Shitlisted: The Red Cross

Upon arrival at work this morning I checked my voice mail.

I only had two messages and the second one wasn’t even work related. It was a telemarketer from the American Red Cross asking me to donate blood, “We’re down to less than half a days supply of your blood-type!”

Really?

That’s your sales pitch? The generic ‘your blood type’. If I had been here to answer the phone, would you have even known my blood type? Doubt it.

While I usually screw up irony…I was never a good student…I think I’m correct to say it’s ironic that as I was being asked to donate blood, I had actually gone the the Red Cross and was in the process of donating blood.

I do very little for mankind…other than document my general dislikes in blogs like this one. One thing I’m pretty good about though is giving away my second most vital bodily fluid (I have difficulties finding places to donate the most vital). Even so, yesterday’s experience was of the mildly ball-sucking variety.

Upon arrival I had to wait about fifteen minutes. That was ok, I’d brought a novel (I almost always have a book to read, as a veteran I’ve spent a fair share of my life in lines). Then when I was finally taken back it took too long to get the party started. I was a med tech a long time ago. I could tell that even though the tech taking my blood was so old she had the dessicated lips of a mummy, giving the illusion of experience…she didn’t know what she was doing.

I’m ok with that, people gotta learn sometime and my veins are garden hoses. These are good to learn on, because they’re so easy to find.

It was after she went through the backside of my vein that I felt a tinge of regret.

She backed it out and the donation continued.

You know what they gave me after?

Not a god damn thing. No T-shirt, no “Kiss Me, I Gave Blood” sticker, no coffee mug. Seriously, what the fuck is that.

Red Cross, your costs in taking my blood can’t exceed 50 bucks. I know you sell the components and make 6 times that amount. Fine. You help flood victims and deal with the poor. I applaud the former and wish not to associate with the latter.

But the next time I go in and you don’t give me a fucking prize will be the last time.

And just so you know, I took two Twinkies instead of one…suck on that for a while Red Cross.

Things You Have a Right to in DC

The Hardest Part

People in America have no damn courtesy.

I walked into Subway today to grab a sandwich for lunch, as I often do. It’s close and I can walk. My alternatives are traditional fast food, which I find unappealing, so I usually hit Jarod’s fave.

Today I walked in, and lo and behold there were only three people ahead of me. This place is usually slammed so I felt great joy to be so close to the front. Then, my elation was turned to crestfellation*. Some big, fat pregnant lady pulled out a list.

She ordered approximately 77 fucking sandwiches. Each one a special order. That had to be toasted. And paid for separately.

The line kept growing behind me, out the door, into the parking lot. Three people passed out from hunger, and one was run over in the parking lot, because of this inconsiderate fucktard. It’s lunch time. I expect you to buy one sandwich. Two sandwiches may be ok. Perhaps someone had to stay at the office. Three sandwich orders from one person? At lunch? You are an asshole of the highest order.

Sure maybe you’re saving time for your friends. Time you are stealing from the rest of us.

I wanted to kick her big ass belly to prevent the emergence of yet another uncaring, unfeeling time-succubus into this world. But I didn’t. As much as I would have liked to, I don’t stomp pre-born fetuses…my momma raised me better.

I will simply hope your baby rips the shit out of your taint on the way out, and maybe punches your vag a couple of times for good measure.

* I often create derivative words that I feel are needed in the English language, but do not yet exist. Crestfellation may also refer to BJ’s performed by someone who has just brushed their teeth.

I Punched My Wife in the Face

I didn’t sleep well. Something was on my mind, making me restless. Lately, I’ve been disturbed by all of the queers thinking they were as good as regular straight people.

I laid there last night thinking about how destructive it is for George Takai to be marrying some dude. That angry liberal female attorney in California…what’s her name…Gloria something…anyway, she served as a witness to a pair of lesbians exchanging vows.

It makes me sick.

This is America. Homos, should stay in the closet, pay their taxes, serve in military, and set popular fashion trends.

There is NO ROOM here for butt pirates to have a loving, committed relationship.

It’s infuriating. I find it destructive to my own heterosexual marriage, just like the conservative pundits said I would. The helplessness I was feeling made me want to lash out.

So I punched my wife in the face.

Gay marriage is harmless, my ass.

What’s In A Name?

Why do people get all bent out of shape about their job titles?

Our secretaries don’t like to be called secretaries. They want to be called administrative assistants. I think that’s just too much to say. If I’m having a conversation I won’t say, “Let me have my administrative assistant pull that file.” It has no ‘flow’. I need my words to flow. Possibly, I could meet them half way and just call them my assistant, but that’s misleading. It implies they share a similar set of skills, which is far from the truth. Are they good people, sure. Nice people? Absolutely. Attractive? Not so much, but what do you expect of a such a low paying position? Trust me, it’s low paying by almost any average American’s standard.

Nope, I think ’secretary’ fits. It’s not insulting and if they find it so, they have self esteem issues.

Similarly, a few years ago, I had a co-worker that had been a waitress in college. We’d go out to lunch, and she’d correct me if I used the term, ‘waiter’ or ‘waitress’. “You know, waiter is insulting. They’re not waiting on you…they are serving you. They are servers.“

“What the hell’s the difference?” Was my usual response.

Is it somehow psychologically better to serve as opposed to wait. I’m not that bright a fellow, maybe it is better, but I don’t see how.

In hotels, they have a ‘housekeeping staff’, they don’t have ‘maids’.

My garbage man doesn’t have any of these nomenclature issues. Ask him what he does, and he’ll proudly tell you he’s a garbage man because his occupation doesn’t define what kind of man he is.

He’ll also tell you where to find the best garbage in the city, but I don’t listen. I’m really too uppity to associate with the garbage man.

Zit Poppin’ and Duece Droppin’

I just returned from the men’s room where I was inspired.

I walked in because I could feel a zit emerging in the pop-able stage. I wanted to prevent yet another blemish on my already leathery face. Just as I walked in the door I realized my favorite stall* was open.

So, my favorite stall was available. But I had a zit that needed popping. I opted to unload my burden first, because I’d be pissed if I stopped to groom and someone else walked in and took my seat.

I locked the door and assumed the usual position with a bit of pleasure because doing my business at work is like getting paid to poo. And frankly, with my limited skill set, it’s one of the things I do best. I attended to the task at hand, and there I saw the light.

I need a mirror in the stall. I could have been multi-tasking if I had a decent reflective surface. I could pop a zit. Floss. Wax my brow. If only I could see what I was doing. Alas, the chrome on the TP holder was inadequate.

I didn’t get to flesh out the details of my idea too much…some guy sat down in the adjacent stall and started tapping his foot under the divider. That kinda locked me up.

*: I’m very partial to the handicapped stalls because they have handrails upon which to grip, in the event one has to bear down during a particularly difficult ‘exorcism of the demons’ . The only downside, is when occasionally the ‘differently abled’ come rolling in and actually need it. That’s kind of a downer and ruins the whole day, because, I can’t just finish up and walk out past some dude in a wheelchair. Displaying a) I’m not handicapped and b) I just made a stinky…enjoy my scent. Nope, I’d rather just sit there and wait for him to go away.

The Pole Position

In racing the best starting position, obviously, is at the front. One man lines up with forty some odd men staring at his backside.

It’s called the pole position.

This seems apt.