My Day Of Weird

March 8, 2011

Today’s rather late post (thank you five am wakeup call grrrr) is not about gaming. Instead it’s about how my Sunday went, a series of event so off the wall I would honestly not have been surprised if, at some point, Wile E. Coyote, Suuuuuppppper Genius rolled up on me and asked if I’d seen a Roadrunner pass through recently. Read, enjoy and bear in mind that, apart from some anti-profanity editing this is how the day went with zero embellishment.

Cheers!

Right, so I start my day on the bus at 9am on my way to work. I find myself sitting in back next to a large, bearded man who proceeds to share the following information with me. He is a liver transplant patient. His new liver has 4% function remaining. His doctor needs to shut the fuck up and mind his own business about his drinking. (This punctuated by pulls off a fifth of apricot brandy. At 9am. On a Sunday. On the bus) Furthermore, he is only awake at this hour because he smoked the last of his meth (“Look, see, it totally effed my teeth”) and his dealer can only meet with him before 10am because that is when he is leaving to take his kids to Sunday School. I get off the bus, decide that the day can’t get any more fucking surreal. The universe takes this as a challenge.

Work is busy. I get a text. It is a woman I was once acquainted with. We stopped associating because she and her husband repeatedly brought me pornographic gifts at parties where my pre-teen niece was a guest and falsely accused one of my best friends of rape. The mentally deficient, white trash headcase idiot person wants me to write her husband a personal character refference!

I get on the bus to go home. I call to let my family know I’m inbound. I keep getting sent directly to voice mail because every time I try to call one of my wives that wife is calling me at the exact same moment. I finally get to the train station where they are going to meet me. I bang my head on a metal upright as I leave my seat, trip down the stairs leading from the very back of the bus to the front and bounce facefirst into the back door. Then I walk right the eff past not one, but two ticket machines that I’m looking for to reload my bus card so I can continue to get to work before spotting one. On the opposite side of the train platform not ten feet from where I got off the bus.

I get in the car. We go book shopping. We stop at Walgreens. I tell the clerk my story and ask how his day went. He responds , totally straight faced “Oh, it was great! My dad took me to Sunday School!”

The moral of the story is twofold. First; With surreal shit like this being my boring-assed day to day I have no need to do drugs. Second: Never indicate that you think your day can’t get any more fucked up and weird. The universe will take it as a challenge.

***************************************************************************************************************

Interesting little post script. I am, as some of you may know, a savage, screaming Pepsi addict and have been since Buddah rode a Big Wheel. My preferred poison is Pepsi Throwback, the stuff with the cane sugar rather than that ick-tastic corn syrup drek. I’m always on the lookout for more of it since it’s not very common any more. Tonight, my beloved Wife #3 picks me up at the train station, this time without me bouncing into, off of or down anything that might bruise me and we stop at the local Tom Thumb. There we find a stack of Pepsi Throwback 12 packs shoulder high to me. Seventeen of em to be precise. I know because I counted. A phone call is made. Questions are asked of She Who Handles The Bills. Numbers are thrown around. Confirmation is requested and received. The two Middle Eastern clerks are looking at me with a distinct air of “What the eff?”. Finally, I thank SWHTB, hang up, carry one 12 pack to the counter and explain I’ll be taking it and all sixteen of it’s little friends with me.

There is some confusion. More questions are asked. More confirmation is given. The nice men generously lend me a cart and let me go out the back door of the store because loading 17 12 packs of pop by hand would be a bit of a chore. Several minutes are spent dragging a shopping cart loaded down with 2,448 (12 cans times 12 ounces times 17) ounces of pop or roughly TWENTY GALLONS OF PEPSI through the snow to the car. The car is loaded, the cart is returned. The guys shake my hand and go back to their conversation in Arabic which I can tell by the laughter includes some variant on “Can you believe that guy? You know nobody’s gonna believe this right?” is at least partly about me. I get home a happy little addict with a three month supply of my drug of choice.

The moral of the post script? We are all, at some point a character in somebody’s Day of Weird. It all comes down to timing and perspective.

Cheers all! And keep it fun!

Mech out.

 

 

 

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