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The new Walking Dead

The Walking Dead surround me.

Eyes glazed, faces slack, open sores on exposed skin, its not pretty.

You avoid eye contact, not wanting to attract attention.

But there are worse things.

The ones that pray upon the walking dead.

One of them spotted me just as I left the parking garage, making a bee line for me.

“Yo, my man! You want a free phone?”

This was said to me by a guy wearing an obnoxious purple tie.

Some backstory would probably help here.

I am doing a favor of paperwork delivery for someone and it has led me to a government facility.

The belly of the beast itself.

Nothing scarier than the phrase – “I am from the government and I am here to help you.”

Now imagine that you go to the monster’s den and bitch slap the beast awake and tell him “Time to go to work, MF-er!”

I stood in line for 10 minutes just for the metal detector.

The twitchy guy ahead of me was going to walk out of line twice, but seemed to talk himself into staying each time.

I knew how he felt, I didn’t want to be here either.

Turns out, our reasons for wanting to leave are different.

I want want to leave because my nose can’t decide if BO or urine is more offensive and he wants to leave because…

HE IS CARRYING METH!

When you walk up to the metal detector, the bored security guard shoves a tray at you and repeats “Empty your pockets into the tray and proceed thru the metal detector.”

This is where the drug mule ahead of me loses his shit.

The security guard repeats his line and the fun begins.

“Uh, what is, if I, just metal? Right? No? I should go…”

Out of nowhere, a security guard that may or may not have been a 300lbs ninja put his hand on the tweeker’s shoulder.

“Empty your pockets.”

The security badge makes you immune to the walking dead, apparently.

In the end, he was arrested, basically for being stupid enough to attempt entry into a government building while carrying:

  • A Meth pipe.
  • A weed pipe.
  • 2 separate baggies containing weed.
  • A very small baggie that contained a small white rock that I have seem on many episodes of Cops.
  • Yet another baggie of multi-colored pills.

The charge should have been felony stupidity.

An interesting thing happened once they busted him for being a retarded drug mule.

Half the line walked off.

When I was on the other side of the metal detector, putting my belt back on, I asked one of the security guards why they grabbed him, but didn’t even look at the people who left line.

“He set foot in the building, that changes it all.”

And I guess it does.

Even the beast has its rules.

You can fuck around all you like out there, but when you step thru the gates of hell, you better step correct.

On with my mission.

I got to the help desk and stood in line for 15 minutes only to walk away when I got to the front without asking my question.

Why?

Because the help desk lady smelled worse than BO and urine.

Any help coming from her had to have some sort of karmic stank on it.

Lord helps those who helps themselves and all that.

The directory on the wall told me where I needed to go.

Turns out the higher you go in the governmental tower of Babel, the more efficient the minions of evil appear to be and the nicer they smell.

The lady that date stamped the envelope and gave me a receipt was actually wearing perfume.

When I got outside, I paused to text the person I was there for, letting them know that they owe me WAY more for this favor.

I heard one of the walking dead trying to get people to get a “Free phone”. (Sadly I realized that the phones were not free. I was paying for each one of them. Sigh.)

“Naw man, I got a phone, I just need to get me some weed.”

The answer should not have shocked me.

“Over by the parking garage there a dude with a purple tie…”

Dammit I need some coffee and Xanax.

But I will settle just for the coffee.

I don’t have access to Xanax.

But the guy with the purple tie probably does.

Mmmmm coffee.

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Posted by on November 17, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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The tell tale smell of fear and urine.

I’m not being a pussy.

There is a fine line between being superstitious about a date on the calendar and living in abject, shit yourself stark terror at the thought of a particular date on a calendar.

You wake up on Friday the 13th and realize that you are laying in a puddle of your own urine.

And it only goes downhill from there.

Someone tried to tell me that “It’s just another day, its no big deal”.

If this was a horror film, they would be the one that decides to investigate the abandoned boat house by themself.

In other words, they will be the first to die horribly.

Fear is a funny thing.

Not funny ha ha, but funny like scared and you turn and run into a pole funny.

I lost my keys on the last Friday the 13th.

That may not sound like much, but if I fell into a wood chipper trying to find them, you would feel differently, wouldn’t you?

See what I mean?

“But you didn’t fall into a wood chipper.”

Thank God!

I got lucky that Friday the 13 decided to find a victim elsewhere that day.

There are only 2 Friday the 13ths this year.

At least that spreads out the horror instead of it being just 1 day.

When its just 1 day, 1 Friday the 13th in a year, that is some powerful mojo.

That is like Y2K, planes falling from the sky, MASS HYSTERIA kind of day.

2 in a year is more of your, cheesy slasher film kind of horror.

That I can deal with.

All I need is coffee and to hear that click on the door of my panic room.

Then I can just sit there naked and drink my coffee and wait for the inevitable.

Why am I naked?

Why are you clothed? (Let’s not get bogged down with a lot of questions.)

Side note. A dog barked next door and I just about pissed myself. Shut that beast up, some of us are trying to quiver in fear, for God’s sake!

The sad part is, I have to go to work.

I showered and narrowly escaped slipping and cracking my head open.

I shaved and almost cut my throat open when my razor broke.

The drive to work was like a Mission Impossible car chase.

I am sitting at my desk, waiting for a disgruntled co worker to go on a rampage.

So I realize I am on borrowed time here.

Tell my kids I love them.

At some point, I am sure a Syrian refugee will commit an act of some sort in my vicinity with dire consequences.

Its kind of a “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and it will probably kill you.” type of thing.

So, if I survive the day and I am not in a medically induced coma, (Might be the only way to save me) I will write about my survival next week.

Until then, keep your head down, drink your coffee, and for God’s sake, put some pants on.

 

 
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Posted by on January 13, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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