BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Continued from: Here, Have A Sanka ™…

Well, I promised a followup to the Sanka silliness, and here it is. In some ways it’s a bit fitting that this comes in the wake of me posting a status update on Facebook announcing my disdain for folks who do nothing but whine and bitch. Fortunately, I do plenty more than just whine and bitch. Still, everyone needs to let it out once in a while – just not all the time. But that’s a different blog, and trust me, it’s already in the works so look for it in the not too distant future.

But on with “The Bad Place”…

The first thing I should establish here is that I am not in any way, shape, or form afraid of hard work. I spent my summers back on the farm, and had plenty of chores to do growing up. I learned valuable lessons, not the least of which was that hard work does in fact pay off in the end. So, I never considered any place where I worked a bad place simply because it entailed work. I never felt like said establishment(s) “owed” me a job. I would perform my prescribed duties at 100% and if at all possible, push it to 110% or more. I never complained about overtime. In fact, I would often step in and take the overtime – UNPAID on many occasions – before I would expect someone on my team to give up their time off.

Now, with that established, we shall move on…

Before I started making a living – or, trying to, at least – writing books, I was a computer/printer tech. I did this job for a little over 25 years, and made some decent cash in the process. More than I make writing, that’s for sure… But I digress…

For just under 10 years – the LAST 10 years of my tech career, in fact – I worked at The Bad Place…

While it shall remain nameless on the pages of this blog, some of you likely know the place of which I speak. At least one of you, I know for certain, is  also a survivor of its “badness”…

It was, and still is, an ulcer on my life. Fortunately, it is no longer an ulcer on humanity because it crashed and burned not long after I exited the front door of the offices for the very last time – as an employee, anyway. I did go back and have lunch with some of the folks who still worked there because they were friends, AND the only thing that made the place tolerable.

You see, what made The Bad Place so bad was the owner. This guy had a self-centered, paranoid, “the world owes me” attitude that simply would not quit. I realize that a good majority of folks out there are probably saying the same things about their bosses even as I type this. However, lest I cause my dormant ulcer to flare and give me fits because of reliving that mess, allow me to simply enumerate a few of the daily issues with this wingnut and let y’all decide if I’m right in calling it The Bad Place…

I would also like to note that I am NOT making this shit up, nor am I embellishing it. I have witnesses…

1. Some days I wouldn’t have time to swing by the post office, so I would take my mail – pre-stamped, mind you – in with me and drop it in the outbox on the front counter. Many of us did. Stuff like bills, rebate coupons for diapers (the o-spring was small then). Then one day, things changed. Bad Place Boss walked in the front door and every morning would grab all of the outgoing mail out of the box. He would stand at the counter and go through it, sorting it into piles. After a few days of doing this he brought your mail back to you and demanded to know WHY you put YOUR personal outgoing mail in HIS outgoing mailbox. Easy to fix, correct? Leave a bit earlier from home and hit the post office. Well, I did that. When I walked through the door of the shop he was waiting for me. He announced that he had seen me drive past the shop and demanded to know where I had gone. Mind you, besides it being none of his business, I was 30 minutes early to work ANYWAY, so it’s not like I was showing up late. When I told him that I’d gone to the post office he accused me of lying because the post office isn’t open that early. BTW, he continued to inspect the outgoing mail on a daily basis just in case someone dared to put something in it that he hadn’t personally authorized.
2. He would throw away stuff that didn’t need to be thrown away. Like brand new parts. Seriously. A box of motherboards. Processors. The software he used for payroll. Just chuck it all right in the dumpster along with the junk that DID need to be thrown away. THEN, if he saw someone digging through the dumpster (which belonged to the strip mall, mind you) for scrap metal and such he would run out there and threaten to call the police on them. Why? His words – Because they shouldn’t be allowed to make money off of HIS stuff.
3. Weekly trips to the east side… The “east side” is an area across the river known for strip clubs. A minimum of twice per week he would leave at 10:30 AM to go over to the east side for lunch and return shortly before closing time, drunk and smelling like a whore house. Okay, fine… That’s his business not ours… The problem is, he would insist on telling us ALL about it whether we wanted to hear it or not. This also went for the women on staff too. The best part was that in his vocal opinion, we were all going to hell because we weren’t good Catholics like him.
4. Following in the footsteps of the above, twice per year he would go to Vegas for the consumer electronics show. He would leave for a week but only attend the show for 6-8 hours on one day. That span grew shorter and shorter over the years. The rest of the time was spent in sex clubs and with call girls. Again, all good. I’m actually in favor of legalizing prostitution nationwide. I don’t see anything wrong with it at all. But again, I had no desire to be subjected to the graphic details of his exploits with each of these women, all while hearing that I was going to hell because I didn’t believe in his God. Oh, and by the way – he’s married – I assume he still is, anyway – and I often had to have uncomfortable conversations with his wife when she’d call wanting to know where he was at lunchtime.
5. All of the above exploits were on the company’s dime. Yeah. His company, his money. However, when he is spending hundreds – sometimes thousands – on hookers and we couldn’t order parts from our suppliers because our accounts were way past due, it made it hard for us to do our jobs. And, of course, we were the ones the customers were yelling at, not him.
6. Eventually he just went ahead and hired a couple of long term hookers and put them on the payroll. Seriously.
7. When we couldn’t get parts, he would go through the trash and pull out blown parts. As in TOAST. As in NOT WORKING. Done. Exploded. No longer functional. Then he would sell them to customers as new.
8. When an angry customer with an exploded part he had sold them would come back in, he would hide in his office and expect us, the techs, to deal with it.
9. He fired competent employees in order to hire A) A drinking and carousing buddy and/or (most especially) B) The first short skirt that walked through the door with a resume in her hand, even if she had the secretarial and phone skills of a comatose baboon.
10. He announced to the entire staff one day that we wouldn’t be buying anything from a particular supplier any longer. His reasoning? We had bought quite a bit from them over the years and when he had a face to face meeting with our sales rep – a young, pretty individual of the female type persuasion – he didn’t get what he wanted. What did he want, you ask? A blowjob. He claimed she owed it to him for all the product we had purchased over the years. Speaking of blowjobs, he once told me to tell a female friend of mine that he would hire her to be a receptionist, IF she would give him one. In case you are wondering, I didn’t. In fact, I told her to go look for a job someplace else.
11. The daily shout fest. Bad Place Boss was big on yelling at everyone because, of course, everything that ever happened was everyone else’s fault. The company wasn’t making enough money because we were all lazy assholes who were  just there taking advantage of his good graces. The fact that he had bought his staff hooker a plasma TV, paid her rent, car payment, and tickets from company funds had absolutely NOTHING to do with why we had no money in the bank. And, the fact that we were unable to purchase parts for repairs because of said lack of funds shouldn’t keep us from billing customers anyway.
12. The aforementioned billing customers anyway thing – he would insist customers pre-pay for systems they ordered, then he would never order the components needed to build said custom system. Why? Because he would spend the pre-pay money on his hookers and couldn’t manage to pay for the parts.
13. Another favorite that is much like the above – as techs we would sell systems and often times entire networks – several systems, cabling, support, etc – to big companies. The IT folks with these companies would know us on a first name basis and would be waving cash at us, ready to buy. BUT the boss guy maintained control over all bids. Therefore, we would turn in the info to him and he would send out a bid to the company. NOT. We would get calls on a daily basis from folks saying, “I’ve been waiting for that bid for three months. I can’t wait any longer, you lost the sale.”… Believe me, we’d remind him on a daily basis about the bids. He’d either tell us he was getting right on it, or yell at us for bothering him about them. 9 times out of 10, he would follow up with heading out the door to see one of his hookers – of course, he would always strenuously remind us that if his wife called we were to tell her he had an important meeting with the “chamber of commerce.”

There you go… more than a dozen of them for you… I could go on, and on, and on. I kid you not. But this blog entry is long and depressing enough as it is. Sorry to say, there’s nothing actually funny about it either.

At any rate, I think you can easily see why I called it The Bad Place. And, why I am much happier being away from it.

Well, that, and I’m married to the hottest redhead on the planet and have the coolest kid ever. Sometimes, you have to go through hell to get to heaven, I guess…

More to come… (Funny next time, I promise…)

Murv

Part 6 of 12

Continued from: Mahwage: Goin’ To The Chapel…

So, in the previous installment we established that Tom Hanks wasn’t available for my bachelor party. Neither were Tawny Kitaen nor Adrian Zmed. I’ve never forgiven any of them for that, and it is largely why you will never see us together in public, or private, for that matter. Well, that and the fact that we don’t know one another, but that’s just one of those small details… On with being “mobile”…

As all men are born knowing, there is a certain code that must be followed with regard to bachelor parties… really… it’s built right into our genetic makeup. But, anyway, all men know if you are tapped to be your buddy’s best man when he takes the plunge you have been telling him not to take ever since you were old enough to understand the ramifications… (Whew… that was a mouthful… Deep breath…) You know, inherently and without any outside influence, it is a moral imperative that you take your buddy out and get him completely and totally f*cked up. Preferably, the night immediately before the wedding.

Now, women have caught on to this in recent years. No doubt because they are generally a whole lot smarter than men give them credit for… (yeah, I know, ending in a preposition… it’s a blog… cut me some slack)… To be honest, women are generally a damn sight more intelligent than men, period. But let us not digress into a discussion about my submissive side and E K’s collection of handcuffs, leather items, and stiletto he… Err… umm…

Just ignore that last part, okay?

So, anyway, since you ladies know what’s up with that crap, you have had a tendency to put the brakes on the time honored tradition, insisting instead that the bachelor party be held a week or so prior to the event so as to allow for recovery time.

Well, Kathy didn’t do that. It’s not that she was oblivious to anything. I mean, after all, she’s friggin’ brilliant and it’s virtually impossible to get anything over on her. It requires an entire government conspiracy, unmarked helicopters, tranquilizer darts, and James Bond to pull even a shred of wool over her eyes. (Although, if the 007 in question happened to be the Pierce Brosnan incarnation, E K would probably be going by some “Bond Girl” name like Kitten McSharpclaws, and I would most likely be finding myself suddenly single and crying in my beer… Yeah, E K is all about that guy. I have no idea what she sees in him… I mean, it’s not like he’s insanely handsome, intelligent, philanthropic, faithful to a fault…Oh wait… he is… never mind.)

So, anyway, E K didn’t put her foot down on anyone’s neck. Not right then anyway. She’s definitely stepped on her share since, but not without just cause, believe me. Even though she has nicknames that seem as though they belong to some kind of psycho woman, they are really and truly all in fun. She is one of the most even tempered people I know, and I’m not just saying that to score points with her. Trust me, scoring points with E K requires a hell of a lot more than a handful of pretty words…

And, speaking of points, (like how I did that?) the point here being, she allowed Scott to plan the bachelor party for the night immediately before the wedding. October 31 was falling on a Saturday that year, so Friday night was on for the festivities. Kat was going out with her Matron of Honor, (remember Erin?), and some other ladies for a nice dinner, and whatever women do at Bachelorette parties… yeah, I know, I’ve seen some home videos… But, as it turned out E K and her friends didn’t go that route. She was exhausted and after dinner and a couple of drinks she came home and went to bed. Or so she maintains…

Me however… well, that was a different story. Scott arrived in a rented 12 passenger van. He had already picked up a few of the guys, and we made the rounds to pick up the rest. In the back of this van was a cooler… In the cooler was beer… something on the order of 48,000 beers… No kidding. The damn thing never became empty and, at Scott’s direction, neither did my hand. What I mean is the moment I would finish a beer, someone would reload my hand. If I wasn’t drinking fast enough, they found a way to get me to slam whatever brew I was holding so they could… Yeah, you guessed it.  Reload.

Once everyone was on board, we made the rounds of several bars in the Saint Louis area. As would be expected, these bars all featured scantily clad, young, busty, leggy, flirtatious waitresses. And, at each stop the mantra became, B-52!

Nope, not the Love Shack,  Rock Lobster, Channel Z folks… I’m talking about the drink. A triple layered shot of Bailey’s, Grand Marnier and Kahlua… sometimes set on fire. AKA a Flaming B-52…

So, at each and every bar we would begin the stay with a round of B-52’s… Although, to be honest, I think it was less of a round and more of a pair… I was always presented with one, and whoever else in the group got tapped to drink with me that “round” to make me think everyone was getting trashed, and not just me.

Now, so you understand, Scott is a responsible guy. After all, a year later he officially became a cop and is probably one of the best cops around… So, he wasn’t drinking booze. He was staying sober so that he could drive, and watch out for everyone else, in particular me, as you will see later…

And so, the B-52 chant continued… with help from the outside. You see, these characters were not at all shy about telling everyone in the bar that I was a “dead man walking,” so to speak. Therefore, I became the object of much fawning by waitresses. (Believe me, I know they were well tipped. I saw the dollar bills flying.) And, there were extra drinks, courtesy of other patrons in the establishment: usually a B-52… Or 3… Or 4… Yeah. Go figure. Although, I must admit, I do vaguely remember something about Kamikaze’s and Purple Hooters. Thinking back, it’s a wonder I didn’t end up in a hospital detox ward…

By this time it was relatively late, and I had not yet had anything to eat for dinner. But, they had a plan there too… On the way to our next stop on the “get drunk in St. Lou” tour, we swung into the drive-thru of White Castle. Now, I know they don’t have White Castle everywhere, but they have equivalents I believe… For instance, in the south the closest you would find would be Krystal’s… However, if you have no equivalent, and no idea what I am talking about, White Castle, (and the equivalents,) serve these little, square, steam grilled with onions burgers. They have a unique taste, and are a staple for drunken binges. Since they are small, a grown man will generally eat around 4 to 6 of them. Sometimes more, if he’s really hungry. If he’s drunk, usually quite a few more. You have probably heard these burgers referred to as Sliders, or the ever popular Saint Louis moniker, Belly Bombers.

Well, they get the nicknames honestly… You see, they have a lingering effect on one’s digestive system. Especially if one has been drinking heavily. The thing is however, said effect usually doesn’t roll around for about 6 to 12 hours after consumption… See where I’m headed with this?

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many of those things I ate that night…

So, anyway… Eventually, as all Saint Louis based bachelor parties tend to do, we ended up across the river in Illinois, smack in the middle of what is called the “East Side”. This is where you find the bars where the waitresses are not scantily clad. Well, actually, the waitresses are scantily clad… but, the other women who work there are mostly naked and swinging around shiny poles… Or wiggling around on your lap… Or sticking your face in their cleavage… Or… Well, you get the picture.

Guess what? We didn’t go into one of those bars. No kidding. I remember it had to do with one of the guys in the group not wanting to go in, and I was so drunk at that point that I backed him up, slurring my way through, “If he ain’t goin’, I ain’t goin’…” He didn’t make any friends of the other guys that night, trust me… Fortunately, they didn’t hold it against me that I backed him up, because they knew I was so trashed that I had no clue what I was saying. Besides, they also knew that it was all their fault that I was out of my head drunk in the first place… Well, not all their fault I don’t guess, but that they had been the primary contributors, that’s for sure…

Instead, we grabbed a table at one of the big dance club type bars and sat  there drinking beer. At least, that’s what I think I was doing. Everything was kind of moving in slow motion, including the music and sound around me. It was much like that part in the original Terminator movie when Arnie comes into the techno dance club on a mission to off Sarah Connor…

I do remember that at one point I hauled myself off to the restroom to unload some of the drink my kidneys had finally managed to process, and while becoming acquainted with the urinal someone stuck something in my back and demanded my wallet. Being trashed I just replied, “Yeah right. Very funny.” (Although, I suspect it probably came out more like, “Nyabnigh, furrvffblee nubby.”) Still, in response to my slurred words, whatever it was in my back went away, and that was the end of it.  However, I later found out that some fool had watched me bob and weave to the restroom and decided I’d make a good target, and that unbeknownst to me I was actually being mugged. However, unbeknownst to my mugger, Scott,  (remember him, the 6 foot 6 cop?) had followed him. So, when the whatever in my back disappeared and life went on without incident for me, what had actually happened was that Scott yanked the idiot up and bounced him off a wall.  All without a word. Kind of like Chuin rescuing Remo at the statue of liberty… Yeah, more obscure movie references… I just can’t help myself…

But, see, I told you he was looking out for me…

By now, it was oh-dark-thirty… really… I have no friggin’ clue what time it  actually was. All I know is we left the bar, dropped off some of the guys, then went back to Scott’s place with the crew that was left, and had Pizza. Yeah… Pizza. Don’t ask me. It was there and I ate it. Oh, and there was more beer involved. Yeah… a lot more beer.

At some point in the wee hours of Saturday morning… well, I think they were actually beyond “wee,” because we weren’t all that far from sunrise… Scott drove me home.

Now, here is something I didn’t mention earlier: All I had in my pocket was my ID. No wallet, no keys, no cash, no nothing. Scott knew this.

He helped me out of the van, dragged me up to the front door of the house, propped me against the porch railing, then rang the doorbell and ran just like a kid who had just set fire to a sack of dog-poo.

However, he didn’t go far… He stood in the front yard to watch the show.

A few moments later a very sleepy E K pulled open the door and just stared at me with one eye. Without a word, she turned and headed back to the bedroom while I literally crawled into the house…

No matter how many years have passed… And I do mean to this very day… I can still hear Scott laughing his ass off out in the front yard…

At a later date, E K made it perfectly clear to Scott how she felt about my condition upon being returned, and moreover, the method by which I was deposited upon the doorstep. She takes a very dim view of her possessions being mistreated whenever someone borrows them. I think it hearkens back to her high school years… Something about her Drill Team Uniform never being returned by the girl who borrowed it… (And believe me, I’m not real excited with that girl either… I mean just imagine, E K in a drill team  / cheerleader uniform… But, I digress…)

It was after the evil one had delivered her cold and calculated admonition that Scott fessed up, and told her the original plan had been to wait until I passed out,  strip me down to my skivvies, tape a quarter to my forehead, write his number on the back of my hand, and put me on a Greyhound Bus bound for Chicago… Of course, part of his plan also involved driving to Chicago so he could be there to watch me get off the bus and wander about aimlessly, before he finally loaded me up and hightailed it back to Saint Louis, arriving just in time to deliver me to the wedding…

Good thing I never actually passed out, until arriving home that is, because there were some unforeseen events in our very near future, one of which was only a few points shy of being catastrophic in relation to the upcoming festivities.

Besides, 6 foot 6 or no, E K would have killed him and fed his carcass to her cats. Guaranteed…

More to come…

Murv

… NEXT: Mahwage: The Wedding Suit…