Crazy People all up in my Shit

If I ever were to allow myself to become a nonsensical idiot, I think the profession I would choose to pursue would be an afternoon radio talk show host. Probably for a sports station.

I was driving back to work with my gas station lunch. Gas stations are brilliant conglomerates these days. They sell you gas and food. Not just regular food, either, but deli food, hot sandwiches and little entrees. You can also get first aid supplies, basic medication, newspapers and Pringles. It’s not just about motor oil anymore. They have ice cream, toys, dairy products and every conceivable white trash magazine on the market. If you’re looking for gambling, they have it. They have a little bank teller holed up in a clunky box who will give you your money for a fee. That isnt all – they can sell you sunglasses, toilet paper, A1 steak sauce and a case of Dinty Moore chili.

But if you want a bag you have to fax in your request three hours in advance. No one gives bags anymore. If you’re not prepared for it, you won’t get one – you’ll give the slow-witted bitch at the register all your money and before you know it, she’s ringing up the toothless farmer for filling up his gas can and you’re struggling out the door with 3 cans of energy drinks, a leaking half italian sub, and something hot that smells like a cardboard-scented candle.

In the car, Dan Patrick is making illogical leaps that would impress the most practiced defense attorney. He’s not making any sense, but he’s very determined to get his points across, despite their not having any basis in reality. Over on 1460, Jim Rome is entertaining us with agonizing consecutive seconds of dead air in between repetitive blathering about, what, I can not tell. I flip over to Rush. It’s horrible. I need to stab something, and I’m on my way back to work.

You have to order the gas station food at a small computer screen boasting colorful animated icons and a happy voice helper. Despite the glitz, once on your plate, it always ends up being barely edible. But I ate it. I was at work and subjecting myself to seemingly willfull torture seemed like the thing to do. Things werent going well at the office. I took a walk. Every day I swing by the color printer, by the back door, to catch a glimpse of my Ford Ranger out in the way back parking lot, out by the woods. The plates are expired. Two months ago my landlord threatened to tow it, so I had to move it somewhere. I don’t know anyone in this town because they’re all a bunch of fucking assholes around here. The only place for me to put it was in the way back parking lot, out next to the woods. It was out of the way. I should be able to save up for new plates by spring, only a few weeks away as long as nothing else comes up. I took my look and the truck was there.

Two hours later I’m feeling sick from something I ate and I’m cursing the gas station and the phone rings. It’s the receptionist, this nosey old lady who walks around with her lips pursed, watching and judging. If I could fire her, I would, but my boss hired her five years ago and my boss still works here and they have some kind of attachment. I don’t understand it and I don’t care, since it’s not going to help me get rid of her anyway. She tells me with an unusual air of innocence dripping from her voice that I have a call on line 2.

It’s the cops. I’m being followed by cops these days it seems. He tells me that the receptionist in my office called 911 to report a truck in the parking lot that’s been there for a few weeks.

I have sudden fantasies of throwing rocks at my receptionist until she bleeds and dies. I explain the situation to the cop and it’s fine with him as long as someone with some authority doesn’t care about the truck being there.

I could do an entire segment on my radio show about how I’m surrounded by nosey and incompetent people who are trying to wreck my life and tempt my murderous tendencies. I wouldn’t exactly need to make sense, I could just start talking and even around my inexact vocal talents the truth would come out. I could sell thousands of dollars in ads per hour and even take some under the table cash from the government to promote questionable administration initiatives.

I wouldn’t have to work here anymore; I could afford decent food from real restaurants. I could fire my secretary for looking at me wrong and I could laugh about it on the air. I could laugh about everything on the air. Bad things arent real when they’re separated by commercials.

- posted by seanmh @ 9:41 AM