i went to Malibu. it wasn't planned or anything, but Nick and i were working and it was a friday and we just got paid so we decided to waste our money on something more eventful. what's more eventful than heading to Pepperdine for the weekend to sleep on your friend's dorm room floor?

and then we missed a taping of conan o'brien because said friend is a gigantic turd.

kids make me sick.

so, Nick and i used to work together. we actually used to work together at a couple of different places, but we have shared numerous items amongst each other (paraphernalia, DVDs, sweatshop laborers) and this venture, to say the least, wasn't no thang. the only significant change was that instead of hanging out and wasting money on stupid shit like drugs, we spent our time doing the same repetitive shit together so we could get money to buy drugs. like that, our productivity undergoes a complete 180. time to put those diplomas to use.

what was amazing is that we actually got jobs at a children's daycare facility, where the two of us were placed in charge of these little brats.

you might be saying to yourself 'big deal,' but you should understand this: Nick and i, together, alone, don't belong anywhere near children.

that may sound bad, but i'll be the first to admit it. it's not like we're creeps or anything and can't be trusted. your kids are in safe hands under our watch. but like Charles Barkley used to state himself during every commercial break back in 'the day,' we are not role-models.

that should be fucking obvious by looking at me.

alright, i'm selling myself a little short here. but come on, to anyone that knows me personally, they would not trust their flesh-and-blood in my care. and i wouldn't either. my brother and sister-in-law won't let me watch my nephew alone (under mutual agreement with me, mind you--i fucking hate changing babies). but when it comes to total strangers that leave their kids for a couple of hours while they go get a work-out, i'm as peachy-keen as they are. and trust me, that is fucking peachy. 

of course, this is all under the pre-tense that they have no idea who i am and it is better off that way. at this point, i'm just the slightly-more-tan-than-normal-guy who must have an insatiable love of children and would never let anything misfortunate happen to their own. i'm probably in college, studying to be a teacher or social worker or if i'm really ambitious maybe a child psychologist. whatever i'm doing, my intentions are pure and your child is in the hands of an honest, hard-working, decent human being. right?

right?

wrong, soccer moms and over-protective dads. what you've got is a reefer-smoking, community college slacking, product of the milkman in charge of your kids. and he's not going to be helping them with their homework or encouraging fair play in the ball-games. oh no. 

he'll be instigating clique-wars, playing favorites with those he deems 'coolest', and organizing a brutal game of dodgeball (oh yes, face-shots aren't only legal, but their encouraged, bitch). if your kid starts acting up, not only will he be punished. but he'll be framed for taking crayon and coloring all over the walls, and therefore become banished from the Kidz Klub until eternity collapses unto itself.

see, the people that know me? they know me. they know that i have a strange sense of humor. they know that i will go to great lengths if only to be entertained throughout my day. they know that having a large classroom filled with every age ranging from eighteen months to 12 years at my disposal is a horrible idea.

oh, and teaming me with Nick for five-hour shifts where we are the only two people in charge of your kids is the worst idea since that Coffee-and-Coke bullshit. you deserve a medal for being that stupid.

that's not saying our boss was dumb--quite the contrary. granted, we never really got a gauge of Lori's personality (her name is Lori) but every time she entered the room our faces beamed with joy and sunshine. she was the best part of working there. there even became a routine Nick and I would race each other for the opportunity to say "Pretty Lady Alert" every time she graced us with her presence.

she meant well, but the bitch was clueless. i mean, come on, she had no idea what we were up to. more often than not, when she'd enter the room the kids would be screaming bloody murder about some nonsense that i can never decipher. seriously, i mean, i know you're only children but christ, learn to fucking talk already. it's a lot easier to communicate by saying "i think i broke my teeth" instead of jumping up and down with your arms flailing and blood pouring out your gums. it's obnoxious, it's messy, and it looks bad when your parents walk in. come on, kid, have some self-respect.

a kid could be chasing another with a wiffle ball bat, pledging to shove it through any specific orifice he choses as soon as the other is caught--hell, the kid about to get beaten could even be her own--and Lori wouldn't have a clue. she'd just tell us to have a good day, get a bit frightened by the incessant shrieking that comes with the territory, then retreat to her little desk on the other side of the observation wall where Nick and i are left to stare at her pretty face unbeknownst to her. everything about this job that pertains to us, she is totally in the dark. i've even had a parent pledge to sue the entire company i worked for at one time, and she never spoke a word of it to me. then, she got transferred and we got a new manager who totally sucked so we quit, but that's another story.

now it probably sounds worse than it was. manipulation? come on, who doesn't manipulate kids? if you ever have the opportunity, it's like creating and setting off your own personal fire works display. it's as glorious as the fourth of fucking july, alright? those little kids are more impressionable than lumps of clay. this may sound fucked up, but it's true: there is nothing more rewarding than the feeling that comes when you convince a child a monster lives in the trash can, and every time you take him near it he starts to cry like the two-year-old he is.

if that isn't an accomplishment, i don't know what is.

and it wasn't like there was a constant influx of violence going down. we maintained that shit, we kept it all on a non-existent level. sure, some kids wanted to rumble with each other over some pretty trivial shit, but we'd never let it happen. the most these kids would get to violence is syndicated episodes of Yu-Gi-Oh (and sometimes on thursdays Lost, but that's the fucking asshole who schedules me on thursday nights' problem). but sometimes, one kid would swing some pull-toy over his head. or another attempts to front flip down the slide. and occasionally, some teeth get broken

KIDS WILL BE KIDS, alright? that would happen whether it was me and Nick watching him or the whole fucking Ghostwriter squad. it doesn't matter how responsible you are when matched up against the recklessness of a child. some of these kids would dive off a bridge at a whim's notice. who's fault is that--bad parenting? fuck no, it's the god damned ADD. up the kid's dossage of ridalin or something, but STOP BLAMING ME.

just because this post started out with me saying i shouldn't be near kids doesn't mean that that's how it ends. i was damn good with those kids. they loved the two of us more than anyone else in that fucking building. even the parents enjoyed us more than half of the teenage girls that were working at that place. because at least then, they knew their kids were in the care of people who had a firm sense of self--not some platinum blonde bitch who'll get carpal tunnel from text messaging.

Nick and i were fighters of the wrong, in that establishment. a creepy dude did, in fact, start working there. he was a year older than us, he had intense B.O., and he would always hang out in the kids play zone. one time, i even caught him with two third grade girls on his lap. when i said "aren't you two a little old to be sitting on his lap?" the girls said "we're not to old to sit on Santa's lap." it was fucking july. who knows what the sick fuck was whispering in those kids ears.

but Nick and i got that fool FIRED. we were like, "HEY LORI." and she was like "Um, okay, um, hi guys, um, what's up?" and we were like "John is a CREEEEEEP. fire that fool." and she was like "Um, well, okay, but, um.... ALRIGHT!"

boom, mother fucking smelly creep was fired before he had the chance to go through with his nefarious plans of stealing Santa Claus' identity.

see? we were doing these kids a favor. not only were we protecting their innocence, but we were protecting Santa. we should get a medal if only for withstanding as long as we did. you know how fucked up your immune system gets in a place like that?

totally fucked, my friends. totally fucked.

memories

so i was stoned at this gas station in peoria, quiktrip. yeah, the QT. a bit of history about the place, but someone actually set it on fire. yeah, i'm pretty sure it was my friend's brother. it was the spot for local hang outs of the under-agers that had no where else to go. in fact, they even employed a security guard to handle all their nefarious, anti-loitering plots. this consisted of walking around the perimeter of the store in a douchebaggy uniform and threatening to call the police if things got too "unruly".

of course everyone knew the tool was an old sun city fart who was too bored collecting his pension and decided to take a stab at the enforcement branch. only the mall knows he's too decrepit with poor eyesight, which would be bad in the wide open setting of the mall. so they don't hire him because the new coach store would get jacked faster than you can say "sherpes" and he's forced to get a job as a security guard for QT.

a security guard. for a gas station. that doesn't get robbed. unless it's by cory. for tobacco. because he's a fiend.

yeah, anyways, i locked my keys in my car one day. this was while i was getting gas, and not being a loser and hanging out in front of the QT (which is probably my favorite past time--no, i'm not a hypocrite).

so i'm by myself and it's after school and all i want to do is go home and watch some Heathcliff or something when--bam--i get locked in the heat. at this point in time every body in the planet had a cell-phone. i had the bad ass nokia that you could get millions of different face plates for at those shitty carts in the mall (my friend used to work at one of those). there were awesome games on it, like snake. actually, snake was the only thing on there but man did it blow people's fucking minds. that shit was amazing for its time. moved more units than Halo did, and it was a fucking cell phone. in fact, i think that's what did cell phones justice. before the nokia, all you had were those lame ass bricks and those star trek phones that police officers and firemen had. fuck those phones, those shits sucked.

the nokia was where it was at. in fact, if i could find my old one i'd go get it (i've got a different nokia, but it's like a fucking first gen video phone. thing is a brick. it has a fucking rotary dial or birth control or something). with the green screen and all. i'd bust out my old money faceplate, whipping Benjamins out all over your face, and i'd slap on one of those antennas that lights up when you get a phone call. i'd even bust out that one ringtone that EVERYBODY had. you remember, the one that went NEEE DEEEE DOOOO DEEEAAAA DOOOO DEEEEEE DOOOO NAAAAAAAY. i think.

this makes me realize that the nokia is the jesus christ of cell phones. more on that later.

oh yeah, keys locked in the car.

anyways, keys. they're in the car. whip out the nokia.

"mom, i locked my keys in my car."

"again?"

"will you please hurry? i'm going to miss Heathcliff on boomerang."

"did you leave the car on this time?"

"how long until you get here?"

(my family usually communicates by asking questions, but never answering)

"i don't know. i'm reading and i'm almost done with this chapter."

"this is why we should have tivo."

so, i'm all stuck in the heat and pissed because i'm going to miss Heathcliff and gay ass cox hasn't come out with their second rate tivo. my anger causes a surge in my body, kicking my metabolism in the ass and giving me sudden bowel movements.

out of nowhere, zombie outbreak style, i've got to use the bathroom. number 2. i don't like saying things of the "had to take a fatty shit" variety because that's just tasteless.

anyways, in the wake of needing to unload a massive poo, i head straight for the air-conditioned QT's facilities. when i get in there, i find i'm the only person there. so i dart for the handicapped stall because i like my wide pooing spaces. QT is all fancy, and they don't only have shoddy bathroom stall walls separating their toilets. oh no. they have CONCRETE WALLS. no one's going to try and pull the reach-under on me. not only is the wall a thick wall, but i usually have a bic lighter on my person and would burn each of that man's digits off if he tried such fagotry.

but on this day, i didn't have to worry about fagotry. instead, i had some crackhead with a master plan and a penchant for talking to himself.

imagine this: you're taking a shit (oops) in the back of the bathroom in the corner stall, and no one else is in there. the walls are long with no openings aside from the door, so no one can see you without prying. the doors burst open, and you don't even need to see it to know but the man that just walked in is fucking crazy. you can tell because of the things he's muttering slightly to himself are so insane that he wouldn't be muttering them slightly to himself had he known someone else was in the bathroom the entire time.

but he doesn't know. he's got to take a piss, so why check the stalls? and he hasn't heard anyone make a noise, so it's okay to assume that he's alone in the bathroom and safe to spill the beans on his nefarious plans to no one in particular in a classic james bond-villainesque rant.... right?

wrong, asshole. sometimes a guy takes breaks, okay? not everyone has to spend every moment with their ass on a toilet seat groaning like they're holding back a hernia.

but this guy doesn't know i'm here. so he goes on and on about his "psycho bitch" girlfriend. and how he needs to see a judge with the evidence he's acquired and "reverse" the court order she recently has placed on him.

no joke.

the guy is wearing flip-flops--i can hear them smacking against the bottom of his feet--and he begins to walk around, back and forth, across the bathroom floor. he finally stops at a urinal, hearing him shuffle with his pants, and then he starts groaning.

"uggggggghhhhhhhhhh" as if he has herpes and is draining the acid urine from his cursed member.

and then he starts talking to himself. he says some crazy shit, too. he's like "i gotta get her... gotta get her 'fore she gets me! i know she was at his house last night, i just know it! and the bitch wants to get me thrown in jail? no way. no fucking way. what i gotta do is... i gotta see the judge! yeah, that's it. i'll go see the judge.... and i'll show her what she showed me, and that'll be that! yeah! but i gotta be quick... she'll know i'm up to something... i can't go back there."

so then the dude washes his hands and he leaves, no big deal, right?

ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME?! i was fearing for my fucking life right there! i couldn't even see the guy, aside from his trackpants, sweat socks, and adidas sandals. that image alone is fucking scary. and here this crackhead is, in the bathroom, thinking he's all alone and spilling the beans on his evil planning. you think i'm going to squeeze my shit out here? sneeze/cough? flush the fucking toilet? fuck no, i wasn't even breathing loud in fear of that mother fucker busting in and being like "YOU HEARD EVERYTHING!" before he stabs me in the throat with his crack pipe.

no, fuck that, i'll keep my life, thanks.

so the guy leaves and i finish my shit, wondering what the hell i just experienced.

what the fuck?

i wash my hands and i'm thinking "oh man, that guy was bat shit insane. i've got to catch a glimpse of him." i remember his feet, so i know that alls i need to do is scan the QT floor for the insane mystery man and i'll get the full visual picture.

heading out the bathroom, who is standing right in front of me?

i look at the floor. sandals, socks, track-pants...

i follow it up, standing in front of the coffee station RIGHT OUTSIDE the bathroom, is the mother fucker.

staring at me.

realizing that he wasn't in the bathroom, alone, at all.

the look on his face told me he didn't like that realization at all.

i quickly glance away, and dart out the store. you would too, mother fucker, you would too. you didn't see this guy. first of all, he was black (and intimidating). he was wearing a shirt with multiple paint stains, acquired at different points in time i imagine. and, and this is the big and, the dude had DIRTY AS FUCK dreadlocks. seriously, i thought i saw gnats swarming him.

seriously, if this guy has some nefarious plan to off his girl and convince a judge that he's innocent, more power to him. usually, the conniving take more pride in their appearance and usually have a large sum of money at their disposal. but if this guy wants to take on the system, hell, i'll throw my weight behind him. despite being scared shitless (hah, get it?).

so i leave QT and wait outside for mumzy and who do i pass? a big, fat, trashy woman sitting in the passenger seat of a white pick-up truck. i think to myself "that better be the woman he was talking about..."

the black dude with scary dreads walks out, and i'm watching him from the safety of the bed of my truck, surrounded by patrons getting gas. where does he go?

to the drivers seat of the white pick-up. i was right. crazy fat bitch is gonna die.

i didn't watch the news for the following days to see if their mug shots would end up on the homicide report. probably because i missed Heathcliff and had some catching up to do.

oh well.

maybe Robert Stack will solve this mystery....

UPDATE: no. he didn't.

UPDATE: apparently nobody gives a shit.