I have a lot to be happy about, if you want to know the truth. I look around, and I see that I’ve got it really good. It’s not a perfect life, I admit, but it’s better than most. I’m not rich, I don’t have a big house or a boat or whatever else it is that makes people know that you’re better than them.
I have a shit job, an oversize gut, and strange cancerous-looking spots where there should be no strange cancerous-looking spots. Also, it’s just now ten, and I’m about to have to go to bed because I have to wake up so early tomorrow.
On the other hand, I’ve got a great woman that I’ve tricked into falling in love with me, I have a place to live and food to eat, and a sly wink/smile combo that would make even your mother do the filthy things she’s only read about in those magazines under your bed. Trust me on this one.
So I’ve got it pretty good—better than I deserve, probably. But I still manage to have quite a bit to complain about. Probably I should knock it off, but I won’t.
I can’t even remember what it was I was supposed to bitch about today, but believe me—at around three o’clock this afternoon, it seemed really important. So instead of that, let me just flash some random images at you:
rusted tractor.........................overturned sandbox
dew-covered grass sparkling in the morning.................soap
beach balls..............and..................razor blades.
I remember there were days when the world was big, even my small corner of it. I remember being lost in my own home, and being at home with everything else. Something like that, anyways—getting a little too poetic for my own good here. Maybe it’s just one of those nights…Heaven knows I don’t have anything of value to say right about now.
Another old person, another pregnant lady with an albino baby, another young guy trying to show me how above me he is, it’s like my life has become some stupid sort of rerun, every day is the same as the one before it. “Who’s your monkey now?” “You are, sir, you are.”
There was a trick there once, but it’s been too long ago, and you wouldn’t be interested, besides. Staple me to a wooden fence and call me kidney, and we’ll all see eye to kneecap.
Anyways, back on track here. The vending machine at my job has a piece of notebook paper taped to it. I’m probably not quoting verbatim here, but the note goes something like, “If you please bring more Pop-tarts, we promise to eat lots of them. Cherry and cinnamon—please. Thanx.”
I don’t even know what to think about that. Frankly, I’ve never thought about writing a note to the vending machine guy, you know? It’s either a great idea or one of the most pathetic things I’ve ever heard. I mean, we have to beg the vending machine guys now? What an odd world that is. Besides, I’ve always thought that the vend was more about fate than anything else.
You walk up, you don’t know what’s in there. Maybe it’s an almond Snickers, or maybe it’s that stupid trail mix that is almost entirely made up of rotten peanuts and raisins. I once dropped in fifty-five cents for some beef jerky, and the machine messed up and gave me two! How’s that for fate intervening? Plastic meaty charms! They’re fatefully delicious! (sung to the tune of the Lucky Charms commercial, in case you’re wondering).
There’s a soda machine, any button you push, you get Diet Pepsi. It’s a Coke machine, how’s that for ridiculous? I think the guy that comes in to restock the Coke machine, he’s just a lazy bastard, he just picks the lock on the Pepsi machine: “Let’s see, what won’t they miss out of here? Ah, this diet nastiness. Nobody drinks this shit,” He says, as he removes all of it. That way he doesn’t have to bring in a bunch of sodas from his truck.
Meanwhile, the Pepsi guy comes in, he realizes that every week he’s out of Diet Pepsi, and starts stocking it in every slot in the machine. You want Pepsi? You get Diet Pepsi, now. Mountain Dew? Diet Pepsi. A drink from the water fountain that’s in the hallway by the bathroom? Diet Pepsi.
It’s out of control.
You know what would be cool? If there was a soft drink delivery guy, it’s like his last day or whatnot, he’s at this gas station, and a beer truck pulls up right next to him. He shoots the breeze with the beer guy for a bit, and then the beer guy’s all, “Hey, I really have to pee. Will you watch my truck while I go and drain the main vein?” Because you know that’s how the beer truck guy describes taking a pee. He’s the beer guy, for Pete’s sake! He’s not gonna go, “Hey I need to pee-pee.” He’s gonna have all kinds of wicked slang about going to pee. Some of the references so deep that you and I wouldn’t even understand them: “I must drive the demons from the chapel of St. Tommy.”
“You know—I gotta lay laser in the Death Stall. End the cycle of the willow, peruse the classics with Henry Miller, grunge nightly with my rock ‘n roll lifestyle.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”
“I have to urinate, you sap.”
“Ah. Ah-ha. Got it. Yes, the laser beams and such, right.”
Anyways, so the beer guy goes in to pee, and the soft drink guy, he just quick snakes about three loads of brew, and hides them in his truck. And then, instead of being a complete dick and just drinking all the beer up himself, what he does is, he puts it in the various machines on his route.
How cool would that be, man? You walk back to the break room, you’re all pissed off at your boss, you’re hot, you’re tired. You decide to spend your last buck on a Mountain Dew that will probably just be a stupid-ass Diet Pepsi, anyways, and you are then rewarded with a beer. No, it’s not enough to get you drunk—if you want to show up to work drunk, that’s something you’ll have to do on your own. In this scenario, it’s just enough to make you feel like a rebel, just enough to make you feel like you’re breaking the rules, that you’re getting away with something. And the cosmos condone you in this, you know? The world has just handed you a beer—what other sign do you need that you should really just chill the fuck out? Too cool.
Anyways, I really need to go to bed now. Thanks for listening. Peace out, Li’l Homies.