Saturday, September 29, 2012

If I Were A Prison Warden

If I were a prison Warden, I’d be picking up the phone pretty darn quick to see if I could make a deal with Jack Astor’s Bar & Grill whereby I would take all of the broken crayons off their hands at no charge.  Instead of pencils or pens, both of which can easily be fashioned into some sort of weapon to be used against me, I’d give my prisoners the broken crayons to write letters to home with.  Let’s face it, there isn’t too much damage a prisoner can inflict on me with a broken crayon, except for maybe the inflammatory comments and drawings they doodle on the walls of their cells at my expense, but those would cause more emotional pain than physical, so you have to take the bad with the good I suppose.  A prison Warden needs to have thick skin, otherwise he’d probably be depressed a lot of the time, what with being in a place where most of the people don’t like him and all.  And every Tuesday afternoon when I go on my crayon collection run over to Jack Astor’s, I could keep my fingers crossed thinking that maybe this time they might even throw in some free garlic bread.  I like garlic bread.  But if I’m not going to eat it right then and there, I think I’d ask them to put that garlic butter that they pour all over it in a little cup on the side, otherwise my garlic bread would get all soggy, and there’s nothing worse than getting home and opening a container filled with soggy garlic bread mush.  If I wanted porridge I would have asked for porridge, but I don’t like porridge, so I probably wouldn’t ever ask for it.  I’d much rather have pancakes.  But don’t even think about putting fruit into my pancakes!  No way man, I like my pancakes left alone with no other ingredients getting in the way.  Just leave them nice and thick and spongy so they can soak up all the maple syrup, because the best part of having pancakes isn’t even the pancakes themselves, it’s the syrup.  The pancake is nothing more than a vessel that transports the maple syrup from my plate to my mouth.  Sometimes the maple syrup drips onto my shirt, and that makes me mad.  A lot of people like to smoke when they’re mad, but not me, I don’t smoke.  I think the only reason people even take up smoking is for the additional work breaks, because really, why else would they do it?  Smoking stinks and makes your fingers turn yellow, so no thanks I’ll pass.  I like to pass drivers who are smoking as quickly as I can, because for some reason smoker’s drive slowly.  Maybe it’s because the car window is partially open, and they don’t want to mess up their hair.  Bald smokers don’t have that problem, but they do have to wear sunscreen or a hat when they cut the grass.  Some people like cutting grass, but I’m not one of those people.  If I was the prison Warden I’d make the prisoners who were interested in the grass cutting position submit resumes to me written in crayon, and then hire whoever uses the green crayon most effectively.  I’d have to be careful though, because the prisoner I hire could try to cut the grass slowly to maximize his time outdoors, so somehow I’d have to find a way to eliminate the turtle speed on the riding lawnmower, and rig it so that there is only the rabbit speed.  This isn’t a Sunday afternoon drive, this is prison, so he needs to get it done fast.  I don’t want the other prisoners getting jealous and starting a riot.  Quiet Riot was a band back in the day, but I don’t know if there is such a thing as a quiet riot.  Riots are normally loud and out of control, or the equivalent of a big party, but with periodic violence.  Everybody have fun tonight, everybody Wang Chung tonight!  But don’t Wang Chung with nun-chucks, ‘cause that could cause some serious damage.  I seem to have gotten off topic.  What was I talking about again?

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Smacky Jones: Noisy Eater

There I was, innocently eating my lunch, when along came Smacky Jones, who upon scanning the room, decided to sit directly behind me.  I don’t know if Smacky Jones was his real name, but one thing I know for sure, he quickly broke into my list of Top 5 noisiest eaters I’ve ever had the misfortune of encountering.

I don’t know why the sound of other people eating irritates me as much as it does, but it does.  At least if people chew with their mouths closed, I can tolerate them, but Smacky Jones was not a closed mouth chewer.  No, Smacky Jones had apparently never learned table manners at all, and almost appeared to be flaunting that fact.  If Honey Boo Boo had a secret older brother, so unrefined and unable to live up to the high etiquette standard of that family, who if America even knew existed would bring shame upon Mama and Sugar Bear, Smacky Jones would be that brother.

Bite after bite, sip after sip, the sounds travelled, making it feel as though he was mere inches away from my ears.  I was left helpless, unable to defend myself against the sounds of chewing, and the gradual moistening of food in his mouth.  Each smack of his chops, and each slurp of his lips caused my back to seize up tighter, my eyes cringing in disgust.

I’m not a violent person, but I must admit, thoughts of a Smacky Jones shaped hole after I threw him through the plate glass window went through my head.  Alternatively, I would not have felt the least bit remorseful had a large black ACME anvil fallen suddenly from the sky, landing directly on top of his open-mouthed head, or if in his wild feeding frenzy, he unknowingly ingested a large stick of dynamite, which upon exploding, left his mouth saliva-free, unable to produce the noises that were bothering me so.   

Alas this is not a cartoon, this is real life, so I got up, and with a quick “Meep Meep!!”, left Smacky Jones to scarf down the rest of his lunch, well beyond the range of my hearing. 

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Fifty Shades of Grey

It was just past noon, and there I was, innocently minding my own business and enjoying a quick bite to eat, when two flies suddenly decided to land on the hood of my Jeep.  I watched for a few moments as they gracefully danced around one another, before eventually losing interest and refocusing back on my lunch.

Several bites later, I looked up once more, surprised to find those same two flies still there.  I watched intently, and before long, noticed a change in their demeanour, that once playful look in their eyes, having now turned to lust.  They moved slowly, but deliberately closer together.  One male, one female, their intentions became quite clear.

The sunlight glistening off their naked bodies, the seductive dance continuing a few moments longer until slowly, ever so slowly, they embraced, wrapping their legs around one another.  Their bodies pressed together, she caressed her chest against his, his hands wandering to wondrous places, exploring her body, their wings fluttering in ecstasy, as two became one.  The male momentarily pulled away, then re-embraced her, this time mounting her from behind, and with that, began thrusting, plunging his tiny fly penis deep inside of her.

I looked to my left, then to my right, wanting to see if anyone else was witnessing this public display of insectual intercourse.  Am I being rude?  Should I look away?  Unsure of the protocol, I decided to turn on my radio.  To my great delight, the radio was already set to the special month-long Dave Matthews Band channel on Sirius.  I couldn’t make this up if I tried, but wouldn’t you know it, the song being played at the time was “Loving Wings” (not the full band version either, I’m talking about the more intimate Dave Matthews solo version from the Benaroya Hall show).  Seemingly appropriate, I reached over, and turned up the volume.

I give to you my everything, You’ve given me these loving wings…”, I listened to the tender melody, gently whispering the words inside my head, and as I ate my the rest of my lunch, watched these two flies going at it doggy-style on the hood of my Jeep.