...on petty fiefdoms

so there's this woman that works in the office.

and the bastard uses this term loosely because all i see her do is walk around these days and tell the bastard where he can and can't eat his lunch.

it's like this. after we got sold to a bunch of swedish people, they turned us over to the fucking hayseeds that they bought first. mind you they run their branch of our fair business from the second floor of a strip mall which ALWAYS strikes the bastard as good business sense.

anyway, they decided right from the get to redesign the offices which has met with disdainful results, dare i say, morale sucking results. one of these results was the loss of our lunch area. also known as the killing stuff monthly africa wing. but we discovered these conference rooms to eat in. and when one was free, we'd eat in it.

it got to the point that the exec assistant was booking conference rooms for us to guarantee us a place to eat.

now let me interupt by reading your mind: yes i am aware that the bastard can just GO OUT to eat like regular folk. well it's like this young shiteyes, the bastard works with people who like to take an hour out of their day to bullshit with one another over food. this is what you call GOOD FOR MORALE. it helps foster good work relationships. so there it is.

but the old bat caught on to this and put a stop to us booking the room. she sighted very logical reasons and we all collectively didn't disagree and we ceased booking for lunch. and when the room looks empty, we sit down and eat lunch.


well today we looked in, and no one was there. so we sat down and ate lunch. upon finishing, this ancient creature darkens my door and proceeds to give me grief about it. says that

"someone was training a new employee in there."

"you didn't look to see if the room was booked."

"so you people cant eat in any conference rooms, anymore."

and then she left. you know come to think of it, i could have sworn the room we ate lunch in was absolutely TEEMING with activity when we all collectively sat down and proceeded to eat. funny thing was, the bastard spoke with the people who had the room booked (because i can't seem to let sleeping dogs lie). they were done for the day. and then it hit me. i must have done something to piss the old crone off. oh well, i guess tomorrow, we'll have a picnic in our area.

people are petty, and i'm not excluding myself from that phrase. because the bastard is petty. very fucking petty.

—the bastard

...on offense

got on the elevator this morning (da daaaaaaaah da dah), the roadie was getting on with me. he had a suitcase he was rolling with him. more folks pack in and this woman is standing between us.

i ask roadie, motioning to his suitcase, "coming or going?"

"oh, i'm going."

"where to?"

"georgia."

"what the hell's in georgia?"

now the roadie's answer isn't important at this time because this woman who was standing between us gives me the gas face.

downright offended.

the bastard offends people all the time but never quite so quickly, and never really about regional things. still and all, it was a good start.

—the bastard

went to a party last saturday night...

...and this douchebag fell right into the bastard's trap. uh huh. it ain't no big thing

so. on saturday night, the bastard was invited by my ladyfriend to go to a birthday party for some members of her book club who are friends of susie kansas. by and large it was your typical uneventful good time. the kind you'd have on the lower east side.

you know,

crowded with people.

trendily dressed people, most of which come from somewhere else.

cardboard cutout of justin timberlake which was more popular than the handsomest man in the room.

you know,

the usual.

it was good. but i walks to the bar and chuckles here who has already taken the liberty of showing up drunk (he's economical that way) or maybe he's just a cheap date and i decide to try and give him a wide berth which didn't workoutsomuch and he clips me in the gut with his elbow.

now, to be fair, it wasn't a hard elbow. it was the kind of soft elbow that a drunken nancy boy would give but, there's no excuse for bad manners.

"i think the phrase that is rattling around your empty dome was 'excuse me' ", and i proceed to order myself and my ladyfriend a drink.

"that guy gave you the dirtiest look"

"he had every right to, i told him he needed to excuse himself"

and so it goes. later he posed for me. sometimes things just fall into place. it's almost as much fun as mullet hunting, only it's with jackasses.

—the bastard

the smell gets around you

"snif snif."

"you know rob, sometimes this city smells like shit."

"you know, sometimes shit smells like this city."

"really." (not stated as a question but as a retort. keep up, will you)

"yeah sometimes i'll find something floating in the bowl and sniff and think, hmmmmmmm, 43rd street."

"nice."

so yeah. it didn't smell so good last night as the lobster and i headed west towards 6th. it's one of those phenomena that is nothing like the maple syrup smell that perplexed us all in october of 2005. it was more of the late season humidity comes home to make everything smell like crap.

or raw sewage.

or corpses.

or...well...you get the idea.

anyway it followed me all the way back to the thorough borough and all the way to the airport (both times mind you). you'd think the dog days of summer were gone because it's cooler out but it just cooler out. the dog is still out there, making the bastard sweat. and he don't like it. bad dog. BAD DOG!

—the bastard

what would jesus do?

well the bastard can at least tell you what jesus wouldn't do. read my scripture, jerks. READ MY FUCKING SCRIPTURE!

i'm making the transfer at lexington and standing in the same spot i stand at every day (unless i am expecting to buy breakfast. those days, i'm closer to a spot where i get dumped off on 32nd street) and what should my wandering eye see but two "men of the cloth" standing on the same spot. one of them is sweating excessively. the kind of sweat that comes with years of benefiting from the largess of lots of eating over his lifetime. the other who reeked of cigarette smoke, looking kind of like mister eko from lost looked at me. no. scowled at me. there was also a woman on our little piece of platform as well.

now here is where our little discussion turns to a what would jesus do discussion. now that bastard asks you, when the train pulls in,
what would jesus do?

would he give the white boy a dirty look?

would he block the white boy's path with his arm to reveal to white boy his jewel encrusted hand and while doing so, become so preoccupied with making sure that his divine ass can get on the train before the white boy that he totally cock blocks the woman from getting on the train before he does?

would he press himself so close to the door he just passed , that he would prevent the white boy and the woman from getting on the train properly and then subsequently give the gas face to the white boy when he presses in right behind him (yeah, i figured out somewhere along the way that this shit was about the bastard, so i wasn't going to make it easy for him)?

no i would have to argue that he wouldn't. not on the son of man's worst day.


so why, the bastard asks, does the "man of the cloth" in question feel that this is acceptable behavior? i didn't provoke him. he saw me. he made a judgement call. he consciously decided to single me out, the knowing look on his fat friend's face speaks to his decision to act upon me, albeit passive aggresively. i'll tell you why. because he has hate in his heart. i don't know if it's for the bastard's skin color or for his shades, his ipod, his ben sherman bag, his baldness, his swagger. it could be a combination of things. but it begs the question, is it morally right, religiously speaking of course, for a representative of god to act like a racist thug when he's out and about in his white collar? can a man of the cloth live the life of christ while being a racist piece of shit?

now the bastard has done more than his fair share of fun of religion but, i had to lay in. turn the other cheek jackass. turn the other cheek. and while your at it, take off your fucking rings jerk, it sends the wrong message to your flock. it tells me that i'm using your tithing to buy a big ass amethyst pinky ring and you should all feel like suckers for tithing to the likes of me. I'M SKIMMING!!! that's what i'm doing and i hate white folks too. there's a reason why monks take a vow of poverty and chastity. because christ opted to be poor and chaste. so there you have it. you see, the bastard isn't a minster so i don't have to turn the other cheek. fuck you.

—the bastard

...on the gas face

so as the bastard mentioned before, the boy is spending the summer with me. so, he comes to work with me. he likes coming to work with me. allthough i have to say, he's starting to wonder why my coworkers like to write about how to kill animals. i'm going to have to work that one out later on. anyway, the mofo was meeting us to ride into queens to have dinner with the rents.

now here's the situation. you have a seven year old boy who has a brand new sony psp. he drops it as he sits down on the subway. on the bench. barely grazing this gentleman who then looks at this seven year old boy with such righteous indignation, such disdain, that it makes the bastard wonder, "what the hell?" i mean, he's a little boy and you're looking at him like, "hoo boy, you see, THIS is how the MAN is trying to get over me. ya see? here's the blond haired blue eyed devil dropping his shit on me, wreckin' mah tommy hills, making a nuisance of hisself. ya see, this is mah train"

ummmm... let me interupt you there a second pal, this ain't your train this is our train. get over yourself pal. get over your bling and your posturing and get over the fact that you're giving my son the gas face.

—the bastard