Paineversary.

Celebrating 10 years with Restaurant.

Funny thing, though, I looked up ‘celebrate’ in the dictionary and it says nothing in the definition about drinking to forget.

So maybe ‘celebrating’ is the wrong word.

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Six feet in the right direction.

I am not a smart man.

Nor am I observant of the surroundings which extend further than a three-foot diameter around my body.

I wait tables in a corporate setting, and part of the deal is interacting with people from all walks of life without saying anything stupid, even to the ones who deserve it.

So, whenever anyone asks me how I am, I just say some bullshit like, “Livin’ the dream!” or, “Another day in paradise!”

Makes me throw up in my mouth. So I had to change it up. Something new and fresh so my coworkers wouldn’t hate my increasingly fake, sarcastic stock answers.

It was one day at the restaurant that a large party had come in after a funeral. I knew they were there, in the back of my mind.

I knew.

But that didn’t stop my brain and mouth from not communicating.

As the party was finishing up and leaving, I was just outside the front beverage station, this large party slowly passing by and on their way out, when one of my coworkers asked me how I was.

“Six feet in the right direction,” I said, at first happy with my new response, but then mortified when I realized I was heard by no less than 20 people who had just come from a goddamn funeral.

Everyone got quiet. I knew. Immediately.

I knew.

“Hey, can you take care of my tables for a few minutes? I’ll be in the cooler, bashing my head against the wall.”

I’ll be submitting this for the 1500 character or less DudeWrite prompt, up for voting this weekend! Show me some love!

Jiffy Lube and the Sex Machine

I am not a man.

Wait. Let me put that another way.

I am not a man with manly abilities.

The only tools’ names I’m familiar with are the hammer and screwdriver, I spend much more time and money necessary on oil changes because I can’t do them myself, and I’m pretty sure a flat tire would leave me on the side of the road in the fetal position; thumb in my mouth, crying like a bitch.

I don’t know anything about sports or who got traded where for how much money.

The last First Person Shooter I played with any sort of dedication was GoldenEye for the Nintendo 64.

I feel the piercing gazes of actual men when I walk into a Home Depot, a judgmental stare. The he has no idea what he’s even doing here stare.

Because I have no idea what I’m doing there.

So when I was 16 and even more clueless than I am now, my equally socially-awkward and clueless girlfriend at the time decided to take my car to the local Jiffy Lube for an oil change. Now, I’d never done this before so I was unfamiliar with the setup. For those of you playing the home game, this Jiffy Lube (like most others, I’d imagine), was built with a giant pit underneath where the cars pull in. I assume it was so the magic Jiffy Gnomes could get under my car easier.

This means that, in the off-chance I went full 80-year-old man and hit the gas instead of the brakes, my car would go careening off the side of this Jiffy Lube Sarlacc Pit, and we would all die.

Naturally then, being a clueless, dumb, depth-perceptionless teenager; I turn the corner and pull in very slowly. Painfully slow. I’m trying not to kill everybody, remember. So slow, I overheard the much manlier and far more annoyed Jiffy Lube worker yell, “Gas is on the right!”

Nervous laughter accompanied by a half-hearted nod/wave thing.

On successfully pulling over Jiffy Lube’s Mouth of Hell and shutting down the Sex Machine (that’s what I called my 1996 Saturn. The Sex Machine. I never got laid in that car, and as I write this, I’m starting to figure out why), I was approached by Butch Manly. He started to rattle off questions about what I wanted done to my car, all of which might as well have been in a foreign language, because dumb teenager.

I nervously held up one finger and, voice cracking, said, “One oil change, please.”

He lets out a sigh and the Jiffy Lube Gnomes get to working underneath the Sex Machine. My now ex-girlfriend and I share nervous stares, not wanting to make any sudden movements in case the ground collapses under the weight of our own naivety.

The awkwardness caused time to pass at a near-backwards pace. Finally, Mr. Manly approaches my car with paperwork for me to sign.

I thought they were done.

I thought the little Jiffy Lube Gnomes had hung up their little Jiffy Lube Gnome hats and had gone home for the day.

This was further cemented in my brain when I heard one of them yell “Start!” from within the Pit.

I started the car, as instructed.

Then, over the purr of the Sex Machine, I heard frantic shouting, littered with words that would get me in serious trouble if used at home.

The look on Butch Manly’s face still haunts me to this day.

“Yeeeeaaaarrrrgggghhhh!” Yelled one Gnome.

“The car! Goddammit!” “Yelled Butch, to my confused, bewildered, stupid teenage face.

“Turn off the fucking car!” Screeched another Gnome. Or was it the same Gnome? I have no idea.

I turned off the car, explaining to Butch I could have sworn I’d heard someone yell for me to start, not doing the math and wondering why one of the Gnomes would tell me it was time to start the car, and not Butch Manly himself.

After awkwardly handing over my money to Butch, he assured me that everything was going to be okay, that this wasn’t the first time they had to send one of the Gnomes to the hospital because someone turned on their car mid-oil change.

My most sincere bad, Jiffy Lube Gnome. I hope you found something awesome to attach to your bloody stump of a hand.

The workweek haiku.

Looking for a job
Experience trumps degree
College was bullshit

Emailed resume
Never heard from company
Must’ve read my blog.

Woke up late for work.
Skip shower? Skip breakfast? Nah.
Fuck all that. Skip work.

Due for promotion
“Really need you where you are.”
Denied promotion.

Entry-level job
Two phone interviews later
“You’re not qualified.”

Work, therefore I drink
Need more money to buy beer
Drink, therefore I work

Previously on Content Unrelated: (3/8/13 – 3/17/13)

Let’s just get it out there right now.

I blatantly and shamelessly stole this idea from Moog. I liked it. I wanted it. Eat a dick.

Not you, Moog; you’re cool. Unless you enjoy eating dicks, then, by all means.

I wanted to have something to top off the end of each week, to recap everything from the last seven days in case you either:

A.) Missed something
B.) Just got here and don’t know where to start, or
C.) Have absolutely nothing else better to do with your day than to re-read my bullshit.

This Previously on… includes a post or two from last week, because I started this blog on a Friday, and I wasn’t about to recap one goddamn post last Sunday.

Previously on Content Unrelated:
I set the bar as low as I could  and gave a warning of what to expect to get everyone started; and then I told you to go fuck yourself, but you probably didn’t even notice.

I took the perspective of my downstairs neighbors who call the office to complain every time they hear a pin drop.

We went to the future and talked about how I’m more of a fashionist than a racist (which, admittedly sounds kind of gay, but whatever).

Took a couple minutes and played chess with some asparagus before enjoying the victory of taking a morning shit after breakfast but before a shower, among other things.

I gave Urban Dictionary a run for its money, ate my girlfriend’s shampoo and conditioner, and I came back from going black.

What were your favorites? Least favorites? Want to talk about something completely unrelated? Now’s your chance for a free-for-all in the comments.