The Mind of Spaz

I’m never usually creeped out. There’s many other stimuli that produce emotions in me, like hungry, not hungry, peckish, not peckish, thirsty, not thirsty and even sometimes anger.

It was lunchtime, and my boss and I decided to grab a quick hamburger at the local Harvey’s.  We were both pretty dirty, so he went into the washroom to wash his hands and came out not 10 seconds later.  “Spaz, that was fucking creepy” he said, with a look of horror.

Naturally, I had to see for myself.

Alas, it wasn’t the exorcist chick. It was something else entirely.  You see, there was some Harvey’s employee retard washing his hands.  That in itself isn’t the creepy part.  Well, he looked like a slighly larger version of that little midget from Fantasy Island, and that in itself is creepy enough. It’s just that he was washing his hands in a very peculiar way.

No, he wasn’t washing them with his butt or something.  He was washing them, but he just wouldn’t STOP washing them. He created one hell of a lather, it seemed like he was almost making LOVE to the soap in his hands. Indeed, he almost seemed to have that “I’m gonna cum” look in his face.

Gross.

All I wanted to do was wash the soil and dirt from my hands so I could eat my hamburger.  He didn’t even notice me waiting, he just kept on washing his hands. Then he dried them for 45 seconds.  Then he stared at himself in the mirror for another 45 seconds. Then he let me wash my hands but he stood RIGHT behind me and stared at himself in the mirror the whole while I was washing my hands.

Again, gross.

I left the washroom as quickly as I could and went to place my order.  The little creep didn’t emerge from the washroom for another 10 minutes, no doubt engorged in a hand washing mirror staring self gratifying orgy of creepiness.

And that’s what happens when you get government subsidized ‘tards to work at your fast food restaurant.

‘Nuff said.

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The gods have struck me down, given me a blow to which I have reeled and I’m not sure a full recovery is possible.

You see, I have a new inspector from the health unit.  She’s working under new regulation that requires her to inspect each and every one of our small water systems, at length, with me there as she’s grilling me with inane questions. And yes, she’s offensive to ALL the senses.  She is:

• Incredibly ugly and fat, offending my eyes
• Disgustingly greasy and clammy, offending my right hand (when we shake hands you pervs)
• Her broken English is screechy and never ending, making me want to poke out my eardrums with ice pics

But that’s not the worst.  You see, she’s a close talker.  And if you edge away for personal space, she edges closer to you.  I swear, we ended up halfway to Toronto that way in the space of a two hour meeting.

Your probably saying “But Spaz! You only mentioned sight, sound and touch! There are two other senses!”.  You’re right, there are two other senses.

You see, her greasy appearance is most likely due to her unwillingness to bathe.  Apparently for her the 10 minute daily routine of stepping into a shower, lathering up with an $0.80 bar of soap and rinsing off is too complicated.  No, instead she pours on gallons and gallons of horribly cheap perfume, probably right on her nasty gooey snatch.

The taste part comes in with the smell.  Have you ever smelled something so bad you can taste it? That’s her.

Today, both my boss and I were with her, and she was EXTRA offensive.  My eyes turned red, I couldn’t control my coughing, and I was on the verge of puking. All this coming from a guy who thinks poop is funny.

So him and I have devised a plan.  Next time we have to see her, we’re going to load up on roughage: Cabbage, broccoli, curried foods, beans and the like. We’re going to do that two hours before we see her, and stand at either side of her.

And let off the SBD’s in turn.

That’ll teach her for being stinky.

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Not much to see here today, but I thought I’d leave you with this short tidbit of information:

Boobs are liars.

You heard me, breasts lie.  No, I’m not high and hearing things again, which is a good thing.  You can only use annebriation as an excuse in a sexual harrasement case once.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE boobs. Little ones big one small once swingy ones pointy ones round ones well, you get the picture. Boobs are just awesome.  It’s just that there’s an element of deception.  Let me explain with pictures.
Boobs harnessed in bra:

Once boobs have been removed from bra:

For example.  And that’s all I’m saying.

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There’s no doubt the world is full of idiots.  After living on this planet for thirty-one years I’ve come to the strong conclusion that nine out of every ten people are absolute blithering retards. The kind of blithering retards that should never be allowed to breed but seem to do so in excess.

On a related note: We’re fucked as a species.

One of the smartest organizations (not) on the planet is our postal system.  These people are absolutely brilliant. They are so brilliant that they put a letter in my mailbox that was not only NOT addressed to my name, the postal code was also completely wrong. It wasn’t even NEAR to the same as my postal code.

So naturally, I wrote on the envelope “return to sender” and put it in the nearest mailbox.

You can guess what happened next, can’t you. Yes, the letter came back.

I guess the words “return to sender” weren’t clear enough for these jackwads, so I decided I’d put the letter back in the mailbox with a few more explicit instructions.

In case you can’t read it, it says:

See the first note.  I am not the sender. I am also not Kristen.  This is why I returned to sender in the first place. DO YOU GET IT NOW? Thanks.

Canada has some really weird laws, and I’ll probably end up serving life in prison for this with the likes of murderers, kiddy diddlers and litterers. Thanks for reading me folks, see you all on the other side.

Spaz out.

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When I go off to work in the morning, I usually come home. When I go out to run some errands, I come home. Heck, even if I go to Toronto when I feel like being an ethnic minority, I usually eventually get home.

There was something very different about when I got home today. Something unusual. Something I haven’t experienced in almost four years.  When I opened the door, it wasn’t just the usual odour of prepackaged bachelor chow and loneliness I smelled.  There was another, more pungent odour mixed in. I stepped into the living room to find this:

Well what the hell. I don’t remember pooing anywhere but the toilet, and besides, it’s WAY to small to be one of mine.  I’ve got to figure out how it got there, so I put on my detective cap.

It’s too small to be one of mine. Hmm. Who else? Who’s small and has a lot of poop.  I know, it was that dastardly bastard moooooooooog.  He’s small and poops a lot, and I wouldn’t put it past him to leave a present on my floor.

It couldn’t be mooooooooog though, because not only have I taken every precaution to make sure he doesn’t know where I live, he’s also afraid to come back to Canada. It seems last time he was here he got a thrashing and hasn’t been back since.  That’ll teach ya to try to be a smart ass in the French Quarter Moooooog.  We all know Francophones have zero sence of humor.

I then thought that perhaps the magical poo fairy had left a deposit for me, after years of neglect.

So it wasn’t me, it wasn’t mooooog and it wasn’t the poo fairy.  There are no poo flinging monkey’s in Canada, so how the hell did it get there?  It was then that I heard a noise. It was very faint, and it almost sounded like whistling.

That’s right dog, hang your head in shame. That is NOT where you’re supposed to poo. Now pick it up and put it on the front steps of the school, just like I taught you.

Good girl.

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