BLOG: 6's & 7'S
I avoid Walmart like the clap. The attraction of buying cheap crap that I don't need wore off about the same time my pet rock died. But once a week, I have to make an appearance, because even I can't resist the 3 cents a can I save on dog food.
I often wonder if the clusterfuckory of checking out is even worth it. Fifty customers, their carts overloaded with enough junk to save the economy of a small nation, vying for two checkout lanes. But lately I've discovered a reason to enjoy the experience: disgruntled employees.
A few weeks ago, Honey Badger was my checkout clerk.
I looked at my two dozen cans of dog food and asked, "Do you have to ring them all up separately?"
"Oh, yeah. Inventory, you know. For lack of a better word, they're Nazis."
I sorted my cans on the counter by flavor. "Well, I guess it wouldn't make sense to actually create a few inventory jobs."
"Oh, no. They'd much rather hire more of us out here to deal with all the customers and their attitudes. I can smile and be nice all day long and nobody cares. Let's face it, no one comes to Walmart for the customer service," she said as she flung my cans haphazardly toward a bag.
"I guess not."
I paid her and thanked her for being so entertaining.
She shrugged, rolled her eyes and said, "Whatever."
Honey Badger don't give a shit.
Last week, my check out clerk was Chatty Cathy. Not disgruntled, mind you, but annoying, just the same.
"Oh, Secret deodorant. A lot of people use this. Oh, dog food, you must have a dog. Oh, Twinkies! I used to eat these all the time!"
No shit, I have a dog, and do you sniff pits randomly to determine anti-perspirant choices? As for the Twinkies, by looking at your ass I'd say you still eat them all the time, fried and by the cartload. I am tempted to put a box of Magnum condoms, a tube of Anal Ease and an industrial size can of Crisco in my cart just to see what Chatty Cathy would say.
Tonight I got the Bitch-That-Can't-Be-Pleased. "It's raining outside," she said through gritted teeth.
"Really? That's awesome!" Did I mention we live in a desert? Getting even a drop of rain is like, well, getting rain in the desert.
"Well, it BETTER not be raining when I leave here at 11. If I get wet, I swear I'm going to lose it!" Trust me, Elmira, you aren't going to melt, and unless they are having a wet T-shirt contest in the parking lot, no-one is going to care if you lose it. Geez, buy a bra, for Christ's sake. Cathy over there can surely suggest one for you or at least tell you what everyone else is buying.
"And I've been here for TEN HOURS today!" I pulled out my compact and looked in the mirror. No, I did not have my fake 'I-give-a-shit' look on my face. Just my usual 'why-the-fuck-are-you-talking-to-me' look that everyone seems to ignore.
I noticed a wedding ring on her finger and quietly said a prayer for her husband.
I walked outside to a raging thunderstorm. Instead of rushing to my car, I stopped, lifted my face to the sky and let out a deep sigh. Another week before I have to hear those three little words that make me smile and cringe at the same time.
Welcome to Walmart.
It all began innocently enough. Dillon and I were in the McDonalds drive-thru and while I waited to be given the wrong order, a fly landed on my windshield.
"Would a night with Jeff Goldblum be worth it if you knew he would turn into The Fly the next day?" I said as I watched the fly, who was watching me.
"The Fly? You'd have to kill him." Dillon is fully aware of my thirty year crush on Jeff Goldblum and it's not like he isn't used to my odd musings.
"Okay, so I load the shotgun. Yeah, I think it would be worth it."
"Fine. What if you got pregnant. Baby flies. Larvae." He said.
"Pregnant? I'm talking about a nice evening, you know, dinner, the ballet."
"Right, mom. Larvae. Think about it."
"Is he going to pay child support? Or fly support? (Har, Har)"
"You're not funny."
"I think I am. A giant larvae? Do I still have the shotgun? Could we launch it like skeet? Might be fun."
"Forget the larvae. What if you were being chased by a T-Rex?"
"Hell yeah! Now that would be a great date!"
"A T-Rex, Mom. Really?"
"I think I could outrun him."
"Obviously, you've never seen yourself run. What if he were an alien?"
"Earth girls are easy, son."
And so it went, and pretty much no scenario that Dillon could come up with would be out of the question for an evening with Jeff Goldblum. I said goodbye to the fly on the windshield and doused him with wiper fluid. I took my first sip of coffee. Not sugar-free. Not vanilla.
"What about Ronald McDonald..." Dillon says.
"Ronald McDonald? No! That's just weird."
Honestly, I don't know where he gets some of his crazy ideas.
When Dillon is not causing trouble with me, he's actually a smarty pants. Check out his website at www.dillonstonetatum.com and don't miss his blog on political musings.
I am a nurse and have been for a very long time. I talk about things at dinner that would make most people hurl. Seeing the human body, usually at its worst, is commonplace for me. Not a big deal.
What does bother me is how the male human species cannot refer to certain body parts by the correct term. Women have no problem saying 'breast' or 'vagina', but men? Different story.
So let's talk about penises. Yes, P-E-N-I-S. It is the proper word to use when referring to the male reproductive organ (by the way, it has other uses, too). It is a body part, similar to a foot or in most cases, a pinkie finger. However, men discovered theirs at the age of one, and I swear, by the age of 80, they still haven't lost their fascination with it.
But as your nurse, I am not impressed, I am not in awe of its presence, I don't care if you can tie cherry stems into a knot with it or if it speaks five different languages.
And let's call it what it is, shall we? It is not a Willy or a Johnson. It is not a tool, a soldier, a love gun, any kind of a monster or a trouser snake. It's definitely not the Incredible Hulk, in fact, if it's green, I'm not coming within fifty feet of it.
For God's sake, it's not a wiener, what are you, five?
And please don't call it Mr. Happy. If I'm seeing it, I'm probably getting ready to catheterize it, and he doesn't look too happy to me.
Repeat after me: PE-NIS. It's not a dirty word.
Dean Harkness is an amazing artist from the country of Norfolk in South East England. He is also an awesome nice guy. Except if you use his work, including the one above, without his express, written permission. Then you are likely to get your ass sued.
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Self Portrait with 100 Foot Willy~Dean Harkness, Artist (Do not distribute or reproduce without the express permission of the Artist)
Catheter Trivia: Benjamin Franklin invented the flexible catheter in 1752 when his brother suffered from bladder stones. Franklin's catheter was made of METAL with segments hinged together and a wire enclosed to provide rigidity during insertion.
Think about that for just a moment.
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