Just Off Center

Well with my last post I got a couple people saying that it was a lot like all the quizzes that many of you post with yor favorite music and all that jazz. I have to admit that I half expect that some people will follow suit by posting about some of the heinous and hilarious things they once did in their lives. In fact, that's more the type of stuff that I like to know about my little blogger buddies. What I don't see is the connection between "I Once..." and the standard "this is me" quiz.

So, never being one to stop when I'm ahead, I've decided to take a stab at this quiz thing again. But this time, instead of telling you a bunch of cute and interesting little factoids about me, I've decided to quiz all of you on how well you've come to know me over the past six months.

Did you just say to yourself "Six months? But Mike's been posting since May. That's ten months!" ? If so, then you are already in my good graces. And let's face the truth here. Wouldn't you all be a little bit offended at the sheer arrogance of this game if it were anyone other than me? Damn I shouldn't have said that. Nevermind. Anyway, here's the quiz. And before you ask, no there aren't any pictures yet. So everyone who's just waiting to see a snap of me flipping you all the bird are just gonna have to sit tight. Happy Monday!

How well do you know me?

• Drove 120 miles for some egg rolls just to find that the restaurant didn’t open for two more hours.
• Told a girl that I was the sole heir to the Kessler Whiskey distillery to impress her
• Intentionally called a girl by the wrong name while having sex with her
• Puked on a white shag carpet at a party when everyone had passed out and blamed it on a friend
• Told a girl that I created Rusty Nails by NIN to impress her
• Ate an entire bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
• Stole ten dollars out of my mother’s wallet
• Took a drunken drive in a friend’s truck without asking his permission to go get cigarettes
• Accidentally came in my own mouth (it was a long shot – bah dum bum)
• Sliced my finger open playing with knives
• Got so stoned I saw my feet turn into fish
• Stole the loose change from a church collection box (bad company)
• Pretended to be deaf to a girl to solicit a sympathy fuck
• Sold my plasma for two months to afford a Christmas present
• Lied about my drug history to get into the Air Force
• Performed with Mel Torme and the Cincinnati Pops Orchestra
• Skipped out on a $50 bar tab
• Filled my tank with gas and drove off without paying
• Told a faghag that I was gay but wanted to try a woman before making my final decision
• Drank an entire bottle of Goldschlager
• Paid $2,500 for a car that stalled on the way home
• Recorded a CD with a musical ensemble and was nominated for a Grammy
• Told a guy that I had been shot in battle in Kuwait (I was 14 in 1990)
• Cheated my way from a ‘D’ to a ‘B’ and was lauded by my teacher for my great efforts
• Told a girl that I had never been able to come from a blowjob to get a blowjob (it worked)
• Passed out at a perverted gay man’s house and was likely molested in my sleep
• Got into a car accident without wearing a seatbelt
• Cantered the funeral of an archbishop
• Sold leftover fried chicken from my employer to classmates the next day for a year
• Told a girl that I was Mikey from the Life Cereal commercials
• Wore combat boots, a black trench coat, and a black beret for a year
• Applied to St. Meinrad monastery to become a Catholic priest
• Submitted myself to experimental drug testing and turned yellow
• Faked it
• Recited opera lyrics to a girl who got turned on by Italian men
• Made my wife laugh at me during sex by calling her a slut
• Made out with a boy in sixth grade
• Got punched by an old woman for trying to sing a Christmas Carol to her
• Ran a car off the road (just off the road, no damage or injuries)
• Told a girl with daddy issues that I had shot my father
• Dated two old high school crushes in college who ended up dating each other
• Planned a robbery just to see if I could
• Abandoned my best friend in a convenience store when we got caught shoplifting
• Talked a friend out of suicide
• Tried to learn how to breakdance
• Told a girl that I was the drummer in the band that was just on stage to impress her

Nina: Can I ask you a question?
Mike: You just did.
Nina: Do you ever look at other women and just think “damn”?
Mike: What do you mean? Like do I want to fuck other women?
Nina: No, like just looking at them makes you like “heeeey!”
Mike: Nina, we’ve had this conversation before. I’m married, but I’m not blind. Of course I can appreciate a good looking woman. That doesn’t mean I’m going to flirt with her or anything. Why do you ask?
Nina: Well I don’t want you to get upset, but…

Very recently Nina admitted to me that she was feeling some involuntary physical attraction to a man who works at a bagel shop she frequents. She explained it to me as a sensation that she can’t control. It’s purely physical and she can’t help but think about him in a sexual manner. Like most things about her that she feels guilty about, she sought solace in my possessing the same character flaw.

This was the first time Nina had felt like this. Now, I’m no stranger to getting inside women’s heads. Most of my best friends have either been girls, or more effeminate guys. I know that women think about sex…a lot. Almost as much as they think about food. But Nina seems to be quite a different animal. She only thinks about sex with me. She doesn’t think about especially kinky sex, like bondage, S&M, threeways, or D&S. She was very concerned that these feelings of hers were abnormal or that she was a bad wife for having them.

After a few minutes discussing this Sam came back into the room. Since I was about to leave anyway I asked her to step outside with me. I wanted to know about this “strapping young lad”. She was sparse with the details. And I didn’t really want to know who it was. I just wanted to know what it made her feel like doing. Did she imagine having sex with him? Did she get wet around him? That sort of thing concerns me more than the man she’s looking at. I mean, she once got upset because I got a partial while looking at pornos at the adult store with her. At any rate, I explained to her that what she was feeling was normal. The fact that she had never had this experience before was, to my way of thinking, the abnormal part. She asked if I felt that way. I admitted that I do. I encouraged her to accept those feelings as normal. “Hell, bring it home to me” I said (the lust, not the guy). My only request is that she at least talks to me before getting busy with someone else. She’s my wife and I’m not about to give my permission to let some other guy nail her. But if she’s having the thoughts, I want to know about it. It’s a moot point though, because she’s not. She’s just enjoying some eye candy.

Then over the course of the next day she, no doubt driven by guilt, she kept filling me in with little facts about her little mental fuck buddy, like where he works, how tall he is, etc… I told her I don’t want to know about him. When I asked her if she wanted me to give her a detailed overview of the chicks that I see who turn me on, she stopped hinting about him to me.

I can’t deny that I had to take a few minutes to process the thought of Nina imagining taking some other guy’s dick in her. But every time I started to get freaked out and offended I immediately ran into the wall of “How many hot asses have your eyes followed down the way?” Why should it be at all less acceptable for Nina to eye-hump some piece of strutting butt cake than for me to do the same? The answer of course is that it isn’t. In fact, this might just be a good impetus for her to get horny more often. This bagel boy might just be helping me get laid more often.

So then I started to think about whether or not Nina is actually the normal one, and I’m just a freaky hornball. Everyone knows how much I love my wife. And unfortunately, my insistence on telling the honest truth in this blog has made it so that many of you are all too familiar with the details of our sex life. After reading so many other women’s blogs I can’t help but think that most women have their fantasies about hot guys all the time, even if they are in a relationship. But does that make it ok for me be imagining sexual scenarios with hot chicks? I mean, I would never act on them, and I feel that they are as involuntary as Nina’s. But I can’t help but wonder.

One of the things that I’ve long maintained is that if women really truly knew what went through the average man’s head, they’d all consider lesbianism…or at least asexuality. You want to know the one thing better than watching a perfect ass or a well-shaped rack walking down the mall corridor? Try watching the reactions that men have when she passes by. Single, married, young, old, it doesn’t matter. It’s like watching a pride of lions when a sick gazelle limps by. Sure women know that they’re being looked at (I believe they’re counting on it), or at least they’re aware that men are looking at the hot women. But what about what they’re actually thinking? Women are always sizing each other up. We don’t do that. So what’s going through our heads? Images. Scenarios. Flashes of what it would be like to fuck her (you).

When Nina was going for her morning walks she would be passed by a kluge of cars heading out to their morning commute. Most would no doubt be driven by professional-aged men. I tried explaining to her that it’s not just the perfect pieces of ass that are being lusted for. I would bet anything that while she’s power walking down Johnson Ranch Blvd. there are no fewer than a dozen men passing her and instantly imagining her with two handfuls of privacy wall getting nailed from behind by the driver. She just couldn’t accept that yes, she is receiving that kind of attention. Then she couldn’t decide if she was offended or flattered. But then she asked me, “do you ever imagine that?”

“Ummm...ummm…fuck. Yes, Nina. But it’s a total jerk reaction. It’s this Neanderthal impulse that just happens without thinking.” Now I can begin to understand how this explanation doesn’t exactly help a person’s ego.

Well maybe she can start to understand that now that she’s getting hot over this sexy little bagel boy. Sure, she’s looking, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to start provocatively licking her lips when she’s eating her bagel in front of him. She doesn’t want to fuck him. She just…well…wants to imagine fucking him.

Of course now I’m searching the web to find out how I can get my hands on an Einstein Bros. Bagels’ uniform. No, there is no low to which I will not stoop.

I am a terrible human being. At least that’s what my gut reaction to something I’ve done recently would have me believe. I’ve laughed at a person who should not be laughed at. I’ll amend that. I’ve lost my shit laughing my bloody ass off at a person who should not be laughed at. It goes against the face that I put forward. We all have our face that we put forward to the world when we go to work or out with friends or on a date. It’s the way we want other people to see us. It’s also a more careful version of our true selves. We may have our prejudices and biases for or against certain things. But out of respect for other people and the fear of embarrassment we don’t make off color comments to people we’re not sure would appreciate them. I’ll give an example.

Just after I graduated high school I found myself with a whole summer at my disposal and not much to do. I had a job, but on my off hours I usually had nobody to hang out with or any hobbies, so I would just drive around. One day, I decided to drop by my grandparents’ house and pay them a visit. I knew that my grandpa was going in for eye surgery that next week and I was in the neighborhood, so why not be a good grandson and say hello?

When I got there my grandma was home but my grandpa was still at work. I don’t know what it was he did, but it was with his hands. He always came home wearing dirty blue coveralls and smelling of machine oil. Grandma fixed me a sandwich and asked about college. We chit chatted for about half an hour. The entire time, I’m trying not to seem like I was only there because I had nothing better to do. It’s nice to see them, but come on; these are grandparents. So I smiled and helped move things around for a little bit.

Grandpa got home and came in through the kitchen door. He looked tired and cranky. But then he was always a pretty surly old curmudgeon. None of the grandkids really knew much about him. But since one of his grandchildren was there he tried to be pleasant, and after a few minutes I could tell that it was becoming less of an act. I had the distinct impression that my grandparents had been squabbling either that morning or the previous night, and that the fight was not yet over. But we all put on our best behavior for each other.

After a few more minutes I decided to leave. I told them I had other errands to run, but that it was really nice to see them. I hugged my grandma and shook my grandpa’s hand. On my way down the steps to my ’82 Chevy Citation my grandpa imparted these words of caring and wisdom:

“Alright Mike. Say hi to your mom. Take care of yourself. And don’t let a nigger take your job.”

I stood there shocked. Grandpa was never one for tact, but this was the most blatantly racist thing I’d ever heard from a family member. In fact, this conversation was the most that he had ever spoken to me to my knowledge. I might have liked to ask him for some clarification at another time. But it turned out that he had some other complications besides his eyes, and he died in the hospital about a week later. So that last sentence was the crown jewel of advice from him to me. This was the legacy that he would want me to live up to. Well I did say hi to my mother for him. I do try to take care of myself, though I fail more often than I succeed. And to date I don’t believe I’ve ever had an employer replace me with an African American. So I guess he’d be proud…I guess.

My point in all this is that it was only at that last moment that my grandpa either felt it would be appropriate or decided that I just needed to hear these words. His intentions are uncertain, and will stay that way. But it makes me wonder how it is that even among family we believe that we should gown our tongues because what we truly wish to do or say may be seen as offensive. Why don’t we all just speak our minds? And when we hear or see something that strikes us as funny though it isn’t meant to be, why don’t we just laugh at it?

And now to why I’m a terrible person. Two days ago, I asked my coworker, Mike, to drive me from work to a tire store where Nina’s car was ready to be picked up. Mike drives a big ass blue Suburban, so the seats are higher from the ground allowing us to see into the vehicles around us. As we approached a stoplight I saw one of those long vans used with three or four rows of seats. Upon further examination, I further realized that the passengers onboard were of the “special” persuasion.

I know almost nothing of mental retardations. I don’t find drooling, large headed mentally challenged people to be funny just because of how they are. That’s the kind of shit that stupid, immature little boys do. I actually am reminded of this time when a young man with Bells Palsy approached Nina and her Hell Boy looking arms after she had Carpal Tunnel surgery. They were wrapped with so much gauze and tape that they were twice as thick as her biceps. The young boy just walked up to her from her mother and asked what happened to her. Nina, not wanting to get into a lengthy discussion with this nice guy who probably wouldn’t understand anyway said, “Oh, I just hurt myself”. The boy just got this really sad and solemn look on his face and gave her a big hug. Nina had been holding back most of her emotions so this sent her over the edge and she started sobbing uncontrollably at the boy’s sweet gesture. The mother just looked on with pride and love. I was touched too. It was the most kindness Nina had received from a stranger in a long time, maybe ever. So, when I see a retarded (is it alright to say that?) person I think of that and just try to divert my eyes like most people. And that’s what I was just about to do when I saw the woman in the back seat.

The woman in the back seat was facing the rear of the van. She was obviously mentally retarded in some way. Her eyes looked slow and her head pointed low. Mike and I were just about to face forward when all of the sudden her hands emerged in sight. Within her grasp was a white cotton towel that had been rolled up into a tube shape. And without warning this woman opened her mouth and started eating the fucking towel. I mean she was shoving it in inches at a time, clamping her maw down and making room for more. She was determined to get this entire towel into her mouth. She held it with one hand and began to pound on the back end of the tube with the palm of her other hand. Her eyes looked as sleepy as before, except that she was shoving this cloth phallus down her throat.

Mike and I just gasped and turned our heads forward. And tried to stifle our laughter. But it was no use. It was just too random and surreal. We had to cup our hands over our faces and turn our heads toward the driver’s side door. But we just lost it. It was one of those laughs that has you screaming instead of laughing and where you start pounding on your leg or the dashboard. When the light turned green we were still teary-eyed. But we drove away and never saw the van again.

After a couple moments more, Mike started to feel bad about having just laughed out loud a retarded person. And I could feel it welling up inside me too. But what could I do? It was fucking hysterical. I mean what would you do if you saw something so strange? Should I have said “Gosh, Mike do you suppose there’s some medical premise behind the attempted deep-throating of a cotton towel?” Or perhaps I should have just not looked at all. I mean I could have rolled down the window and ask the glottally gifted woman to marry me or just pointed and screamed in laughter. But I didn’t. I just enjoyed the humor of a situation I didn’t create. Then again, maybe I’m just rotten by genetics. Maybe when I get old, I’ll also become a “don’t let a nigger take your job” kind of guy. Only time will tell.

But right or wrong, that shit was fucking funny.

I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve posted. I’ve been busier than a two-headed whore these past few weeks. However, the fact that I haven’t had time to write any posts shouldn’t suggest that nothing has been going on. My life has been filled with all of the little things and big things that it usually sees.

Sam is now staying at my house indefinitely. He’s a lot of fun and so far has proven to be very respectful of my house and my things. He always offers to get out of my chair when I get home, stops playing the Gamecube if I want to watch TV, and offers me a cigarette at least once every day. I’m glad that Nina has a friend to talk to while I’m gone at work. Since I work so far away I only get to spend about 12 hours at home, most of those asleep. And just yesterday he happened across a fellow former Hoosier who basically offered him an electrician’s job in the area.

Nina quit her paper route last night. Or rather, she fulfilled her notice last night. So that’s it for her and I’m thrilled. Nina is a very strange animal when it comes to her work. Take this paper route as a perfect example. Once Nina realized that she was going to have to run a paper route every night, she dove in as she always does…completely. From that point on, she becomes all about her work. She must do her job perfectly. She must complete her route on time or early every day. She must make sure that every paper has every insert. The car must be loaded with papers in a configuration that matches her specifications. Every detail of the job is set in her mind and no deviations or mistakes will be tolerated.

Granted, this makes her terribly efficient and productive. But it also makes her, at times, damn near intolerable. It’s a fucking paper route. Admittedly, I’m not the most stringent of perfectionists. But if it were my route, I wouldn’t give a rat fuck if some anal shithead were mad that the neighbor’s dog was stealing the paper and he was blaming me for it. She’s received only a handful of customer complaints since she started the route. Whenever she would get one, she immediately became horribly offended at the audacity of the customer to suggest that Nina would ever make any mistake in her work. And she would let it irritate her for weeks. At any rate, now it’s over. I’m looking for a part-time second job to cover her portion of the income. (Insert disclaimer where I tell everyone that it was all my idea that she quit the route here) And I don’t mind one bit. I don’t care if I’m bringing shopping carts back up to the store. As long as Nina is done with this goddamned fucking paper route.

I finally pulled my supervisor aside to tell him what a lazy fuck my coworker is. I’ve just had enough of him showing up late every fucking day, disappearing for hours, sitting on his ass instead of working, making my whole site look bad through his non-productivity, and blaming anyone and everyone but himself. At first I was just going to point out the lateness and the lack of effort. But then everything just started spilling out. I was ratting him out on every shitty aspect of his job and personality. By the time I was done I had painted a picture of him that was so bad I didn’t think he’d last another week. Ever since then, my supervisor has been spending a lot more time in my office watching us. I’m doing my job and Carl spends most of his time arguing with my boss about why he’s unable to do his job (that many before him, my boss included, were able to do just fine). All I can do is wait and pray for a transfer.

I haven’t gotten laid in a while. I wasn’t going to write anything sex-related in this post, since it was meant to be all about updating everyone on the happenings since I got so busy. But while I was thinking of things to write about it occurred to me that I haven’t had any sex in what seems like quite a while. I could be wrong about that. Maybe it was two weeks ago. I don’t know, but it feels like it’s been a few years. I suppose with Sam around, and all that’s been going on with work and Nina’s route, and us arguing more frequently about stupid bullshit, we’ve both just forgotten about fucking each other. This is very strange, because no matter how busy I am I never forget about being hot for my wife. Hmm. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe I’m starting to lose some portion of my libido. Like most relationships, it used to be that I wanted about fifteen times more sex than Nina wanted, or was even willing to submit to. But for some reason, I just haven’t even thought about laying pipe for a while. Maybe this is a good thing. If I want less sex, I’ll be less frequently disappointed when I get turned down. Nah, I’m pretty sure I like being a pervy hornball.

About four weeks ago Nina and I were hanging out at our neighbors’ house just talking and drinking and such. The topic of movies came up as it usually does as Derek and I are both movie aficionados. Then one of the women had the great idea of putting together a “movie night” where we all get together one the weekend and each of us takes a turn showing the group a movie that is important or beloved in some way. The film is preceded by a brief narrative about why the movie is so special to them and what they hope the group enjoys about it. Then the title is announced and the film can begin. Ever the culinary artist, Nina came up with an idea to augment our enjoyment of movie night. Whoever is hosting that night’s selection will not only give a speech before it begins, but will also prepare a meal for the group themed to follow that of the film. Buffy showed us Pretty Woman and we had Champagne and fresh strawberries. Vivian and Edward enjoyed this treat the first night before she blew him on the couch. Nina showed us Love Actually and we had chicken kabobs, which was supposed to be the little drummer boy’s favorite meal, though he refused to eat while he was practicing for the big concert. Tomorrow is Derek’s turn. I have selected my movie, but I’m still not sure what to make. If anyone is in the Queen Creek area, feel free to drop by.

1,926 square feet is a decent sized living space. Nina and I are very happy with our home. But when it comes time to clean the house up and get it ready for company, it seems to be about twice that size. We have some friends coming to stay with us this weekend so we’re spending the week make the house look like we have a live-in maid who keeps us in perfect tidiness at all times. You know the drill. So we’re going from room to room, picking up, straightening, dusting, vacuuming, mopping and anything else that makes the house sparkly and ready to impress. I can’t say that I can’t think of more entertaining ways to spend my off hours. But I understand the need for it. I don’t personally go into a friend’s house and start wondering how much time they spent prepping it for my arrival. But then the female is a different animal, now isn’t it.

Well, that’s just a sampling of what’s been going on in the past two weeks. I could go on for hours, but I can’t stand reading other peoples’ blog posts that are like 3,000 word essays. If I don’t talk to any of you soon, I miss you and hope you have a lovely weekend.

The other night I was sitting at the bar of our favorite Italian restaurant having a couple beers and waiting for Nina et al to arrive. As I sat on the tall stool I noticed that there was a couple at the end of the bar speaking with a friend of theirs. It was obvious that the couple was married and the man was single and dating. As I stared at their paltry selection of vodka (Absolut is NOT top shelf) I was able to tune my right ear into their conversation. It was nothing out of the ordinary. The married woman was grilling the single man on his latest conquests while the married man and woman kept making cute little jibes at each other. I was prompted to write. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my super-fucking-cool combination key chain/LED flashlight/eight-second voice recorder and recorded the following phrase: “My God, we’re annoying.”

Throughout my blog I’ve taken great pains to point out the ridiculous behavior of…well pretty much everyone. But it wasn’t until this exact moment that I realized what a burden it must be for a single person to have to sit there and spend a full meal with a married couple. I’m talking about the happily married, or at least happy enough. The ones that are on the rocks can provide a great deal of entertainment. Just watch for the “looks”. But after carefully considering what it would be like to be a single man hanging out with me and Nina I can see how it must be damned near intolerable. God, I love using bullets.

• Is this dinner or dinner theater? – One thing about most married couples, the wives in particular; they love to give their single guests a performance. When you sit there with a married couple, it is inevitable that at some point in the evening you’re going to be subjected to one of their bits. This may come in the form of a vacation story or a holiday anecdote. It will become painfully evident within seconds that this is one of their trademark endearments by the way they switch seamlessly back and forth between storytellers. They will each comment on how the other person did something really silly and probably stereotypical to the gender. The other will butt in and justify their actions. This will repeat for ten minutes. In the end you are supposed to laugh and coo over their adorableness and perfect matchedness. Based on your reaction, you may be blessed with several more of these throughout the evening. You should hear our story about the time we met. You’ll be exhausted by the time we get through the first semester.


• Oh gross, are they gonna use this material later? – I’m coming up on seven years of actual marriage with Nina. We’re good. We have our spats and issues, but we get through them. The problem is that they’re all the same old spats and issues. And while a single person’s issues are usually very boring to a married couple there’s one aspect of the single life that is always interesting…the SEX LIFE! Married couple want to hear all about who you’re nailing, how, where, when, how often, and how big the batteries were. If you’re out with a married couple, just start spouting off the most ridiculous erotica that pops into your head. They’ll be riveted to the table. It’s not that I’m going to take this mental image and replace my wife’s head or body in some masturbatory fantasy. But to a couple who have been sharing the exact same naughty bits for several years, just hearing about the existence of other naughty bits is better than 4th of July fireworks.


• Is it alright with you if I just make my own mistakes? – There is one universal truth to all married couple when it comes to the relations they have with single people. We fucking love us some advice giving! I mean you just go ahead and name any part of your life that isn’t perfect and we’ve got your solution. We’ve been there you know. We were once single and lived in a one bedroom apartment, so we know just what you need to do to take care of that eviction notice. Got boyfriend or girlfriend troubles? Don’t worry. We’re married, so we have figured it all out. And we’d be happy to tell you all about how. In fact, we goddamned insist on it. And if you should happen to be perfectly content with your life such as it is, never fear. Married couples will always be there to make you feel like you’re just settling or that you’re masking the real pain. After all, we’re married. We’ve fought so many times that we know a true look of peace and contentment. And you are not happy at all. Trust us.


• Hi Mikenina! Good to see you again – I have this (ahem) friend who is somewhat of a commitment-phobe. He never has less than two dates scheduled for any given week, regardless of how beautiful and sweet the girl he’s dating is. I can’t imagine anything that would exacerbate his fear than to spend a lot of time around married people. You know that old argument that once you get married you lose your identity? Well to an extent, it’s absolutely true. To what extent is the issue. Nina and I try to maintain our own identities. But to a single person I have no doubts that we must seem like two sides of the same coin. Two sides of the same perfect, sexy, smart, funny, and successful coin sure. But the same coin nonetheless. All of her issues become your issues. All of her fears become your concerns, and so on. And if not, they fucking well should be. But for a person still playing the field, that must look like one hell of a sellout.



Holy hell. We are fucking annoying! Nobody told me this shit was going to happen before April 17, 1998. Maybe I just wasn’t looking in the right places. Then again, if I had truly known how I would annoy the single people around me would I have gotten married at all? Oh who am I kidding? Annoying people is the very air I breathe. Now let me tell you what you need to do to deal with this situation with…

So yesterday I'm walking down the hallway at work and I decide to stop by the bullshit little mini-cafeteria that most assuredly had once been the storage closet for old mopheads and bucket water scum. I realize that I've had less than my requisite 40 oz. of piping hot, blissful, morning's mellow orgasm, International Foods French Vanilla flavored coffee. As I make my way around the little coffee bar that also serves as a selling point for shriveled oranges, day old Krispy Kremes and Moon Pies I manage to fill to the line my pretty, bottom-wide coffee mug that is the same red color as our company logo. I'm a contractor, bitch! Step off! As I try to prep my java in a manner that is quick and yet pays appropriate respect for the ceremony that is adding two creamers and four Equals, I keep rubbing bodies with all of the other patrons looking for a cup 'o jo and a breakfast burrito. I fucking hate bodily contact, especially with my customers. Customers have fucking mad cooties.

Creeped out, but victorious, I make my way to the cash register where some old heifer is paying for her cheese danish in nickels and chatting the cashier up about how much she likes her hair. "I used to wear it that way when I was in my twenties. God that was decades ago." Nice compliment, Jello. As she lumbers away toward my freight elevator, as do all fat useless women who have to make the arduous trek up one flight of steps, I finally get to pay for my faux-international coffee. I know it's ninety one cents, baby. You're dealing with a fucking professional here. See my red mug? I throw down my Washington and collect a shiny dime in change. Yeah! This broad shows respect to the real playas by putting the kibitz on all that penny bullshit.

Now I'm strolling in as close to a strut as a half asleep Mike can. This looks more like the "limp to the side like your leg was broken" part of the Humpty Dance, but without all that unnecessary "crazy whack funky". In my state of partial unconsciousness I make the error of missing my pocket as I try to store the dime. The dime bounces off my work boot and lands on the never-waxed linoleum floor. Now the pennies can all just lay there for the poor folks. But I'm not about to let a full tenth of a dollar slip away like that. I bend down to pick up the dime, but I must have been too confident in my wedge and lift technique. As my knees start to pop back into place, lifting me to my full five foot ten inchedness, I realize that I have been unsuccessful in getting my fingernail under the dime. There it lays, mocking me. And I have been standing in one place long enough to get the attention of passersby.

Now I'm getting annoyed, because I hate it when I can't pick something up for no good goddamned reason. So I bend down one more time, and more carefully attempt to pick up the troublesome coin. Once again I am outsmarted. The dime just lays there stuck to the flooring as I nearly stand up again. Now I'm pissed. I'm looking like more of a fool than that lady in building 2 who wears her hair in a giant bowl shape, like she wants to walk around carrying fruit in it. I've never been one to just progressively and incrementally increase concentration when a task frustrates me. I'm more of a "if a nudge didn't budge it, the sledgehammer should" type of guy. So I slam down my coffee. Droplets fly up and then land back in the mug, thank you very much. I get down on one knee, looking at the dime with defiance and rage as though it were about to be melted down in my fiery gaze. Enough of this thumb and middle finger bullshit. It's a five fingered claw move to settle this score. And so with great force, and a possibly juvenile about of determination, I snatch up my dime and stand up just a little bit taller than I was just moments ago.

Taking a moment to spin around, I am able to see that nobody was actually watching the event. It seems they have their own coffee and dime troubles. Fine. No harm, no foul. However, as I was walking up the stairs, like a full grown, non-gelatinous mass hominid, I started to think of all the other little things in my life that can infuriate me for apparent reason. I think it's when things don't work the way they're supposed to that I start to feel the veins in my neck tensing. Nina's seen me blow my gaskets over the stupidest shit more times than I'd care to count. But it's not my fault, swear to the Maker. If the non-English speaking janitorial crew had waxed the floors once in a while, that dime would have been snatched right up, thus allowing me to keep my composure and possible an extra twenty minutes before my first heart attack. And it doesn't stop there. There are plenty of little things that give me thirty-second ulcers.

Take Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for example. Have you ever tried to open a box of the old-fashioned powder and noodles concoction as suggested on the packaging? It clearly states that if I press my thumb against the side of the box at the dotted line that the perforation should tear, allowing my thumb to break the cardboard seal and continue on its path of ripping off the box top without a single macaroni spil't. But that's not how it works. No fucking way, hombres! Oh, you may press with your thumb like you're supposed to, but that cardboard doesn't tear. The perforation doesn't give. It just starts to cave in toward the box top until the physics of cardboard and applied pressure make it such that you'll never get that fucking dotted line to give way. And the harder you push, the worse it gets. In the end I'm yelling at a Crackerjack box wannabe and biting the entire box top off. Because biting the box top off makes the box know that you win. You're not just going to quietly grab a butter knife and help that perforation split. Biting is the only way to punish the box for its insolence.

And whose dick do I have to suck to hear a goddamned song on the radio when I'm driving home? I mean don't these radio stations have at least one guy sitting in a room with about six little radios, all tuned to the competitors' stations, just waiting for them all to simultaneously go to commercial? Then they can just press the "Put on a song, quick" button and be the fucking heroes of the 4:39 P.M. Loop 101 traffic jam. It doesn't even have to be anything good. You've got a fucking lock on the market. I mean I'll fucking choke somebody if I have to hear any more of that that monotone fuck droning on about his precious fucking Shane Company. Play Candlebox or even the fucking Red Hot Chili Peppers. Why hasn't anyone thought about this? Isn't it bad enough that I'm stuck behind five thousand tourists and snowbirds? Do I have to click on channel after channel hearing nothing but screaming car salesmen? RAH!

And what about the toilet paper at my office? I could use that serrated plastic edge on the dispenser to saw off my fucking hands if I wanted. Yet every time I try to rip any off of the roll, it just starts tearing longways. So then I have to tear off the other half, put the two together and wrap the whole wad up like some weird pre-ass wiping origami. And it happens every time! I've tried yanking harder, I've tried slow pulls. I've tried holding it and ripping. I've done it all. IT NEVER WORKS! FUCK!!!

O.K. Breathe, Mike. Hummmmmmmmmmmm. Alright. See what I mean though? All of this could be avoided if they just wax the floor, use a better needle to make the Kraft Macaroni and Cheese boxes, hire some schlep at minimum wage to press the "music NOW" button, and make a non-split-down-the-middle brand of bulk Toilet paper. How can I, or anyone for that matter, be held responsible for their childish tantrums in the face of such stupidity? Yeah, that's what I fucking thought!