Carnival of Wank

Today at Wendy’s:

Customer: What’s that awful beeping?
Manager: Well, either the deepfrier is reversing or we’re all going to die.
Customer: *Runs screaming from the restaurant*
Manager: …

I used to train call center agents how to troubleshoot technical issues with a specific piece of software (a tale for another time), and one class a particularly outspoken agent (who had a tendency to ask rather personal questions) asked me “Do you like grilled-cheese sandwiches?” Please keep in mind that the subject of the moment had nothing to do with grills, cheese, or eating.

I stood in front of the class, slightly perplexed, and pondered for only a moment before answering, “Yes….”

Undeterred by the skeptical look on my face, she asked another question: “If I made you a grilled-cheese sandwich, would you eat it?”

This time I didn’t hesitate before answering with a firm, blunt, “No.”

Everyone laughed. The girl didn’t seem at all surprised, and dropped the subject. I honestly have no idea why she asked (I never did ask her), but based on some of her other questions (again, a story for another time) I can only assume she had a mild crush on me.

I did, however, explain to the girl, and class why I wouldn’t eat the offered sandwich, and why I no longer take my shoes off if someone else me not to.

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Flying cars do indeed suck

I don’t know how I’ll ever live this one down. I really don’t.

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Ari, Scout, and I live in a small city of around ~40,000 people. We have two malls, a Wal-Mart, more fast-food places than you’d figure a city of this size needs, a ski hill, several lakes, and lots of other things for young people to do.

However, the town is also home to an obscenely large number of churches (five on one of the main roads, with at least two dozen more scattered throughout the valley that we occupy) and funeral homes. What does this mean?

Old people. Lots and lots of old people.

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I work in a multi-story office building, and am lucky enough to have what amounts to a corner office. I get to spend my days and nights looking out over the city, the busy highway beside us, and one of the parking lots.

For the last month I’ve been working the graveyard shift, and I’ve noticed a rather strange series of occurrences. Between two and four AM, usually on Saturdays and Sundays, a single car would pull in to the parking lot. The driver and his passenger would the proceed to get out of the car and make out, rather sloppily, on the hood.

This would continue for ten or so minutes before the two would stop, get back in the car, and drive off. So far, I have seen this happen eight times, and always the same couple.

I wonder where one goes to find someone with that level of class?

It’s been horribly hot around our house lately. And by horribly, I mean in the high thirties, lower forties (celsius, as we’re Canadians and all). Although Abby and I have an air conditioner, it’s pitifully small and sits in the bedroom window so that we can at least sleep at night. Ari and Scout aren’t so lucky – even though they have a basement suite, it’s still insufferably hot down there.

One of the ways to combat the heat is to consume as many iced-beverages as possible. We call them Squishies (of ‘Simpsons’ fame), however most call them Slushes or Slushies. As there are three 7/11’s within a five minute drive, they’re easy to get at any time of day, or night for that matter.

So today, being hot and in need of cooling, we piled in to my borrowed Mustang (another story in itself), with Ari holding on for dear life in the backseat-that-isn’t and Scout trying not to grip the dash too tightly, and drove to 7/11 number two, which is on one of the many hills in town. We went in, made our purchases, and left slightly cooler than when we arrived.

In order to leave the parking lot, you have a choice of two routes: Route One requires turning on to a very busy main stretch of road, with cars coming from all angles. Route Two is decidedly safer, as you turn on to a side street first, then make the switch to the busy road at a controlled intersection. As it was a busy holiday Monday, I decided to take Route Two.

Pulling on to the road, I advanced all of five feet and then stop. The light was red, and although it’s legal to turn right in such instances, there happened to be car in front of me aimed to go straight through, but taking up just enough road that I couldn’t sneak past.

As we were waiting for the light to change, said car decides that he’s going to show off the fact that he has a standard transmission and start rocking back and forth on the hill, riding the clutch and revving his engine. I’m sure he thought it looked cool, however his opinion of that will undoubtedly change we he gets the bill after the inevitable clutch replacement.

It was also hard to miss the fact that whenever he revved his engine, the dual exhust would puff nearly pure blue, but in just small enough doses so that the driver probably wasn’t aware it was doing it. As we sat behind him, though, with the windows rolled down in lieu of air conditioning, we could certainly tell.

Therefore, I decided that I should make it my duty to inform the driver of his predicament. As I watched the light, I saw it turn yellow for the traffic crossing through. Then the car in front advanced slightly to try to preempt the light, I made my move.

Darting forward, was able to pull up directly beside him, just long enough to shout “CHECK YOUR OIL!” before turning off to the right.

With another good deed done, we continued home, which is more than I can say for the startled driver of the smokey car, who was surprised enough to stall his flashy car in the middle of one of the busier intersections in the city.

Regardless of which, good times were had by all.

Oh lady in the parking lot,
you step out in to the road,
and make me stop, blocking traffic.

You flash me a smile, though,
as if to say, “Don’t worry,
it’s alright because I’m pretty.”

Oh lady in the parking lot,
you’re now pulling out in your car,
and I’m walking to a store.

I step in front of you, making you stop,
and flash you a smile, as if to say,
“Fuck you, you stupid bitch.”

Oh lady in the parking lot,
you glare at me as you drive away.
Somehow, I don’t feel hurt.

So Scout, my wife Abby, and myself are sitting in The Diner eating breakfast. It’s not exactly quiet, as the place is rather popular and serves very good food (hence why it was popular). As we wait for our food to arrive, Scout and I talk about an episode of Top Gear that we had been watching the previous. In particular, we were joking about this little bit of back-and-forth between Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond:

RH: Pray silence, now please, for the most breath-taking car we have had in our studio. It is the new Lamborghini Reventon.
JC: Re-bin-ton.
RH: It’s Re-ven-ton.
JC: No, no. Re-bin-ton.
RH: I can prove it. In there, it’s got a ‘V’, Re-ven-ton.
JC: No, I know it’s spelled with a ‘V’ but it is pronounced with a ‘B’.
RH: Why?
JC: Don’t know, they told us it’s ‘B’, Re-bin-ton.

***Snipped car specs***

JC: A couple of problems, one they’re only making twenty, only one’s coming Britain. The other thing is, £800,000.
RH: That is quite a lot.
JC: But with this you would get a lot of badge.
RH: Badge? Oh Va…Oh no! No!
JC: I think I got away with that!

As we talk about the finer points of this, one of the neighbouring tables overhears us, and a few of the patrons give quite uncomfortable looks. However, our food arrives and we dig in. Abby and Scout had the Infamous Eggs Benedict (another story altogether), and I had the French Toast, complete with Aunt Jemima syrup in a slightly leaky bottle.

While pouring the oozy substance, I end up with nearly as much on my hand as on my breakfast. So, doing the first thing that comes natural, I start to lick it off my hand. As I do so, I notice the previously disturbed table is now looking even more disturbed. Looking down at my hand, I realize that I’d been licking between my index and middle fingers, making them in to a ‘V’ shape. Then I realize what that must look like after our little discussion about ‘vreakfast’.

As my face goes red and I look for a napkin, an older lady from a table across the room saunters over, hands me a business card with a phone number scrawled in delicate handwriting on the back, winks, and mouths ‘Call me!’. Then she returns to her table.

I go redder still, mutter something about an appointment, leave my money on the table, kiss Abby goodbye, and then beat a hasty retreat from the building, carefully avoiding the gaze of two of the tables.

I don’t know if I can ever go back there again, or if I’ll ever be able to look at a Reventon without thinking of badges.