Define “Trash”
You can find trash anywhere now a days. Sometimes it’s in garbage cans OR even better recycling bins. Sometimes trash is in trailer parks and has a weird type of haircuit stuck to it. As well as a cold Coors light. Side note, isn’t it awesome you can tell a Coors Light is cold because it glows blue? Whoever drinks that deserves to swallow the color changing chemical that lines those cans. Anyways, trash is everywhere. Or is it?
Sometimes trash is treasure. Back to that recycling bin - I mean those bottles are going to be something. A crib, a case for a guitar, a Tupperware container, another recycling bin, a playground, or even a field goal post (let the bottles dream!). Even that couch you put on the curb is helpful to somewhere. Never mind that the couch is no longer filled with softness but lice and bed bugs instead. For a couple of days some very frugal family is going to lay the hell out of that thing.
Sometimes trash is confusing. I was once yelled at for putting a half eaten apple in a man’s yard. To be honest, it was the fringe of his yard and it was just dirt. And to be even more honest, he must not have been much of a man if he was yelling at a poor college junior about apples instead of being the bread winner his family needed. I was just returning the apple from where it came. When I eat bananas (often) I never know what to do with the peel. Sometimes I want to throw it in the ground. It is organic and I reason that a bird will make a nice nest or costume out of it. Other times I’m worried one of my human companions will slip on it.
Can’t we just begin to label things “TRASH” and others “TREASURES”. Immediately, I see a problem here. That problem is that some very optimistic person is going to label everything “TREASURE” and people will never throw things away. I suppose we could have a committee. Any takers?
Hick 2.73782 Beta
I hate to break the main theme of this site (two desperate unemployed college graduates probing the North East United States for anything close to a career) but I got a job. Three actually, two of which are (hopefully) temporary and the other will bloom into a colorful thrilling career where I write about how awesome video games are and how Nintendo has betrayed me yet again.
My one job is a pizza delivery boy, which is pretty self-explanatory. The other is working in a warehouse. It’s a warehouse just like the one in the end of the Indiana Jones and the Ark of the Covenant. You know the scene where the dude is (knowingly?) putting the Ark into storage for, hopefully, ever. Except in my warehouse the boxes are labeled “Large Air Conditioners” as opposed to “Don’t open ever. May cause extreme body meltage and mass genocide.”
Growing up I have always viewed warehouses as a place where evil things hang out. Be it cults, werewolves (get it?), Mafioso, Dracula, Hob Goblins, scary mutated men who are melded to forklifts, or chainsaw maniacs. Thankfully all of my fears have been squelched since and working in a warehouse has been no problem. While I have not encountered any of the previous mentions fears I have found a new, scarier threat to society: The Hick 2.3782 Beta.
I work with a kid named Bobby. He is a self-proclaimed hick. I must clarify though that even if he did not proclaim himself one it would be blatantly obvious from his unkempt appearance, the seemingly permanent food smeared on the side of his face, John Deere hat, and his constant carrying on about guns and strippers. We work in the warehouse together, he gets shipments ready to ship while I organize the mess that started as a small box out of place until, like a virus, the mess spread until every god damn box was out of its designated spot. Often times him and I will cross paths or he’ll request my help to load something dumb onto an even more dumb forklift. These team up sessions usually end with him going on and on about one of the following popular hick topics:
1) Bragging of Material Items: I have noticed that hicks love to brag on and on about the amount of possessions they have no matter how obvious the person they are talking to does not care. He has told me about all of the trucks he owns, the guns he has bought, the ATVs he has driven, his brother’s weekly income, the amount of cars all of his other construction friends own, the bar his uncle owns, the money he has accumulated and, unbeknownst to him, has pissed away on shitty items. Not to mention how territorial these people are over their items. He tried to tell me that he was going to beat up his ex girlfriend’s dad because he called him a name. For God’s sake.
2) Hardships – They also have a tendency to talk about their hard times. This hick in particular has told me how he has been shunned by the Martial Arts world (more on that later), how he fell from a tractor and broke his femur (it was actually his arm), knee surgeries, and various girl problems. For instance he told me how much it sucked that his girlfriend came over, kissed him and when he went to take off her pants she declared she was menstruating and he was extremely pissed off. “While would she do that to me?” Ya that is real god damn tough for you. It’s all moot since I don’t care about any of this but these god damn people need a full time therapist or something to talk to about their “problems”. They must believe they suffer more than any POW or lost child of Sudan.
3) Outlandish Stories – We all know that 90% of tall tales came from hicks of the ancient times. It is no coincidence that the hicks of the modern era share the same affinity to telling outrageous stories. I don’t know how hicks do it but they remember every little detail to every little dumb story. They think they are so philosophical and eye opening that they will tell a story that goes on 30 minutes too long and feel like they did you a favor. This Bobby kid has wasted my time by telling me how he has had sex in a bakery, had sex with a stripper, dated a few strippers, stuffs his own deer heads, made a bunch of money doing something crazy but it turned out it wasn’t for him. Those stories are nothing to him telling me that he was semi-pro (one fight away from being pro) in the world of Martial Arts fighting. He told me that he went undefeated and trained all the time for these fights. Girlfriends would dump him because he would beat an opponent beyond recognition, or he was too dedicated to his sport. Allegedly, he can no longer compete in real competition because someone gave him a cheap shot and Bobby was declared a victor. Instead of ending the fight he decided to fight on and got his revenge by breaking the opponents leg. He then immediately turned tail, knowing he was disqualified, and walked out of the stadium as if he had just proven some sort of point. The point being? Probably something like “I’m a hick and I do whatever I want because I love the freedom America grants me even though I’d never actually fight for my country unless by ‘fight’ you mean ‘shoot animals in the wild and act dumb’.”
But this hick lives two miles away from Pittsburgh. You know, the city with culture, tall buildings, and society. How can he possibly convince himself that he is a hick when he can literally see the city from his home? I suppose I must applaud him for being so narrow minded for this long while there is a bustling city literally a stone’s throw away. These modern day hicks use all sorts of technologies like Ipods and the Internet for their cause but still insist that they are pure hicks. They keep evolving in extremely mysterious ways. Ways I’m not sure anyone on the outside looking in will never comprehend.
On a joke note - Where do werewolves hang out?
I Hear Hobos are Hiring
Hey there faithful readers. I have some unfortunate news for you, well, unfortunate if some of your favorite post in this life affirming blog feature Pat’s head PhotoShopped onto George Washington’s body, details of a car crash that, one would think, could only be survived with Jesus as a passenger, or a addendum to a rant about Sunchips. Pat “repat” Patrick has left the state. I’m not sure if they have the internet down in Florida within the thralls of wrinkles and social security checks so posts from him may be scant. I was sworn not to tell you the reason of his visit but by the end of this post I may have changed my mind.
Anyways. Let’s talk jobs. Not Steve Jobs, but the kind that pay me money, possibly you too. What is it with establishments crying for help and then not accepting help that is offered to them?
In my quest I have filled out form after form in two Subways, two Starbucks, a science center, Chiptole, Panera, a pizza shop, and a shoe shop (of which a man gave me free socks). I figured that was some decent saturation into the job market. Who wouldn’t want to hire a young charismatic charming dapper lad like myself? Apparently everyone.
I’ve called these people time after time wondering what is going on and I never receive a straight answer. Do these companies just have extra “Now Hiring” signs that must be displayed at all times? Do they love joking people? Have they never read the Boy Who Cried Wolf?
At this rate I’m better off taking out a loan and opening my own shop. It’ll be called “We Hire” and I’ll do nothing but hire anyone who walks through the front doors of my shop. I’m not sure where the profit portion of this comes from but it will serve as a great confidence booster to the poor job searching college graduates. I can see it now. Some kid with a gleam of hope in his eyes will walk through my doors and he’ll stutter “A-a-are you h-h-h-iring?” Then I’ll grab his shoulders look him dead in the eye and say, “Yes. We’re looking for someone just like you. When can you start?” Then he’ll give me a big hug and run home like Charlie from Willy Wonka to tell his parents and grandparents who all share a king size bed. Does this make me Willy Wonka in this fantasy?
Pat is in Florida auditioning for Ugly Freddy. It’s an Ugly Betty knock off.
Moon Chips (cont.)
Be sure to read Dan’t post below first. He’s the one who started this terrible mess.
When I was but a youngster my mom would come home with Sun Chips because she was trying to bring home a healthy alternative snack food. I don’t know if this was before the inception of flavored powder but she ALWAYS brought home the original. I loathed Sun Chips as a child. I would see that red bag and immediately, flashes of the last time I ate those flavorless crisps would forcably penetrate my mind.
This hatred of Sun Chips stuck with me for a while. Late in high school, I started experimenting with new things and decided to give these little monsters made of wheat that haunted my childhood another shot. I was pretty near rock bottom and I was willing to try them if they might give me that buzz I was looking for. Strangely enough I enjoyed them. I thought to myself “holy hell, mom was right. You actually do start to like stuff that tastes gross when you get old.” It wasn’t until much later that I found out those little waffers of wheat had been flavored with a deliciously artificial cheese like substance.
I too have had a recent run in with the original variety of Sun Chips, and let me tell you; I reached a very different conclusion than Dan did.
The perpatrator of this Sun Chip fiasco was, not unlike the prodigal son returning to give a big middle finger to his old man, my mother. I had returned home for a weekend to visit some friends and her unending concern for my imminent demise prompted her to buy me some food to return with. Somehow she though that as far as snacks were concerned, a bag of Cracker Jack (which I didn’t even know they made anymore) would go nicely with a bag of the original, tasteless, Sun Chips.
Like Dan, I eventually became very hungry and decided to crack open that bag o’ Sun Chips. Immediately the repressed memories of my childhood came rushing back like an avalanche made of spiders. I tried to eat them (the chips not the spiders) but just couldn’t, I was afraid that my gag reflex would soon overwhelm my self control. I hate the original “flavored” Sun Chips. I hate them with every fiber of my being.
More like Moon Chips
Bear with me cause this is about to get deep and there isn’t a life guard on duty.
(on a side note is it “bear” or “bare”? I ain’t lookin that up.)
I was recently given a bag of Sunchips as a gift. It was/is a great gift and I feel that if more people gave snack foods as gifts the world would be way more understanding and accepting. Gift giving could be simplified to the point that a trip to the grocery store also qualifies as Christmas shopping! But I digress.
This bag of chips was of the “original” variety which, funnily enough, has no variety at all. None. There are nearly dozens of types of Sunchips for purchase the best being harvest cheddar. The way those chips fill you with zing is is indescribable and not to mention the cheddar residue it leaves behind on your fingers like a little parting gift. Garden Salsa is also a nice flavor. It’s a Sunchip imbued with the power of salsa. Talk about bad ass.
Today for lunch I packed some of these “original” Sunchips. Mostly out of sheer desperation of calories. I want to share my experience with you.
The first few chips I munched on were sub par. I was immediately dissapointed that they were not covered in harvested cheddar. I was appaled that these even existes and ashamed I was eating these in front of other human beings. I was hungry though and it would take much more than a lack of cheese powder to slow my hunger.
I continued eating them unsure of where this would get me. It was just a hard piece of wheat after all, but the saltiness began to grow on me. It was still the same texture, but was missing that lil’ kick I got from the harvest cheddar. Still, I continue to eat them. There is a soft kind of addiction I can associate with this chip. Where I can eat any other chip without a second thought, these chips give my brain the necessary thought power to think about the task at hand.
So I must say that I cannot penalize these chips for lacking the cheddar powder, because their nakedness is their secret. This nothingness is necessary for deep thought and insight to take place. This chip doesn’t bother to cloud the mind or senses with unnecessary cheese powder. It is so basic in its presentation that clouded thoughts can now jet through my mind as though it were a highway.
I am thankful for these chips and may think about eating them again. When I have some thinking to do.
Was this weird for anyone else?