Tag Archives: drunk

Contagious Hangovers

7 Jan

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For some reason, I thought that once Boss got a steady girlfriend,  he would start to calm down. 

…He strangely enough, actually picked an age-appropriate one, so I got some silly idea that a grown woman just wouldn’t put up with his mid-life-crises-boozopoly-of-ridiculousness, insisting he suck it up and stay somewhat in control.  So far she hasn’t been much in the way of positive  influence.  He’s not getting any worse, so at least there is that, but it’d be a damn feat of major achievement to sink lower on the scale than he’s already resting at…in the direction of which his personal life of woe has taken him.

To be fair, his wife DID leave him for a woman.

…If you weren’t here for that episode, by all means catch up here.

I find, (after years of careful study), that when a man of a certain age who has been married forever, all of a sudden finds himself wifeless once more…he’s gonna do either one of two things:

1) Revert back to his early College years of never shaving, showering, changing his underwear, doing laundry, eating anything not out of a fast food bag, and walking around smelling like a distillery all the time.

2) Revert back to his later College years of bathing in Aqua Velva, buying ridiculous man-toys (usually in red, with rims), sporting sunglasses (even when it’s raining, and dark, at 7 a.m.), wearing his hat all the time (only backwards), to cover thinning hair…and dressing in tracksuits (with the crotch down to his knees) with blinding white trainers…like he thinks he’s Lil Wayne, and not a 260 lb-plus, bald, white man.

…Boss took the second option, threw in a case of energy drinks and a lot of cheap whiskey, and ran with it.

It’s been a very disturbing ride to have to witness.

I don’t think he owns actual “pants” anymore, for instance. 

…Certainly his Dockers and belts have gone by way of the Caveman, now that there is no one to pick out his clothes for him in the morning.  I suspect that the new line of track suits he’s been living in ever since the break up, are actually servicing as both PJs AND day-wear, as most days (when or if he actually comes into the office…at or around noon or later) he looks like he’s just rolled out of, if not “bed,” at least directly off a counter top, or couch or the seat of his truck cab, and walked in the door. 

You can’t hide the perpetual hangover look, even with Oakleys and ten gallons of aftershave splashed on to attempt it.
 
…Then there is the potty mouth. 

I have ALWAYS owned the title of Absolute Curse Master, here at the office. Always.  This has never in the history of ever, (going on it’s sixth year), ever been disputed.  I’ve put a lot of time and effort into it.  Almost no one, outside of David Mamet, could out “shit-to-the-asshole-pissing-dickface-sunofabitching-pigfucker” their natural inclination to get verbally, offensively, pissed off…with more power…than me. 

…But Boss has been trying.

…And it sounds ridiculous.

…Because these words do not come to him with the natural poetic fluidity that it does to one who has studied it as an artform…so it is forced and heavily repetitive and wholly without imagination or love of the language and musicality of it.

You have to fucking respect the goddamn structure of a correctly pissed-off sentiment, for shits sake.  You don’t just throw “fucks” around at random, every third word.  Unless you’re from the projects, a gang, Boston, Scotland, or Ireland.

EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT.

…Basically, his current lifestyle, (since snipping free from the Lipstick Lesbian who has been training him on how to be a human for the past I-dunno years)…has become a wincing, sigh-inducing, train wreck…leaving us nearly perpetually without an authorizing signature when we need things, a WHS Pimp at his wit’s end without any building report projections, or correct Inventory accumulations, literature and sign prep…a thoroughly pissed-off contingent of Contractors still waiting (since November) for authorization on expense checks and Hotel per diems…and a me…getting yelled at for the 11th time, cuz the “who-de-haw” on that one build STILL hasn’t been repaired, due to the fact that we STILL haven’t gotten a fucking truck order in as yet.

…And this is just ending the “slow season.”

This Friday, we will be opening THREE road shows at the same time…which coincidentally, is ALSO my show’s Opening Night.

…And Boss KNOWS this…

…As I have been reminding him of it DAILY for two weeks.

…So, as my sleepless, perpetually line-running brain, arrived at work at 7:52 this morning and was told by WHS Pimp that Boss wouldn’t be in today, because he didn’t want us to catch his hangover…cuz he’s thoughtful that way…I sorta, a little bit, lost my shit.

It was really a pity he wasn’t here to hear it.

…Cuz I feel it would have grown his cursing lexicon of available string-theory vocabulary, significantly.

And I feel really bad about that.

~D

Rocket-Shipping In The Warehouse

2 Nov

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We are one less Employee in population today, here at the ol’ Brothel.

…The WHS Mgr walked in this morning on enough pot, canned CO2, and empty beer bottles to launch an Apollo mission.  The company truck was missing, the forklift: naked in the yard with the key still in it, the gates wide open, and the only clue to go on, being from his WHS lackey at 10:30 PM last night…calling in “sick” for today.

…And now we know why.

A stellar employee, he never was…this is fact.  But that is to be expected from a grown man still living with his parents, who smelled of alcohol poisoning and organ damage, perpetually…never bathed, and had a penchant for hitting on everything with an “X” chromosome.  Even the AM/PM tellers across the street were creeped out in his presence.

“How did he get the job to begin with then,” you may ask?

Because Boss has a “thing” for “second chances” in life. Because he was cheap. And because he answered the ad.

…In that order.

Sure, he had to pass a drug screen et al upon hire, and he did…though at least two of us (in retrospect), have no idea how. It was obvious to us, within a week, that this guy had “issues”…and grounding him from whipping the forklift and trucks around was about the maximum power that either the WHS Mgr (or I) had in this. 

…Which, then, leaves a fairly useless employee, wandering around, making piles of stuff in the yard, then reorganizing them into new piles, over and over and over again.  Occasionally he would paint, or repair something. Sometimes he would shelve some stuff, but by and large his specialty seemed to be off-the-clock drinking, tweaking out on any number of alternate-controlled substances, showing up two hours late, and stacking things, while bitching.

He will not be missed.

Now…every time a layoff occurs here, there is this whole “procedure” we have to undertake directly afterward. Because anyone who has ever worked here knows every weakness in the system of his place…and they know the hours we keep, that the alarm pads are purely for “show” and that if they want something it takes very little effort to get in here and take it. Not that we have much of any worth, outside of product…which weights a literal shit-ton, but with a forklift and a truck in-hand, this place is easy pickings really…and everyone knows it.

…So, instead of doing his average Friday of usual fix-its, the WHS Mgr has been flying around changing locks and bolts and combos and passwords on everything all morning long. Though we know that these things only work enough to keep an honest person honest, and that any pissed-off, drugged-up, drunken asshole who might want to get in, to say…deface every piece of property we own…could very easily do just that, with only a pair of bolt cutters and a 2 x 4.

…We KNOW this…

…And of all the layoffs, THIS is the one that verily PROMISES a return payment. We totally expect it. We just don’t know exactly what it’ll be, or when, or how.

…Which is sorta terrifying, really.

…So today, we are each of us, boxing up and relocating materials and things so that when (not “if”) the inevitable occurs, the damage might not be so bad. But it probably will. And we’ll have to deal with it. Most likely, on Monday.

…Which it totally great, cuz that’s exactly what we NEED! I often say that, in fact: “Geeze I wish we had more crap-happy calamities on Mondays! I feel there just isn’t enough of that in general, around here!”

~D

Hello Idaho & The “I Quits”

19 Sep

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Boss: “We needed to do something to cut the bottom line…”

…This is maybe the second thing Boss said to me, when he arrived three hours late to work, my first day back from Vacation.

Me: “As in…?”

Boss: “You’re booking Spokane now.  And also, Idaho.”

Me: “So we aren’t doing the Spokane remote office.”

Boss: “Nope.  Oh, and also…the Vancouver Manager quit while you were gone.  So you’ll have to help the new guy figure some stuff out.”

Me: “Can you maybe be a little more specific?”

Boss: “Yeah.  Teach him how to do the job.”

Me: “Remotely.”

Boss: “Right.”

Me: “…While I catch up on the $47,000 in orders you didn’t process while I was gone, plus book all of Eastern Washington and Idaho.”

Boss: “…But I brought you whiskey.”

(He plops it on my desk.)

Me: “…Which is great if I didn’t have like fifty-thousand things to do right now…”

(He cracks it open.)

Me: “Also…it’s not even noon yet…”

(He tosses one back, clean.)

Boss: “I’ll be in my office.”

(He takes the bottle with him.)

…And this is how my Monday went. It just got better from there…the more buzzed he got.

[Around 1 PM]

Boss: (Singing from his office.) “…No I’ll NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

Me: (From my office.) “Can you maybe not sing so loud? I’m on the phone and things…”

Boss: “…No I’ll NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

Me: Seriously!

(He chuckles.)

…You guys, it’s taken me three days to stop hating him enough to find the “funny” in this shit, and actually write it down. Also…HE NEEDS to FUCKING LEARN MORE OF THAT SONG’S LYRICS. For three SOLID DAYS, it’s all he’s been hollering. Non-stop.

[Around 3 PM]

Me: “What is it with you and that song…why do you keep yelling that?”

Boss: “I just really identify with it, is all.”

Me: “Cuz you’re a 22 year-old pop-it Country superstar from Nashville?”

Boss: “Yes. And I’m gonna make you a CD of it to remember me by…”

Me: “No.”

Boss: “…Or a mash up, with that one Kelly Clarkson song…”

Me: “–I don’t want it.”

Boss: “Over a House beat.”

Me: “–Go away.”

Boss: “…And I’ll NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

Me: (Yelling.) “YOU AREN’T EVEN SINGING IT RIGHT!!”

(He stands there in the doorway and grins.)

Me: “What.”

Boss: “…It’s good to have you back, you know?”

Me: “I’m sure it is.”

Boss: “You missed this. Come on. Admit it.”

Me: “I will quit and leave all this work, if you say one more word. I swear to you.”

(He disappears back into his office. At some point, I get up to go pee. When I come back, a shot of whiskey is sitting beside my computer. I think of all the work I’ve done today, and how little I get paid for it, and how he’s getting a bonus that I earn him every month, so he can sit there Facebooking and drinking whiskey all day, while singing pop songs. Badly. I shoot the drink.)

Me: (From my office.) “This doesn’t mean we’re friends, you know.”

Boss: (From his office.) “… … … AND I’LL NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

…You guys…sometimes, it’s just too much.

~D

Your Id Called…

9 Aug

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I live by a pub.  So I happen to know first hand, through hours of careful subject study, that the following is in fact a scientific truth.

Here’s what I think: alcohol is actually magic.  We’re just used to it, so take it’s many elemental aspects for granted.  I know this for two reasons:

1) I have seen drunk people do and live through things only a Superhero could.
2) If enough is consumed, the subject actually reverses the history of evolution.

…If that ain’t magical, I dunno what is.

If you are honest about it (and why not be)…there is a specific threshold of amazement that we all hit while imbibing in the various juices of rotting chemistry.  We grow a little taller, get a little sexier…our wit becomes landmark in its styling and nuance. Almost every time you are drunk you can suddenly debate everything from Politics to Philosophy far better than the assholes who happen to do it for a living.  You solve world hunger and economic crashes, end Wars, cure Cancer and prob’ly even invented the internet that one time. 

…If humanity were allowed to live in this higher echelon of thinky amazement all the time, we would own the universe, live on Mars and need no God.

Also, we’d have figured out “recycling.”

…But because of the adage, “Too much of a good thing”…and how there’s all these “pluses” needing “minuses” to balance stuff out in the universe…the magic juice eventually turns a chemical corner. Somewhere between cup two and eight (depending on your particular constitution), the subject of said magic will alter drastically.  Most of the time it appears nearly instant, and unforgiving.  Suddenly, after an all-night bender of intake, a person breaks through the invisible barrier of the human world into an entirely new dimension of  being. You can tell because they begin to regress in intellect and motor skills immediately, becoming Aliens to this world and it’s limitations.  Suddenly the thinky genius has been smacked down by the hand of God himself (probably)…a direct result of having to…on account if not, what use would be consequences, and things like heaven and hell?

…The air starts getting heavier all of a sudden, the subject’s head begins to bobble like an infant.  Next, like the building of Babylon, new tongues arrive, replacing  the old. Said subject is suddenly aware they’ve forgotten how to speak the human language almost entirely…or else every one else has, cuz no one seems to be understanding  them.  They waver and bend and flop and bray, trying their best to explain that the body they were handed  at the door (they “guess,” cuz they don’t really remember) isn’t working so well.  The legs are all floppy, the feet don’t fit, and the air keeps pushing them down.  Why this vendetta with “space,” they don’t know…only like a bully in a schoolyard it keeps socking them to the ground. Or maybe someone stole their bones?

“My bones! My bones!” They cry, as people who’s skin actually fits them,  watch from tables nearby.

…Maybe here is when the magical juice decides it wants to backfire a bit. Prob’ly because the various mixings of its various elements are now cooking in the Bunsen burner of said subject’s gut, and their body has decided the compounds don’t really go together as well as one thought they would.

A heaving out of the magics, thus commences. 

…Great chunks and colors explode about, blessing with baptism whoever happens to be nearby.  And there is anger and confusion across the land.

And maybe a fight.

…But because of the residual magics still soaked in, (the ones that haven’t all hydrogen bombed out, in a regurgitation mushroom cloud of sick)…said subject is still blessed with their one remaining power that they, until now, had no idea they possessed.

“And invincibility shall be yours!” Quotes the magics from inside.

So it is.

Faces, absorb fists like quick sand with nary a mark. You can’t break a bone with the wildest kick or snap, when you have none to break. Falling over becomes a slow motion sport wherein said subject can actually arrest time and manipulate the elements. Throw them against an object,  (a parked car, rock or street sign), and like putty they merely bounce back, ricocheting off with the use of their enemy’s energy with superb (though floppy) return. This can go on for hours, or minutes…or minutes which seem like hours…but in the end leaves the exhausted human-hybrid freakishly still somewhat functioning. Not a broken or incapacitated part of their anatomy to show for their enemy’s work.

This too shall pass, however. Because the magics will only charm so long before they are drained of their power. And this is where the great wizard of humanity, falls from favor and begins to revert back to the human entity of before.

…A quivering, vomiting, sweating, gurgling, sopping mass…like the things which once first pulled themselves onto land and began to crawl the earth. No language or comfort can reach them.  No reasoning can enlighten them.  They are now as once were cavemen…grunting, rolling upon the ground, soiling themselves with disgrace and completely in shock at the great journey they have, that evening, made.  Space and time travel could not possibly outdo the wonderment of disease-curing humanity, to Biblical wizard, to Superhero, to this. 

“How did it happen?!  Why was this done?!  Dear Lord, may I never repeat it, if I ever live beyond this moment of horrific gut-pain and puking loss!”

…But because (as Tolkien and Harry Potter and Buffy teach us) the magics are hypnotical powers, calling to our ancient selves in search of constant enlightment of things that could be! There is almost never a, “never again,” as sworn.

…The “what if?” And “imagine this.” Are far too great a possibility.

And so, there came to be great crops risen, far across the land…called “pubs” and “bars,” “distilleries,” “vinyards” and “breweries.”  And like the lost hopefuls that we are, humanity doth frequent them, rise up with magics of greatness and return to earth with wild crashings. 

It’s because we care. 

…We want to solve the burning questions and fucked up philosophies…we want to be our most beautiful and invincible selves. 

…We do it because, like all experimenters across time who have walked the earth: perhaps someday we will manage to obtain and sustain this great enlightenment for the  good of all mankind.

…And perhaps it’ll be this Friday.

Oh, but we shall do our best to try.

~D

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