bestest part of all, dear sweet supple and lickable vultures, is the award-winning staff with whom I now find myself connected.
There’s the young and ambitious assistant manager whose every other word is peppered with such delights as “Muhfucker” and “Fuck” and “Fucking asshole” and “What the fuck” and “Fuck that shit” and “Who the fuck” well, you get the point. Then there’s the fifty-something black man who apparently once played pro-football but is happy working as a Customer Account Rep??? Then there’s a really nice guy who I think has Muscular Dystrophy and a body stench that announces its presence a full minute before he enters the room. He even warned everyone to avoid the restroom after he left it....as if the odor didn’t simply follow his smelly ass into the showroom!
To remind myself that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, or in this case my beloved yet hated Metro Detroit, I decided to watch the news with these guys on the LCD TV facing the counter since the store was so dead today. A story came on about an elderly Japanese man who had been present for the bombing of Hiroshima only to evacuate to Nagasaki just as that bomb was dropped there.
Not only was I the only to react to the word “Nagasaki” until the news anchor mentioned that it had been attacked, but when the story described what the old man had seen as a boy, I made the mistake of opening my mouth for a second. What I was going to say was that there had actually been tales of skin being blown off bodies that were turned to ash, yet the skin survived and grew on the walls of buildings. Before I could get that far, however, the ex-football player said, “Well, it coulda been avoided.”
Wow, I thunk. That’s a pretty enlightened viewpoint for a place like this and hey, the guy with MS is agreeing with him. Yep, it could have been avoided. Absolutely! Good show, mofos!
“Yep,” MS guy said. “If they hadn’t bombed Pearl Harbor.”
“Yep,” Ex-jock replied. “At that point we had the right to bomb them into the ground.”
This was followed by amused and knowing chuckles. I might have joined in, except these dumb-fucks and their pathetic lack of knowledge numbed my mouth. It was as if 1945 had returned and people still couldn’t see the big picture. They probably had no idea that the United States had basically made a deal with defecting Nazi scientists in exchange for the atomic bomb program Germany had nearly completed and that Japan was a convenient and close in proximity example for the Russians not to go getting all uppity about territorial disputes at the close of the war.
AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
Fuck shit piss ass cunt dick bitch damn hell bastard son of a mutherfucking ass-reaming ball biting boner cracking piece of dogshit!!!!!
Why did I ever think things would work out in a positive direction?
So yeah muthafukas it’s 2010
And my whole punk-ass life done started over again!
Ain’t shit worked back in 2009
But now all my shit is on the decline!
I ain’t nothin’ but a joke and ya’ll know that’s real
Been fucked so many times in da ass I can’t even feel
It don’t matter anymore thought ain’t nobody gonna care
When I get me a gun and blow my fuckin’ brains through the air!!!
Bitch...
Thank you for indulging me. This particular rant may be a return to form for those of you have been reading me over the years, but it’s a return to Job’s dung heap as far I’m concerned. Back in 2006 I thought I’d finally done it. After six years of suffering shitty jobs and constant humiliation from insecure intellectual inferiors (alliteration rules) I though I’d finally found a home at the job I held for the next three and a half years.
Sure, it wasn’t my ideal job but it paid the bills for the most part and it offered good benefits...some of those benefits came in the form of my favorite female body part, nice, round asses of the juicy variety. I looked but never touched. I am not a louse or a cockhound, at least not when I take my job seriously and don’t want to fuck it up with stupid behavior.
Now that I have lost said job (see my end of the year post) I have found myself once again adrift in that wasteland of bad economic times and a perverse willingness to accept any decent paying job that comes along. Apparently my resume has become much more impressive, as what might have taken me months before took 24 hours this time. I updated my resume on www.jobfinder.com and within a day had already received a call for an interview with a place that pays pretty much the same and offers similar benefits, albeit later than the last job offered them.
Still in shock from my termination, I gave what was probably the best interview I’ve ever given. I answered all the questions correctly, said exactly what an employer wants to hear, and aced the online tests. Getting a kid to piss in a plastic bag for me so I could pass the drug test was no problem! I’m kidding. I flirted with the lab tech and used hers. I am nothing if not ethical!
I got the job obviously and although it bears some resemblance to my previous occupation, it is also different in some significant ways. For one thing, there’s heavy lifting involved. What do I mean by heavy, you ax? Well, on my first day of training I assisted one of the guys with the delivery of an entire living room and dinette set up treacherous stairs through an apartment corridor with a door that refused to stay open. It has been years since lifted anything heavier than a busty woman’s jugs and my back paid the price. Today was my second day and since there were no deliveries to be made, I sat in front of a computer for ten hours and took online trainings.
At this point, you’re probably wondering what I do now. If not, how about you go have a seat and put your head back so I can squat over you and provide my own special sauce to your hairline!!!??? Don’t fuck with me this day! I am PISSED as HELL!!!!
I work for a company that does the rent-to-own thing. For those of you of decent backgrounds who are most likely educated, I will dumb it down a shade and provide my working daffynition of the concept...
Rent-to-Own- A service provided to truly fucked up people living in trailer parks or in the ‘hood who have shitty credit, no cash and might just decide to keep the shit they’re renting, thereby forcing said company to sue them.
My title is “Customer Account Representative.” Being in Michigan, I was lucky as hell to get this job, so of course I’m still looking around for something else. The bestest part of all, dear sweet supple and lickable vultures, is the award-winning staff with whom I now find myself connected.
There’s the young and ambitious assistant manager whose every other word is peppered with such delights as “Muhfucker” and “Fuck” and “Fucking asshole” and “What the fuck” and “Fuck that shit” and “Who the fuck” well, you get the point. Then there’s the fifty-something black man who apparently once played pro-football but is happy working as a Customer Account Rep??? Then there’s a really nice guy who I think has Muscular Dystrophy and a body stench that announces its presence a full minute before he enters the room. He even warned everyone to avoid the restroom after he left it....as if the odor didn’t simply follow his smelly ass into the showroom!
To remind myself that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, or in this case my beloved yet hated Metro Detroit, I decided to watch the news with these guys on the LCD TV facing the counter since the store was so dead today. A story came on about an elderly Japanese man who had been present for the bombing of Hiroshima only to evacuate to Nagasaki just as that bomb was dropped there.
Not only was I the only to react to the word “Nagasaki” until the news anchor mentioned that it had been attacked, but when the story described what the old man had seen as a boy, I made the mistake of opening my mouth for a second. What I was going to say was that there had actually been tales of skin being blown off bodies that were turned to ash, yet the skin survived and grew on the walls of buildings. Before I could get that far, however, the ex-football player said, “Well, it coulda been avoided.”
Wow, I thunk. That’s a pretty enlightened viewpoint for a place like this and hey, the guy with MS is agreeing with him. Yep, it could have been avoided. Absolutely! Good show, mofos!
“Yep,” MS guy said. “If they hadn’t bombed Pearl Harbor.”
“Yep,” Ex-jock replied. “At that point we had the right to bomb them into the ground.”
This was followed by amused and knowing chuckles. I might have joined in, except these dumb-fucks and their pathetic lack of knowledge numbed my mouth. It was as if 1945 had returned and people still couldn’t see the big picture. They probably had no idea that the United States had basically made a deal with defecting Nazi scientists in exchange for the atomic bomb program Germany had nearly completed and that Japan was a convenient and close in proximity example for the Russians not to go getting all uppity about territorial disputes at the close of the war.
AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
Fuck shit piss ass cunt dick bitch damn hell bastard son of a mutherfucking ass-reaming ball biting boner cracking piece of dogshit!!!!!
Why did I ever think things would work out in a positive direction?
Sunday, January 3, 2010
***PREVIEW***
Here is a sneak preview of the tranny wedding I attended...
(The guy to the right serving as best man to the bride that still has a penis used to be woman)
(The guy to the right serving as best man to the bride that still has a penis used to be woman)
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