a woman came into the store where i work tonight asking for diet coke. we didnt have any, so i politely explained that to her and informed her that we would not be recieving another shipment from the coke distributers until friday. there really wasnt anything i could do about her unfortunate situation, after all, i am not a magician, and therefore cannot make tyhings appear which are not in my immediate area.
"no," she firmly dropped her foot, planting it firmly (and literally) on the ground), "I want my soda now. i came all teh way here to get diet coke and all you have is regular."
this made me double-take. was this woman blatantly being eligerant, or was she just quite honestly that dumb?
"I;m sorry," I reiterated, "there is nothing i can do. the best thing i can suggest is that if you need diet coke that bad, there is a seven eleven down the road along with another rite aid. they surely will be able to satisfy your empty sugar cravings."
perhaps a bit to far. she didnt liek the idea of hollow being in any way associated with her.
"Are you getting smart with me?" she demanded. "listen, i have a coupon for this soda that i cut out from your circular. (not realizing that the circular is designed fro every rite aid in the area, not specifically our store. that and there is a footnote informing such customers as herself that stock of items depicted therewithin are not guarenteed to be in stock). This is false advertising!" she continued to groan, regardless. "I refuse to move until i get my soda." she was solid. that was it. the hammer. the rock. or so she thought. now, i have dealt with customers liek ehr before. customers who have no clue what is going on. customers who demand and degrade the very people serving them, ingnorant tot he fact that they, we, I, hold in our hands exactly what it is they desire. not that smart. i have dealt with these customers time and time again, and this time i was beginning to grow tired of it. so i acted.
charging into the isle where the soda is kept, i found myself, acting almost as if my body was on autopilot--my braind not able to control my actions. i grabed a bottle of regular coke and took it into the back. there i dumped out half of the bottle and proceeded to fill it back to the brim with water. the result was a diluted, like caramel-coloured, slightly carbonated, yet very full bottle.
returning tot he front i thrust the bottle onto the counter in front of the stubourne woman.
"there you are" i said, insisting this was what she had asked for, "Coke lite. half the carbs, half the calories."
she promptly abandoned her post.
the moral of the story: think before you act liek a fool.
Police say they may never know why Gale charged the stage at a heavy metal show and gunned down four people, including former Pantera guitarist "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott, one of metal rock's most revered guitarists.
Some witnesses said Gale began his rampage by yelling out accusations that Abbott broke up Pantera, one of the most popular heavy metal bands of the 1990s. Sgt. Brent Mull said police had not verified those reports.
"We may never know a motive for this, unless he left a note," Mull said.
Abbott, 38, left Pantera with his brother, drummer Vinnie Paul Abbott, to form the band Damageplan, which had just begun its first song at the club Alrosa Villa on Wednesday night when Gale dodged two band members, grabbed Darrell Abbott and shot him at least five times in the head.
"He grabbed Dimebag with one hand and shot him with the other," said Kevin Minerd, among the 500 people packed into the smoke-filled nightclub to see Abbott's new band.
In less than five minutes, Gale had shot three others, including Erin Halk, 29, a club employee who loaded band equipment; fan Nathan Bray, 23, of nearby Grove City; and Jeff Thompson, 40, a bodyguard for the band.
Two people employed by the band, Chris Paluska and John Brooks, were in Riverside Hospital on Friday morning with Paluska listed in good condition and Brooks in serious condition.
An imposing figure, Gale was on the offensive line for the semi-pro Lima Thunder in northwest Ohio, coach Mark Green said Thursday. Gale listened to Pantera on headphones before games during his one season with the team, Green said.
"You wouldn't look at him and think he was capable of doing something like this," Green said. "It wasn't like he was a loner."
A teammate, James Patterson, 31, said when he last spoke with Gale in October, he was laying sod for a landscaping company in Marysville, where Gale kept an apartment.
"I'm just stunned," Patterson said. "I can't even describe how he could have done something like this."
Gale made workers and customers uneasy at the Bears Den Tattoo Studio in Marysville, 25 miles northwest of Columbus, where he stared at people and forced them into conversations, manager Lucas Bender said.
"He comes in here and likes to hang out when he's not wanted," Bender said. "The most pointless conversations."
A tattoo artist at the studio, Bo Toler, said Gale was at the studio Wednesday between 5 and 6 p.m. Gale asked about having the studio order tattoo equipment for him and Toler said he told him no. Gale then got very angry and started yelling at him, he said.
"Last night was actually the first time I noticed his temper," Toler said on Thursday. "After the argument we had he kind of walked out with an attitude. He didn't even say goodbye."
Gale had red hair cut very close, often wore a winter hat and was always wearing a Columbus Blue Jackets hockey jersey, said Mandi Dellinger, who works at a cell phone store on the same block where Gale lives. Police said Gale was wearing the jersey during the shooting.
Dellinger said she used to say hello to Gale but they never had a conversation. "He seemed like a nice guy. He just seemed shy," Dellinger said.
Gale had several minor run-ins with police since 1997, but wasn't considered a troublemaker, Marysville assistant police chief Glenn Nicol said.
Gale ate two or three times a week at Maggie's Restaurant across an alley from his apartment, waitress Emi Walden said. He would stay to chat after eating and seemed lonely, Walden said.
"There was something odd about him, not like he would be dangerous to you, just something about him that wasn't right," she said.
Gale mentioned he was in the Marines but wouldn't talk specifics, Walden said. Messages left with several military public affairs offices trying to confirm his service were not immediately returned.
No one answered the door Thursday at the Marysville home of Gale's mother, Mary Clark. A message left on her cell phone was not immediately returned.
Despite a drizzle and temperatures in the 40s, more than 200 people turned up for a vigil Thursday night in the club's parking lot.
Shawn Sweeney, 22, played "old-school Pantera" on an acoustic guitar and a half-dozen young men held a blue tarp over his head and sang along.
"This is beautiful, this is absolutely beautiful," Sweeney said, referring to the growing crowd.
At one point, a naked young man stood in the middle of the street, arms raised, repeatedly cursing Gale. The crowd cheered boisterously, and the man took off in a full sprint across the parking lot as four police officers gave chase.
He was soon tackled and a man in the crowd yelled out, "We got your bond, dude!" as the streaker was led off in handcuffs.
There she was, staring back at me as if beconing me to go to her. She called my name, somehow knowing it. Her voice was all that I could hear, her flashy and persuasive gestures all that begged for the attention of my eye. Only feet from her I stood inside of that mall on the fateful night of August 3rd, 2010.
In my hands I held open my worn and aged wallet. The creases of the leather billfold caked with white powder from countless venture through the washing machine. Five dollars I had left to my name, the last of my six week pension. It was all that I had left in this world, would I spend it frivolously? A hot meal and bus fare back to my apartment seemed to be the logical way to go; a last hurrah before being cast out by my landlord into the gnashing of teeth and the ripping claw I had come to call the world. It world be the safest way to go. This would be the logical, responsible way to dispose of my last five dollars.
But still, she called my name.
“A thousand dollars a week for life” she taunted me.
Solidly, I was her prisoner. There was no escape by now, I had spent to much time gawking at her broad green shoulders and bright yellow lips.
Why not? I asked myself as I approached the lottery machine, My last five dollars wont go very far anyway. Besides, this is one of those times that things like this really pay off.
Without even realizing what I was doing, I fed her the money and the red digital display showed my wager. I wasn’t normally the gambling type, but I pressed the button as if I had done it a hundred times before. Instantly, the memories of the day I had been laid off from my job as a chemist at Quest -- and the months of substandard income that followed -- returned to me. Unpleasantly, I was recalled the trouble I had gone through just to make it to this point. This spot in time. This decision to stake my last bit of savings on a chance, and a long shot at that.
But I deserved it. If anyone did, it was me.
I bummed some money from various people I passed in the corridor to the bathrooms near the food court and eventually had enough to hop a bus at least most of the way to my dilapidated abode, or at least what the rodents had left of it. I did not dare to stray near Nordstrom’s or Lord & Taylor as I usually did, for I dreaded the thought of begging for money in those regions. In that section of the mall, it seemed, one must be adequately dressed as I was not. Not tonight, at least. Not since all of my Elegant garments had been sold to make last months rent (not to mention the previous month’s and the month proceeding that).
I decided to wait until I was nestled safely away in the folds of my bed under the yellowed lamp to scratch off the silvery blind of the ticket and reveal the fruit of my gamble. For the entire bus ride and remaining three block walk through the starry twinkle of the night, I clutched my one last hope close to my chest. Rolling the small ticket over in my hand, I anxiously awaited the moment I could take my key to it (for even my quarters had been spent) and reveal what I had won.
Finally, the time had come, and I scratched with vigor. Squinting through the low light there in that barely painted room, I could not believe what I saw. I had won. “A thousand dollars a week!” I shouted, jumping up from under my covers, “For life!”
In the weeks and months after, the money began rolling in. it accumulated faster than I could ever imagine and soon I was able to move into a place on the upper west end where I had once lived. I was soon back in the throws of fortune, only this time I did not have to work to sustained my keep. It was free this time, provided by the government and my last five dollars. I soon bought a Jag and a Mercedes just for good measure. My big screen TV would not fit through the door, so I had it widened and decided to insert a bay window as well. The Olympic-sized swimming pool I added was a nice touch, though I only used it once every four years.
Yes, it was official, I was living the good life and would do it without ever having to work a day again in my life. Realizing this after about six months of joy and happiness, I stopped looking altogether for employment. Rather, I spent my days from there on in perusing my true love: watching cartoons.
From my laz-e-boy recliner, I spent many afternoons and Saturday mornings reliving my lost youth and enjoying a time that was stolen from me by my parents who often had forced chores upon me. Not now, though. This was my time.
Countless hours I would spend enjoying mindless titles such as Ed, Edd, and Eddie with my good friends Jack Daniels and Chester Cheetah. How I loved pounding down those deep fried, cheese flavored Neanderthal war clubs they called Cheetos. Fistful after fistful they disappeared down the hatch into my awaiting stomach. A cottonseed-oil-covered bliss they delivered like a high no drug could produce, until one day they stopped loving me as much as I loved them.
“Tripled Bypass surgery.” I remember my cardiologist’s diagnosis.
My choice was clear: Surgery or death. I chose surgery.
After sixteen hours under the knife, I awoke in my own private room: another benefit that came with being a winner of the PA lotto. Wiping the sleepers from the corners of my eyes, I was surprised to see the face of my long-ago best friend, Steve, staring back at me. We had grown up together, but as I became successful and he didn’t, we grew apart. Oh, what a difference a few years and a lottery ticket could make.
“How are ya’ doin’, sunshine?” he greeted me the same way he had years ago after I had awoke from my hockey-puck-educed coma. “feelin better?” he asked.
“A little.” I replied. “What are you doing here?”
“The boys and I want to do a little something to cheer you up. Make you feel better once you are discharged.” a grin began to crack in the corners of his mouth. “the same way we cheered you up after you took that puck to the head sophomore year.”
I knew what that meant.
The strip bar was alive and shaking with techno-dance music. Girls spun around poles and scantily-clad waitresses served five-dollar martinis and four dollar Buds. Things were just as I remembered, until Steve introduced me to Candy Kane. She was young, full of life and alcohol alike. Steve informed me that though it was not normally a practice of this establishment, she had agreed to show me a ‘good time’ after hearing of my recent hospital stay. Well, that and a couple bills slipped into her skimpy outfit.
After asking me if my heart could take it, she led me to a private booth.
Months later, I discovered that my night with the peppermint woman had come with a nasty consequence: HIV infection.
Already being a local hero for winning the thousand-dollars-a-week-for-life game now years back, my sad tale, and news of my new infection, quickly made it’s way into main stream news. The inquirer and CBS both ran the story within a week of each other, prompting me to take shelter form the media inside the confides of my palace of a home. Paparazzi loomed day and night just beyond the iron gate and news choppers frequently passed over my place.
Not being one to shy away from a challenge, though, I decided to use my new publicity to my advantage the same way Christopher reeve did. I would start a foundation for the research and development for the curing of AIDS.
Within a few years, my new company had soared to unbelievable heights and had finally reached the throws of this generation’s Holy Grail. A few more weeks and our drug had passed FDA testing and began showing up in Pharmacies across the world. More famous I became, now as the man who cured the Plague of our time. I myself was cured, and returned to my palace. The money kept pouring in and the richer I became bore my wealth rivaled Bill gates’.
A long life I expected to live, vowing that I would become wiser as a result of this wild ride. That was, until I was reunited with a long lost friend -- Chester Cheetah.
Wednsday was the METALLICA concert with GODSMACK. ohh, that rocked so hard. there was nothing by metal and pyros and shit like that. been a long times since i had such a good time. i wont bore ya with all the details, though, especially since most of you dont listen to that stuff. but anyway, yea, it was sweeet, except for the cover band out front before the show, they need to learn how to fuckin play better. the cold is no excuse.
also, don't see THE GRUDGE. if you seen the ring, you had seen the grudge. they are the same film. i am so pissed that this dude made the same film twice, oh wait, four times if you count his japanese versions, and he is set to release yet another one. this one will include some type of watery body drowned and looking clammily pail. also, it will involve cheap thrills. the trailer to THE GRUDGE promised to be RING on steroids, hinting at brign a change of underwear type scares, but the only thing i wanted to change after leaving the thearter was the backs of my retinas -- to get rid of teh image that had been burned onto them.
another movie that sucked. SOLARIS. if you seen it you know what i mean, if not, just dont see it. i cant even begin to explain why it sucked because i have no idea what the point was. actually, no, there was no point. it was 96 minutes or so of george clooney's ass hanging out. i expected better from a former batman. this is another movie that makes me want to sqeegie my corneas, or spray them with resolve to get the stains out. i dunno which would work better. maybe it is just a bad idea to watch anythign with george clooney in it. i always end up seeing his ass. SOLARIS, E.R., need i go on? him and RICHARD GERE. he is another one. damn, i see thier ass more than i see my own, and that's pretty hard to do being as that i check myself out every day before hopping in the shower just to make sure i still have that lift. nah, just kidding, but i still do have a sweet ass!
i dont think aything good came out of this week, except metallica and godsmack. oh well. i dont think anyone reads this page anymore anyway. if you do, let me know some how so i know it is worth keeping up with. hey, what can i say, im emotionally needy. maybe if i know people read it i will write somethign worth reading, instead of just using it as my last remaining outlet to keep me from wallowing in a sea of boredom. i guess writing an article to yourself can be rather entertaining, huh?
i guess so.
good, ill keep it up. i hope everyone else out there is as amused as i am by this.
I'm sure someone is.
next time i write, maybe tomorrow or the next day, i am gonna write abot the election...and my guide to it...and how i want neither of them to win. not because i'm an anarchist, because i usually am politically tuned, but because this year i think we are doomed either way. but 'nough said, that is cause for another night
i will leave you with this joke.
Wife: (Middle-aged. looking at her naked body in teh mirror before getting dressed in a fancy outfit for a night on the town) honey, i think my breasts are too small, how can i make them bigger?
Husband: (also middle aged. balding. wrinkles beginning to show) Why don;t you try rubbing toilet paper between them.
WIFE: (Surprised and confused) Will that really work?
Husband: I don't know, but it worked on you ass, didn't it?
the joy's of growing old together,both an endless joy and a tormenting anguish (or at least that's what i hear). The fate we all must sacome(sp) to one day
