Thursday, May 27, 2010

The Dicks, Germs, my dick has germs.

I have re-acquainted myself with two of my favorite bands from yesteryear. The Dicks, and Ye olde Germs. I keep listening to 'Forming' and 'Hate the Police' over and over and over. I think it is making Dorian crazy.

Despite Hate the Police being an amazingly written song, it still reminds me of this book. Which was one of my favorites growing up. Well that and everything Maurice Sendak ever did. Shel Silverstein.

In shitty news, Dorian's schooling will take twice as long as it should. She can tell you about that. Mine will take like five million years longer than it should. I would tell you now, but I'm at work and it's quittin' time, so get fucked. Okay, not really. I like you. We're friends. Best buddies. BFF. Let's make bracelets.

I am tired.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

I am cocksucker.

So I realized my last post was really long and unreadable and boring and stupid. A brief recap[haha so read it AGAIN]:

I work in a group home for developmentally disabled adults. The house I work is hard because the guys who live there are notoriously verbally and physically abusive. One in particular. We'll call him...Jake. He is mildly autistic and suffers from horrible ADHD. He takes a crazy dose of Amphetamine cut with salt [in capsule form, duh] twice a day to help out with that. It really doesn't.

He's 21 and about a foot and a half shorter than me. I probably outweigh him by a good hundred pounds on top of that, but he's still convinced he can kick my ass. Yeah.

Here's an example of an average 12 hour shift:

Me: "Mornin' Jake. How's tricks?"

Jake: "Listen Dave, I had a bad dream last night. Don't start with me."

Me: "..."

Jake: [glaring, posturing] "Did you hear what I said, cocksucker?"

Me: "Yes."

Jake: "I SAID LEAVE ME ALOOOOOONE! AAAGHGGGHHH!" [stomps around, punches wall]

Me: "You want some breakfast?"

Jake: "Aw, yeah!"

Me: "You know where the kitchen is."

[If left unsupervised Jake will proceed to go into the kitchen and fry up like 6 hash brown patties, 7 eggs, and 5 slices of pastrami. All in the same pan. He won't eat half of it.]

Jake: [from kitchen] "So what are we doing today? Will you take me out to the store so I can buy some candy and toys and soda? I have moneeeeeeyyyyyy!"

Me: "You need to get your laundry started, get those dishes taken care of, and hop into the shower. Then, uh...Maybe. I don't know."

Jake: [runs out of kitchen and into living room] "If you don't agree to take me I'll kick you in the nards! Do you want that, huh?"

Me: "Maybe I do. Maybe I like being kicked in the nards."

Jake: [frowning, wheels turning] "Fuck you, you corny bitch! I fucking HAAAAAAATE you! I hope you fucking get eaten by wolves or something! GOSH DARNIT!"

So that's how I spend my weekends. Who's jealous?

Monday, May 17, 2010

Let's auto-tune Stephen Hawking.

Wouldn't that be the best? I think so.

So this is what's new in my little life:


Well, not true. Less crazy. I guess I should explain what I do for a living since my profile is sort of vague. I work for a FOR profit company that sets up developmentally disabled adults in their own homes with roommates of similar dispositions and disabilities. Sounds good right? WRONG.

The thing about these guys and gals [or 'clients', as we're made to call them] is that the specific program they're in is protective. It protects them from being taken advantage of by shitheads in the community [again. Most of them have been horribly abused], but it also prevents them from taking advantage of anyone else in said community [also again. sigh.]. To make sure no hinky shit actually goes down, the company hires people like me to hang out with the clients in their homes all day. And night.

I essentially get paid to run interference, play video games, sit around, do my homework, and remind my clients to take their meds, shut the door when they masturbate and change their pants when they have an accident. It's good times. I get paid well over minimum wage to do this.

The bad side of the job is that it's not always easy, and sometimes it's downright scary. Some of the clients are extremely violent, angry and unpredictable. Because of this we have a high turnover rate. Those that do stick around are either good guys who want to make a difference [like me, gasp] or pieces of shit who want to do as little as possible and as a result make the job way harder than it should be for the rest of us. DRAMA.

I don't really have a boss, which is also cool. If I really fuck up I have to answer to the program director, but I'm awesome and that hasn't happened yet. Because I am big and masculine and he is small and metro I think he's generally afraid of me anyway. I could probably come to work drunk and in drag and not even get a call about it the next day.

Anyway, what each house DOES have is a 'head of household'. I secretly call them mother superiors even though most of them are men. The HoH is not my boss. All that title means is that they are directly responsible for managing the clients finances and medical crap. They do not manage me. They just make two dollars an hour more. Remember that I told you this, okay? Okay.

I work four days a week. On Thursday and Friday I work from 3-11pm, and on Saturday and Sunday I work from 7am-7pm. It rounds out to a nice even 40 a week and gives me three days off which is cool. Up until this week I worked at two different houses. The house I work on the weekends has a reputation for being really hard to work because the clients who lives there are notoriously verbally and physically abusive. The HoH there is my pal Juan [who I convinced to grow a mustache, rad]. Juan and I have worked together since forever, and have a great deal of respect for one another. It's a nice situation. Juan has not always been the HoH, though. He recently got the promotion, but refuses to get a big head. Also rad.

The house I work on thurs/fri is a fairly easy house, and the HoH situation is almost the same. This guy's name is, uh. Jameson. Yeah, Jameson. Jameson is from Nigeria, and he is crazy. He was promoted like four months ago, and since then he has turned into a giant cocksmear. He is convinced that he is my boss and I am a turd. We no longer get along. At all.

Last Thursday everyone who works at the weekend house had a meeting at the office. We have new schedules, yay! My new schedule is that I will not be working at Jameson's house anymore. Juan wants me full time, and he can have me. I made a joke about how it will just give me more time to stroke his mustache and him more time to stroke my beard and I think the program director got a boner. I mean something thumped up against the underside of the table.

So, yeah. The ladies in the office tell me, "Okay Dave, DON'T GO TO JAMESON'S HOUSE TODAY AT 3. GO TO JUAN'S."

I say, "Okay, fine. Sure."

So it seems weird to me, so I double check before I leave the office. They confirm. Again. So I go to Juan's instead of Jameson's, and after being there for about forty minutes Jameson calls me fucking PISSED. He proceeds to yell at me, belittle me, and be a fucking douche. Apparently I was supposed to go work there, and he's been WAITING. Oh no. I try to explain. He says I'm wrong. He wasn't in the meeting, but hey.

So I drive across town to his house [at the behest of Juan. I was prepared to do nothing] and he met me in the street in his own car, mafia style. He rolls down his window to yell at me. I made a few things clear with some choice words, and we almost resorted to fisticuffs.

I still have my job though.

In other news I planted flowers in front of the weekend house and it looks pretty.


Monday, May 10, 2010

Christ like [to the tune of thug life]

So this dork I work with [we'll call him Jack] just got a totally rad tattoo. He got CHRIST LIKE tattooed on his forearms. Christ on one, Like on the other. This guy is a total meathead/jock, so the forearms are the perfect place as he spends a ton of time with his beefy arms folded in front of his chest. Gross.

Anyway, the tattoo[s] really bother me. For several reasons:

A) BLASPHEMY. I'm down for making fun of just about everything, religion especially, but seriously and permanently comparing yourself to the [alleged] son of God? Come on man, that's too much. You'll never be that good.

B) Jack is not a good person. Here's a little history lesson: He and his wife were both in the Navy together. She received an honorable discharge on medical grounds PLUS early retirement as it turns out she has bum ticker. She underwent several open heart surgeries. They had a couple of kids. Jack stayed in the Navy. He then proceeded to cheat on his wife several times.

C) In between fucking other women and his own wife, Jack got into juicing. Unfortunately Uncle Sam found out and got pretty pissed. They threw him out and gave him a dishonorable discharge and to make things even better, our friend Jack rolled over on the seventeen other people that he was juicing with. Nice.

So now Jack has turned himself over to Christ. He also 'hates faggots', and constantly confuses the developmentally disabled adults we work with by filling their heads with religious rhetoric and bullshit. One time I called him on it and I'm pretty sure he flexed his muscles at me.

Back when Dorian was pregnant we had this conversation:

Jack: "So, your wife is knocked up, huh?"

Me: "Yes."

Jack: "AWESOME! Jesus really hooked you up on that one!"

Me: "What?"

In MORE boring news I have given up on maintaining my beard. I have taken to blow drying and brushing it after the shower as it is already so long that that sort of behavior is warranted. It's bushy and curly and I want it to be huge. Huger. The hugest. Dorian doesn't, but too bad.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Are you there, Caleb? It's me, Judy.

So Dorian's ex-boyfriend has moved on from harassing her via text message and drunken phone calls to lurking her facebook and blog. Apparently since my blog doesn't meet his high standards [he fancies himself a young Bukowski] he decided to make a vague attempt at hurting my feelings over the internet. On Facebook. Awww.

Caleb Macias:
You write like tessie circo, or clint bosan . . . or maybe if judy blume wrote adult oriented creative confessions . . . i like it, akin to the melesio special.

So naturally, I'm crushed.

Anyway, I have homework to do but I wanted to immortalize and cherish that little moment, as Caleb's sad attempts at besting me apparently know no bounds. Kudos to you, you scrawny little fuck. Have fun living with your parents in Armona, doing whatever it is you do.

In the mean time, I'll be here. Being happy and successful with my wife.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

An oldy but a goody.

So this is something I wrote in notepad when me and Dorian were both working for this shitting [meant to type 'shitty', whoa there Freud] customer service call center. I guess it was kind of like a blog, except it wasn't online, which meant no one read it. So, the only difference is that this one is online, right? PITY PARTY TIME, WHEE. Just kidding, I don't care. Anyway, I like it. It's like I was on drugs when I wrote it. I wasn't. I just had liquid pouring out of my ass. Or trying to. Anyway, enjoy:

I was sick at work today. When I woke up, I felt like bad news that
no one wanted. But that's okay. Anyway, before I woke up to get up
because the alarm clock was going off, I woke up because I thought
the alarm had never gone off.

So I jolted up, shook my head, mumbled, and went back to sleep. Six
thirty finally came. My alarm went off. I was up, dressed, and half
way ready for work by six forty. This is when I REALLY started
to feel like bad news. So I say, "I feel strange." and Dorian, she
says to me, she says, " So stop smoking." Like I have cancer. I
don't have cancer. Atleast I don't think so.

Then we're in my little red car, zipping along at the break-neck speed
of thirty two miles per hour. I'm smoking. Rubbing her leg, too.
It's a nice leg. Not too big, not too small. Just right. I hate
fucking porridge.

So then we're at work. At our lockers. Hers, neat an organized. Mine,
an orgy of crumpled papers, dried up pens and mindless doodles. She
goes her way, I go mine. I looked at her ass. Like her legs, it's good.
Although I tell her it's big. I never tell her it's too big. Just big.
Big enough for me. She says I'm big, but I don't think so. I tell her
that and she just laughs and rolls those big peepers of hers around and
around and around until I change the subject or pinch her nipples.

I don't remember which.

Anyway, at work, out of my locker, gear in hand, still feeling like bad
news. That's fine. I pooped before I came to work. I use the verb 'poop',
but really a large amount of liquid shit just fell out of me with no
effort on my part, big or small. I get to my cubicle, sit down. My
neighbor, or 'cubby buddy', as they're often referred to by the supes
looks at me and says, "You look grey." I just look at her, already
bored. Then she says, "Well, not your cheeks. Those are rosey, But
the rest of you looks grey." I look at her for a while longer, log
into my computer, thinking that my stomach is making noises that
can only signify trouble ahead. She's still looking at me, and I say,
"I feel strange." then I lurch out of my uncomfortable office chair,
half run-half stagger to the bathroom, and shit again.

Back in my cubicle, barely listening to the pre-shift meeting. My supe,
a moderately over weight apparently well educated yet still ghetto enough to fit in with her peers black woman named Aisha comes up to
my cube, looks at me, and starts to say "Are you okay? You look - "
and before she can finish I'm out of my chair and back in the bathroom.
This time I'm bending over the toilet, and foul smelling liquid is once
again being drained from my stomach, this time choosing my mouth as its
preferred emergency exit. When that's done, I pull down my pants and
shit again.

Back in the cube.

Seven thirty eight.

Pre shift meeting still going.

Aisha, the black woman I described moments ago, comes up and says,
"You okay, sweetie? You nah lookin' good!" I open my mouth, then
close it again, because I can feel more liquid and chunks rushing
up my throat.

Bathroom again, same dance as before, new song. I have never mastered
the art of vomiting quietly. I practically roar when the bitter juice
is flying out of my nose and mouth, small chunks becoming stuck in my
beard. This time, someone is in the other stall, and inbetween a couple
of loud farts, yet before the splash of a colossal turd making contact
with the cool water I want to bury my whole head in, they ask,
"You okay over there?"

"MUH," I say.

Back in the cube. Everyone staring.

It's suggested that I go home.

I put in my time off request, zip back home in my red car, nearly
shitting my pants on the way, lurch up stairs, fling open the door,
running into the bathroom, my feet hitting the floor and making this
interesting BARUMP BARUMP BARUMP noise the whole way. I wonder if
the people living underneath us can hear it, and if they appreciate it
as much as I do.

On the toilet, shitting. Nothing to read, and that's okay, because
now my eyes feel funny too.