I can’t tell you where I work but I can tell you that it’s a place that serves ice cream, the employees— myself included— must sing birthday songs to children, and domestic terrorists should really give it a shot— if you know what I mean. And I mean it.
Remember how I said that if Amanda was pregnant then the kid better be black or there’s no kid at all? Well, first of all: there isn’t going to be a kid. Fuck dramatic tension— she tested negative on three tests (one from the dollar store and two from CVS. Oh, and a popsicle stick, just for kicks.)
So I brought up the whole “black kid or no kid” thing again because I hate kids. Especially the ugly ones. And at my job? Yep: I sing birthday songs to kids. Even the ugly ones.
They don’t even deserve it— nobody loves ugly kids so why should we celebrate their birthdays? Fuck that. As a society we shouldn’t celebrate ugly kids’ birthdays. Instead, we should save all the celebrations from all their birthdays for their funerals. Just throw the biggest party on the day they die or something— not even bother with the funeral. I don’t know; it’s never too soon to bury a dead, unloved child. Or adult.
This all may seem a little harsh but this wasn’t what I expected my life to end up like.
Anyways: this is an excellent job to show up drunk for. Here’s the key: you pound four, five, seven shots, get in the car, and hightail it to work. My record is five minutes. It’s great because your blood alcohol content isn’t actually, you know, high when you’re speeding your way to Satan’s den. Fucking swell, you know? And I do this six days a week. Sometimes ten.
One of my favorite co-workers— it’s like having a favorite person in a gulag slowly filling with water— is my roommate Drew. I don’t know all that much about Drew, although he did recently pick up a DUI. Or he was slapped down with one. I don’t know, I don’t get pulled over when I’m drunk driving. Drew was telling me about it today at work because this isn’t the kind of shit you save for home.
“The cops pulled me over again last night,” he says in between birthday celebrations for a pair of kids that should have been on American Horror Story last season. “They pulled me over,” he says, “and they told me it was too dark to be riding my bike without lights.”
“Did you get a ticket?” I said.
“No— they gave me a ride home,” he said.
“Sounds like a good deal,” I said.
“Hardly. Where were those pigs when I was drunk and needed a ride home from the bar?”
“Giving you a DUI.”
Drew didn’t talk to me for the rest of the shift. Probably because he’s jealous that he’s been pulled over twice in the last month and that I’ve never been pulled over. It’s nice.
Anyways, the point I was trying to make is that my girlfriend isn’t pregnant and she’s still my girlfriend.
Maybe I should tell you about the people I surround myself with. You know, my co-workers. Associate employee contemporaries, if you will.
Starting with Kelly Gallagher is the best, probably because he killed himself a month ago so you never have to hear about him again. That’s it; there’s no joke: the man shot himself in his backyard.
And you already know about Drew, my roommate with the DUI— you know him just as well as I do at this point.
Then there’s Jenna. Or Jennifer. Or both of them. See, Jenna is a fat girl. And so is Jennifer. And on my first day of work a year ago I mixed the two of them up.
Jenna (or, Jennifer) goes “You’re mistaking me for Jennifer (or, Jenna)”— and the look in her eyes when I did that… it was the look Asian people get when you call them “Taro”— know what I mean?
Of course, there’s Miles. Miles is the dumbest person I’ve met on this planet, newborns notwithstanding. Miles is the reason white people are looked down upon on Tumblr. Seriously, he’s dumber than a shoe.
Miles once asked me if it was snowing. I was in front of a window. He was outside. In the snow.
Miles is probably my most special co-worker. He has had the job at the ice cream palace longer than anybody else— probably combined, too— including the founder, his wife, and all the extra paid time he got for molesting small children on the clock on their birthdays. What a gift!
Miles once asked me how far away North Korea was from the sun. I told him to Google it. He did an image search that came up with zero results.
Miles is also a big fan of fighting. Don’t know why he hasn’t been fired but since I’ve been here he has tried to fight me twice and everybody else mostly twice.
I remember one of the days that he pushed me.
“Why do you have to be so smart all the time?” he said.
“What’s the alternative?”
“See, there you go again, acting all smart using big words. Fucking smart ass.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“What, smart ass?”
“You don’t know what ‘alternative’ means?”
“What’s the alternative to being a smart ass, smart ass?” he says in a mocking, condescending tone.
“Being a dumb ass.”
“Did you just call me a fucking dumbass?”
“Lookit! He finally put two and two together. That’s four, by the way—”
And then I remember paramedics and no assault report being filed because ruffling the animals is apparently against zoo rules.
But let us not forget Aaron. Now, we tried to give my co-worker Aaron the benefit of the doubt when he was new with his anger issues because he used to be in the Army. We all figured that he was suffering from the PTSD people in the Army get when they find out they’re not good enough to join the Marines, Navy, Airforce, or the workforce.
But then we realized that Aaron is just a shitty person.
Aaron had this theory, and like, don’t get me wrong: if you told me his theory and you threw in a couple chuckles and smiled— you know, threw in a few jokes, you’d think he was just having a good laugh. But he wasn’t. His theory was this: He get one. “One” being a kill. Because he actually does have PTSD from whatever the Army did to him, he is granted at lease one (1) civilian rage kill (CRK) with virtually zero (0) long-standing repercussions (LSR’s).
I have to get going. I’m going to try to break up with Amanda over the phone and she’s calling right now. Wish me luck.