Everyone rants from time to time about the everyday bullshit that is just nail-bitingly irritating. I, however, have managed to add a creative bitchy flair to the everyday rant—seeing as how my life is an ongoing rant. I feel like I have a force-field of ignorant energy that draws everything useless and time-consuming my way. In my efforts to avoid everything useless, I have curve balls thrown at me as if life is a steroid injected 5th grade bully throwing a dodgeball at a hefty-sized kid in a too-tight menudo shirt. Oh what humor this bully has, to pick on a defenseless porker with nowhere to hide. That, my friends, is the freaking story of my life. Without any further delay, I present to you my first rant on the Zenestex.com: Stankonya.
Wondering what a menudo shirt is? Now you know!
Let's start from the beginning. I am a Realtor and began my career with a certain company (that shall remain nameless). I was being harassed on a daily basis by a group of ladies (I like to call them “heifers on speed”). The bullying was ruff. To tell you the truth, I kinda thought they were after flower pot (you know my snatch). So, despite everything that I stand for, I sucked it up, cleared out my office, and joined another company. Kudos to them for employing festive people (meaning myself, naturally). Gracias for the lovely spacious office I have, too. Yes! No more freaking cubicle and an actual office with a door that I can shut, too. I spent hours just opening and shutting it (amazing what little things will entertain me). SCORE! The bathroom is conveniently located right next to my office. This is almost too perfect. Work is great! Almost a personal bathroom, my own office, no stalking heifers—I feel like a new woman!
But then tragedy struck (dramatic background music... Dun Dun Duunnnn)! A foul stench attacked my nostrils ninja-style and I couldn't get its kung fu death grip to let go. There was no escaping it. It was an unfamiliar odor. A mixture of smells, if you will. It was like my own personal bubble had been infiltrated with the toxic odors of rotting placenta and cabbage; infused with the unforgettable potent smell of the ever so popular 1985 Charlie perfume (conveniently found in all the finest drug stores or dollar trees in your area)! Yes, YES! In case you haven't already figured this out, I'll go ahead and write in all caps for you, so you can understand my discomfort: I SHARE THE SAME VENTS AS THE BATHROOM! That's right! My beloved large office is the f'n stinky office!
The vent in my office (left). The connected vent in the bathroom (right).
This is how I realized it: Friday afternoon I had my office door shut and was diligently working on the computer. When out of nowhere it sounded like there was someone benching 500lbs and kinda squealing with an occasional balloon slowly letting out air. It was then that I realized I needed to put on my Sherlock Holmes Thinking Hat? and investigate, double O' siete style. I slowly walk out of my office and, low and behold, the bathroom door was locked. I crept around the corner and hid behind a cubical. Swinging the bathroom door open comes this ginormous, beastly, manly looking woman (She-Ra on steroids, if you can even fathom that thought), almost running out the bathroom, with the stench of Charlie and afterbirth chasing her.
I was mortified! But it was too late. Hot garbage (the stench) had already secretly sunk its death claws into my poor nostrils. There was no escaping it! It was like I was playing hide and seek with a ghost—it would always find me. I was cornered by my worst nightmare, Stankonya. What was I to do? Fight an invisible beast with Lysol and mask the funk? I had to get some much needed paperwork done. I couldn't leave! So, I did the unthinkable!
HAHA!!! I'm a freaking genius!
Needless to say, I think the H.G.(Hot Garbage) made my nose hairs fall out!
Another Monday is in the books, which leaves Tuesday to just suck furry rhinoceros balls. Tuesday is the worst. Tuesday is the puke splotches left on a Port-a-potty seat on a hot summer day by a drunk, herpes-infested whore that couldn't stomach fulfilling some bizarre, whips and chains, Dungeons & Dragons fantasy of a fat, 49 year-old man with a pimply ass who still lives with his parents. Everthing sucks on Tuesday. There's no hope; no point in even thinking about the next weekend. Traffic is terrible since everyone is back from their weekend or three day break—if they took one. Hell, even TV sucks on Tuesday, so there's nothing to look forward to when it's finally over. Fuck you, Tuesday.
At least Monday you can reflect on the past weekend; it's still fresh in your brain and you have something to talk about. Wednesday is “hump” day. As much as I abhor goobers who say “Happy Hump Day,” they're at least onto something. It's true. Once lunchtime has passed on Wednesday, it feels like a million pounds have been lifted off your chest. If you've ever run a race, it's similar to reaching the halfway point. You're dog tired, running out of gas, beat down, brain dead. You wanna quit, but you've already made it this far. Besides stopping and walking would be stupid. You still gotta finish the course—stopping will take even longer. Thursday is the day you see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's busy as hell, but you feel like you're blood, sweat, and tears are finally about to pay off. Friday might as well be the third day of the weekend. You still have to go into work, but nothing gets done because everybody fears making the mistake—the one that'll bring you in on Saturday to fix it.
The only true working days are Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I propose we abolish Tuesday. It's a complete drag on society—its destruction will make the world a happier place. It's the least productive working day since everyone is so depressed. It's the day of “it'll never end.” So, I'm taking it out. That leaves six days in the week, which doesn't divide into 365 very cleanly. Neither does seven for that matter. While we're at it let's fix that retarded mess. We could add another day to each year to make it 366 days for a clean 61 weeks. Or, even better, let's keep it at 365 days a year. We'll take out Friday along with it.
Sure Friday is fun, but it's entirely useless. It's a weekday in weekend day's clothing. It's there to fool you. It's like a transvestite day. It certainly looks like weekend day—it acts the part. Then you take it home and BLAM! some nasty old dick falls out. You can either be gay and play along or you can kick its ass out. I vote for the latter. Let's stop with this Friday charade and just ditch the stupid day. At least until the leap year. I think we can give the trannies one day every four years to celebrate peckers and fake boobs. Or not.
So now we have five-day weeks: three days of work, two days of play. Thursday, the most productive and hopeful day of the week, becomes the final weekday. Now you have 146 weekend days instead of 105 and 219 working days instead of 260. We've eliminated 104 worthless or soul-sucking days and replaced them with a healthy mix of productive days and days off. It only cost us a total of 41 working days. However, you actually gain 11 days of pure production since Fridays are a waste and we just trashed 52 of them. You see—more time for family, friends, drinking, eating, hobbies and more production for the Man. Everybody wins!
I have been in the process of writing a few articles for this fantastic website. However, I hit a wall: Writer’s block. I didn’t know that writer’s block could affect someone who isn’t a writer by any stretch of the imagination, but yet it is there, looking me dead in the face, licking its lips. I explained my predicament to Mr. Zenestex who told me to just write through it. Start babbling away till something makes sense, then go with it and delete the babbles later. Ok, easy enough. So I did. What I ended up with surprised the hell out of me. Inside this fantastically oversized noggin of mine was a plan. (I am not saying that I have a big brain, it is quite the opposite. My head is freaking huge. It has its own gravitational field.) A great plan if I do say so myself; a plan so epic and awe inspiring that I have already booked my flight to Sweden to accept my Nobel Prize. Ladies and gentlemen, I, Security Gawd, have figured out how to save the economy.
“Whup!” Perhaps I have made this noise my entire life—I can't be sure. I only recently noticed that I say “whup” a lot; to the point where something needs to be done to stop it. My “whup” does not, in any way, sound cool like the “whup” in “open up a can of whup ass!” No, my “whup” is a meager, small-voiced, barely audible yelp that escapes my throat before I can catch it and push it back down where it belongs. It almost sounds like a quick and quiet “hup,” but there is a definite “W” forming in my lips when I say it. So, I spell it “whup.”
I formulated a theory last week that I say it because I am in the middle of saying “Whoops;” I try to stop myself when I realize that I am not at fault in whatever incident occurred, but am already committed to making some noise. Hence I say “whup.” I would go along with this theory except that I never, ever use the word “whoops.” If I am in the wrong usually I'll just say “my bad,” since I'm a teenager of the 90's.
So that begs the question: When exactly do I use “whup?” Well, it seems to be a catch-all a variety of situations. Here is a sampling from the past week alone:
Somebody opened a door as I walked by and almost hit me in the face. I turned to the person and let out a mild “whup.” In this situation, I was not at fault, so it couldn't be a “whoops.” I was also probably a little annoyed at the person in question. “Whup” could be loosely translated to mean “watch where you're going you stupid fuck!” All tucked into a hushed mumbling “whup.”
A person walking in front of me dropped something. “Whup!” I exclaimed. Here I was probably about to inform this person of his misfortune, but he turned around to pick up the dropped item as I was about to tell him. I let out the “whup” in an attempt to show the man that I saw the incident and, even though he noticed it, I had his back. I also pointed at the item along with the “whup,” which was somewhat primal behavior on my part.
As I turned a corner down a hallway, I almost trampled some poor chick. I feinted right and then moved left to go around her. She did the exact opposite maneuver causing us to block each other's paths. We stood there in the hallway engaged in some bizarre two-step trying to move around each other. After I made the left movement, I saw an opening and let out a mild “whup!” I think this “whup” was used as a small, but significant exclamation of triumph since I was able to finally maneuver past her.
The facility where I work has a security gate that opens when you swipe your badge along the sensor. The gate takes a second to close after somebody in front of you goes through. If you try to walk through before the gate recloses, you'll make it through, but an alarm goes off and the person behind you in line has to wait about 30 seconds for it to reset. A lady in front of me wasn't paying attention and walked through the gate without swiping. Not wanting to lose 30 seconds of my life, I tried to stop her before she reached the point of no return. By the time the word “STOP” had reached my tongue, she had already set off the alarm. My hand was reached out in a mock attempt to grab her by the collar while I let out a mouse-like “whup.”
A guy that I have never seen before in my life asked me how I was doing as he passed me by. He did not stop for an answer, but I wanted to acknowledge that I heard the question. What should I have said? I didn't want to inform this stranger of anything significant about my life; I doubt he cared since he didn't show any desire to stop. My mind was racing for an appropriate response. Nothing came to mind so I was just about to say, “Sup!” Then I realized that he was an older gentleman and likely a boss of mine somewhere up the chain. So, my “sup” became a gentle “whup.”
We have a “Pardon Me,” “Watch where the hell you're going,” “Dude, you dropped something,” “I'm fine how are you,” and a “DON'T DO IT!” It's a versatile mutter—no pun intended. I used it on more occasions than this, but there does seem to be a pattern emerging. Firstly, I tend to use “whup” around strangers. Second, it seems to occur when I am about to say something and attempt to reel it back in to say something different. The “whup” phenomenon definitely requires further investigation. My goal: Elimination. It sounds awkward and makes me feel like a Chihuahua when I uncontrollably yap it. To eliminate it, I must first understand it. I'll see if I use it around people I know.
To celebrate this year's St. Patrick's Day, we went to the Renaissance Festival to enjoy the atrocious acting, weird jokes, dust, green beer, and smell of horseshit hanging in the air. Sure, it sounds bad, but it's all part of the magic. For those who don't know, the Renaissance Festival is a medieval carnival that is held in the Tampa area each year for a month or two. It is complete with carny food, games, shows, shops, and human powered wooden rides. This festival has been an annual attraction as long as I can remember. Going to the festival was one of the highlights of my childhood years. I would laugh my ass off at the comedy shows, be amazed by the magic tricks, try in desperation to climb Jacob's Ladder, be engrossed by the fake swordfights, and gorge myself on apple dumplings and gyros. It was a day in heaven for this kid! It has been nearly ten years since I have made my way back to the festival; ten years entirely too long.
Life is full of epiphanies and turning points. Some small, innocuous, and seemingly insignificant moment can be a catalyst for the opening of whole new avenues of opportunity for some lucky—or unlucky—soul. Eating a Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory chocolate covered orange slice was not one of these moments.
Dipped Oranges in all their glory
A true food-inspired epiphany in my life came courtesy of the restaurant Applebees. A few years ago, we went there for dinner one night and I ordered the Oriental Chicken Wrap. I was completely floored when I bit into the utter perfection that was the Oriental Chicken Wrap. It was cold, yet hot. Crunchy, yet soft. Vegetabley, yet full of chicken. Most of all, it was sweet. That dinner could be sugary-sweet completely turned my world upside down.
A single bite confounded me and forced me to ponder the veracity of everything I had learned up to that point. Its sweetness forced me, in my primitive meat and potato upbringing, to initially label this dinner a dessert. This conclusion could not possibly be correct since Applebees listed Oriental Chicken Wraps as an entrée. I wanted to flag down our waitress to debate my findings, but then realized that if I was indeed correct that would prove the Applebees menu to be fallible; the implications of which could lead the opening of the gates of hell and the devil's hostile takeover of our world. This dish, however, also contained chicken, cabbage, and crunchy noodles so it could not possibly be a dessert. It must be a dinner. My acceptance of the simple truth that dinner could be sweet and still be dinner opened my inexperienced palate to a whole new culinary world.
As I said Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory's chocolate covered orange slices did not lead to any earth shattering realizations on my part. I was admittedly shocked when I opened the package and realized that the candied orange slices still had the skins intact. I was put off by the fact that whoever made these candies was too lazy to peel the oranges and left that menial task that to the customer after spending $28 a pound.
In these times of financial difficulty, why not invest in dipped oranges instead of gold bars?
I then further inspected the chocolate and realized that it completely encased over half of the orange slice. This meant that if I wanted to peel the orange, I would have to completely dismantle the whole candy. I momentarily pouted over the effort required to eat this chocolate and then realized that this could not possibly be the case. The original intention of this candy's creator was for the customer to eat the whole thing—orange skin and all. I found myself even more put off by this man's perversions. Who eats orange skins? It's nasty, it's bitter, it has pesticides and bird shit all over it. Does this man realize how many hours of my life have been devoted to carefully tearing away this vile barrier to the juicy tang of the orange meat hidden inside?
Dipped Oranges moments before their doom
I had two versions of chocolate covered orange slices in my bag—milk chocolate and dark chocolate. With the trepidation of somebody about to go nipple-deep into a cold pool, I took a big bite. To my surprise, the taste didn't suck. In fact, it was really good. The skin was probably the best part. The flavor of the skin wasn't entirely different from the rest of the orange—probably from being immersed in copious amounts of sugar—and it had more of a chew to it. I devoured even more of the slice, left a bite's worth for Mrs. Zenestex, and moved on to the dark chocolate version. Once again, the taste was a delectable surprise. While not as good as the milk chocolate, which is rare, the dark chocolate certainly held its own.
They look juicy right? Don't be fooled, it's the candy coating
The orange slices were noticeably missing their juiciness however. One of my simple pleasures is biting into a peeled orange as if I am a savage biting into a piece of freshly killed game. In my imagination, the orange juices running down my face are the blood of my unfortunate victim. The white strings are like the veins and the crunching is the tendons ripping apart from the massive chewing force of my molars. I got none of that sensation from this candy. The orange slice was entirely lifeless, but it still managed to contain all the flavor, which saved me from hating it. With the novelty of eating oranges skins, chocolate covered orange slice earns its place in the upper echelons of the candied fruit pantheon. It's not quite chocolate covered cherries, but it is way better than candied apples. Yeah, I said it. They suck.
I am currently working on a new look for the site. My Zenestex.com To Do List is about 25% complete now. The look and feel of the site was updated along with adding functionality to recommend articles to Del.icio.us, Digg, and StumbleUpon. I'll add Twitter to that control, too, if I can ever figure out what in the hell Twitter is. What's left on the list? At the risk of making false promises:
- Search Engine
- Author Bios
- Recent Comments Portal
- Graffiti Wall and Portal
- Article Categories
- Random Quote Portal
- Random GOTD Portal
- Fix Various Bugs
- Improve Article Listing
- Continue Updating Look of the Site
Security Gawd, Li, and possibly Zia should have some articles to post in the coming weeks. On the docket for this week is my review on Chocolate Covered Oranges and the tale of my trip to this year's Renaissance Festival. Expect costumes, bestiality, and green beer!
Forgive the indulgence. I make a point of it not to turn Zenestex.com into my own personal venting forum—like some acne infested teenager's MySpace blog. But, this morning I simply couldn't resist. Here are my thoughts from when we were in a holding pattern above Dulles Airport in Washington, DC waiting for the blizzard to blow over. Again, my apologies for the ranting. If it bothers you, think of it instead as homage to the Seinfeld episode where Elaine was trapped in a subway car.
I'm stuck on an airplane circling Dulles Airport until they're done removing the snow from the runway and am bored out of my mind. My laptop battery is running on fumes so this won't be long. Batteries don't really run on fuel—or anything else that would have fumes really. So I wonder what the proper expression is for a battery “running on fumes?” I had the option of chilling in bed and relaxing this morning. I really did. However, me being such a naïve lackey, I wanted to show my new employer what a dedicated soldier they had just hired. I was supposed to leave last night for a weeklong orientation into the company. As luck would have it, a little winter storm apparently shut down the entire east coast last night and my flight was cancelled.
I didn't have to, but I waited on hold for a total of three hours last night with the travel department. I could have let my company's HR take care of this for me on Monday morning. But Noooo! I wanted to make an impact. I took one for the team and volunteered to take the 5:40 AM flight when all the later flights were cancelled. You see, I figured this flight was a mistake on the airline's part. They just overlooked this flight and would cancel it once they saw it was the only one still going into Washington, DC. I thought, “Hey! They'll scratch this flight and my new company will see what a dedicated employee I am for wanting to go so early and brave the blizzard! I'm a trooper!”
Aw shit! And I mean that literally—some dude just took a nice, big, steaming, greasy, smelly shit in the rear restroom of the plane. To put the raw power of this man's defecation into perspective, I'm sitting in the middle of the plane and can hardly breathe. I think my eyes are starting to water. My sincere condolences to the families of the poor souls sitting in the back of the plane; your loved ones just died a slow horrible death.
Back to the story: I figured the flight would certainly be cancelled and I would be a hero for trying. All it would cost me was waking up at 2:45 in the morning to check the flight status online. This was a sure bet! An easy first day gold star! One small victory for the good guys! This, folks, is why I don't gamble when I go to Vegas and instead choose to drink myself stupid and watch Cirque du Soleil shows. I am now stuck on a plane, immersed in a repulsive cloud of fart, and the fucker sitting in front of me is leaning all the way back. Oh fucking great! They just announced another 20 minutes on top of the already 40 minutes of circling because of the fucking snow. MOTHER FUCKER!!! I hate snow! HATE IT!!! If you live up North and love it because you like to see the “change of seasons,” I say screw you and your little ice scraper. You are being lied to! This sucks! And I hope your balls freeze to the high horse you ride around on. Your stupid “change of seasons” only lasts one fucking week and then everything is dead for the next four freaking months! Yeah, it's so awesome! Now my battery is about out, so I'm out, too.
Epilogue: I just wanted to add that I finally stuck up for myself in the situation I described. I've always just accepted the fact that I will be in the 2% of the airline passengers that has a complete asshole sitting in front of them that fully leans their chair back. It happens to me almost every flight—it can't possibly be a coincidence. I reached my boiling point this morning however. The jackass leaned back. I huffed and I puffed. I pissed and I moaned. I shot daggers with my eyes at the back of his head, counted all the dandruff flakes in his hair, and laughed to myself about how fat he was. None of this got his portly ass out of my lap. I gathered my nerve and broke the deadly lifelong cycle of me quietly accepting my meek bitchedness about people leaning back on me during flights. I tapped Jabba on the shoulder and politely asked him to sit up. Oh, he was perturbed; he glared at me and then sighed his fat man sigh about the whole situation, but in the end he sat up. And fell right back to sleep a minute later. It's the small victories in life you have to cherish.