Babysitters: an American criminal.

That last blog really got me thinking: this collection of darkly humored diatribes is not just an exorcise of inner demons. It's an ipecac of truth.

Today I'd like to discuss a criminal that has walked among us all our lives. The odds are most of us have employed them without giving it a second thought. I'm talking about the American babysitter.

This profession of underage mercenaries has been operating underground for decades committing the same crimes of monsters like Al Capone: Tax Evasion. I'm not even going into the countless Popsicles, sodas and frozen pizzas they've been sneaking on the side.

You may think that employing these delinquents is saving your marriage. In fact, I bet they told you they were saving for college to sweep the whole matter under the rug but while your out to dinner with your spouse, they're making out with their boyfriends and helping themselves to your fridge.

They think they can just strut around what with their tight jeans and luscious flowing, long blonde hair while taking money from Uncle Sam and it will never come back to haunt them. Think again.

That one time Sarah came to babysit me and her boyfriend came over, I shot her in the head with a suction cup arrow before they both tied me up with duct tape. I was only trying to protect her from that adolescent creep.

When I put sardines on her pizza, how was I supposed to know she was allergic to them? Again I had no idea our pet rabbit would bite her and I didn't mean to laugh so hard while she was bleeding. I just wanted her attention.

These babysitters think they can spend countless nights having marshmallow fights and letting me watch MTV when I wasn't allowed, then just leave for college without even saying goodbye. The truth was: I cared for her deeply. Enough to cover for her about the broken wine glass, enough to beat the crap out of her with a plastic lightsaber.

Yes these babysitters think they can avoid accountability for the taxes they never paid and the love they never returned to a confused 7 year old. I think it's time we as a nation talked about it.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Minneapolis

Scared the BeJesus

Tonight wouldn't be the first time I've convinced someone I was possessed by the devil. When you spend your entire childhood trying to give your little sister a heart attack, you hone certain skills. Secret sinister serpent rainbow skills. The power of Christ compels you.

It's not that I'm evil. I simply thrive on fear. Nothing wrong with that. Like being gay, retarded or the anti-Christ, it's something you probably realize at a young age.

Like the time I soaked my hand in ice water and waited under my sisters bed when she was struggling with nightmares as a child. I'm guessing she still struggles with that.

I'm sure this kind of thing is much more common than we let on. After all, who hasn't hidden in the kitchen before bed in an attempt to give their grandmother a heart attack? It's not like I ever did that but she shouldn't have been hitting the bottle in the first place.

I resent the terms "dysfunctional" or "predatory". They don't embrace the unique skills that go into preying on the inner fears of your family. It's just like hiding behind the pillows on your mothers bed and grabbing her throat as she's falling asleep. It takes dedication to lay perfectly still for 45 minutes.

Childhood is over in an instant it seems and before you know it, adolescence comes and the fears of your friends and family become harder to tap into. This one time my friend Phil came over and spent the night smoking dope in my blacklit room. We had some LSD and Phil was having a wonderful trip while my doses left me sober and irritated.

Why should he have all the fun? So I switched the conversation to ghost stories. After convincing him I had once seen a ceiling tile move in the middle of the night, I switched the topic to demon possession.

Being the good friend I was, I turned off all the lights and lit candles to enhance his hallucinations. After going into great detail about how demons suddenly take hold of the people they posses, I started fake convulsing on the floor and screaming profanities in a shrill, gurgling voice. He ended the night trembling in the corner, shielding himself with a bible.

The bottom line here is if I didn't love these people, why would I go to such great lengths to traumatize them? Don't answer that. Whether it's faking a demonic presence or putting rubber spiders in your sisters bed after watching "Arachnophobia", startling loved ones half to death never stops being funny.





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Minneapolis

Fatty McFat Fat

Some might say I'm cruel for the way I speak of the morbidly obese people I see at work. But let me just ask you: Can you blame me?

I understand that some people aren't proportioned like magazine models. So we have them in one corner. Fine. Then in the other corner we have fat, disgusting, gastropod like people that can hardly be separated into male/female categories. I usually just call them "that".

Like: "Did you see that thing stomp by? What the hell was that?"

There's this woman that comes into my work. (I'm being quite generous when I call it a woman) Here's her order:

"I'll have a double blended triple whipped chocolate shake with extra chocolate and a near lethal amount a whip cream. Oh and I'd like to speak to the manager about this store not being forklift accessible. How am I supposed to get out of here?"

Yes that's her. Fatty McFat Fat. Just today I was having trouble cutting two pastries apart for her so I'm just like "Screw this. Just have both of them."

Are you feeling sorry for her? Well you weren't there! This beast is a ghastly monster the likes of which, you have never seen with a MaryAnn haircut parted down the middle and less then shoulder length blonde hair that curls inwards towards her rippling neck. It looks like a wig.

After I was extremely nice to her, (I gave her a free pastry!) she didn't tip. She never tips.

She just waddles away with her whipped monstrosity of a shake and garbage bag full of pastries right onto a public sidewalk not made for industrial weight limits.

The other fattie that lurks about is not even a paying customer. She's an employee of a fast food joint next door. If you ever wonder why there's suddenly a haunting shadow cast over you, feel free to look around and she'll be there trying to blend in with a pillar like an elephant that hides behind a sapling.

Why, oh why does she lurk about spooking us with her head of curly black pubes and 5 o'clock shadow? SHE'S THERE JUST TO USE OUR BATHROOM.

She probably thinks our one person bathroom provides her with a certain anonymity while leaving her wildebeest sized crap loads for us to force down the pipes and wipe up after.

This land cow is really a marvel to behold. Although her size and disposition is enough to scare small birds to death, she still moves with absolute stealth. So sometimes you'll think you've just seen a giant bearded woman out of the corner of your eye but when you look, there's only the bathroom door swinging on it's hinges with a stank wafting so bad, horse flies drop dead.

Yes this toilette hunting stink factory only drops loads in our store without ever buying a thing just so she'll never have to clean up after herself.

What kind of a world is that ok in? If I only had an elephant gun...


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Minneapolis

To kill with kindness

I'm wondering what people mean when they talk about "killing with kindness." Is kindness a lethal weapon? I'd sure like to know because there's only so much you can do arranging for certain friends to become "persons of interest" to local authorities.

When I think of killing with kindess, the only thing that comes to mind is handing out poison pie which is hilarious no matter how you slice it. And by the way, that last sentence with the "slice it" pun. Those are the kind of half clever puns I'm now going to use all the time just to be a bastard.

Back to what we were discussing regarding kindness as a weapon. I just can't get there. That's why I wanna discuss the weapon I've done the most damage with. Can you guess it? No, it's not a cigarette lighter or an extension cord. It's not a denim jacket or even a jar full of snot from when I had the flu. It's a telephone.

You'd be surprised how easy it is to impersonate a state trooper or even a personal banker. That being said, it's surprisingly easy to get someones social security number. Then the skies the limit.

Even if you just get the last 4 digits, there's a way to keep hitting their credit score over and over. The beauty of it is anyone with the same name gets their credit run too. So while your busy making it look like someone's in financial ruin, all over the country your randomly ruining other lives. Some people count sheep before bed and I can respect that but ruining lives is how I sleep at night.

I used to be a telemarketer. Just for fun, I started playing a game with a coworker where we tried to ruin someones day, then kept score. Posing as radio station DJ's, delivery men, bank mangers and 5 year old boys who wanted a sleepover, we were touching lives one call at a time. Touching in ways you end up telling psychiatrists.

We once convinced a multi- millionaire the IRS had seized his account. We had wives cancel their plans and wait all day for deliveries that never came. We once had someones house ransacked by local police. I even started ruining little kids friendships. No one was safe unless of course, you agreed to drive a couple hours and go bowling with a complete stranger.

"Hello? Can I speak with
Harold?" "No I'm sorry but he's passed on." --Now a normal person might think "oh how sad" and just move on but not me. Those magic words were music to my ears and a terrific way to at least get someone to openly weep. When your a miserable telemarketer, nothing helps the misery like spreading it around. I'm proud to say we were like a cancer on society. In whatever you do, important to have an impact.

Maybe your feeling sorry for these elderly people we preyed on like poachers. Well let me ask you this: Remember that old lady from my last blog? Ok well is it ok for her to be a total bitch just because she's old? Of course not.

I actually told her something like that and she called the cops on me. What I mean is: I expressed my views to her only in a louder than normal voice with some choice expletives and maybe a threat somewhere in there. I can't be expected to remember exactly what happened 8 hours ago but I am mature enough to say: "She started it."


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Minneapolis

A race to the grave

A certain girl and I are having a turf war with the granny that lives in the apartment right above us and man, what I wouldn't give to skull fuck the shit out of her right now.

This witch sits out on her balcony 24/7 like a gargoyle fixture. When we go out there, she immediately makes an imaginary phone call and complains to the dial tone about the smoke, our voices or even the beeps from our cell phones. Its as if our very prescence is hindering her magical ability to ruin lives from her little tower of bitterness.

In one respect, her grievance is understandable because when we smoke, it travels right up into her face and shortens her lifespan. I figure since she's already at the tail end of a miserable existence, all we have to do is stay out there and chain smoke her into an early grave. What kind of person would I be if I didn't have goals?

I'm making a serious commitment here. It's an investment to smoke all the full flavor cigarettes I can to slowly murder a lady who probably spent the majority of her life writing complaint letters to television stations and making sure little children never retrieved the baseballs that landed in her yard.

I used to think I was doing her a service by letting her know she's a cunt. After all, there must be a cure for that by now. But now i realize that death by carcinogens is a plan that takes patience.

All we do is sit out there in silence chain smoking pack after pack while her friend over the phone says "if you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again." She rants about how she's going to get us evicted and go to the authorities. After she tires of that diatribe, then she starts going on about what idiot washouts we are and how we're sure to die of cancer.

So there you have it: a race to the grave between cobweb crotch and us. It's not about who wins or loses though. It's about "I'll see you in hell."


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Location:Edina, Mn