What's your name again, I cunt remember...?

As I've mentioned, Circleville has a library, and it's actually a very nice library that'd rival any in a larger town such as Columbus. It has a very large collection of books and I rarely have to order from another library to get what I want. There's a tremendous collection of CDs, and the DVD section is MUCH larger than some of the Columbus branch locations. The layout is such that if you wanted to sit and read, it's far enough from the computers that you won't hear the clickety-clack of the keyboards, and the chairs are comfy and clean, considering I've seen some folks sleeping in them that seem to have misplaced clean clothes and forgotten how to use soap in the shower. The children's room is huge, and they have movie showings for families when a new family-friendly movie is released on DVD. The decor is very subtle, and includes many "artifacts" from Circleville's past. It's usually a pleasant experience and I usually have the books mostly to myself (yeah, I'm not going there again...). Most of the librarians are very cordial, and will discuss books they've read with me, if I'm looking for something different. I say "most" because there was this one librarian... I won't call her by name (which isn't the same as calling her names... I will be doing that). Let's call her Middle-Aged-Bitch-Who-Shouldn't-Be-In-A-Customer-Service-Job-Because-She's-too-Rude-And-Insensitive-To-Deal-With-People. You're right, way too long. Let's call her Ms Red.

The first time I saw Ms Red in action, I'd already checked-out and was browsing the library discards. There's a large jar on the counter for donations when you choose to take one home, and it's always been (and even says so on the jar) a "Donate What You Can" system. Or so I thought. A young mother and her son were checking out, and the kid comes over to the discards, looks for a few seconds, and finds a book. He runs to his mother and says "Mommy, I want this one!" to which Mommy replies "Ok, hon" or something to that effect. She pulls a crinkled dollar from her purse.
Ms Red... wow, ya know, when I think of this story, I just can't be that kind... The Bitch says "The hardbacks are $2.00." Now, this is a CHILDREN's book! Two bucks?!
Mommy looks up at The Bitch, then down at her son and says "Mommy doesn't have it right now, honey, you'll have to put the book back."
The boy looks at The Bitch and says "PLEEEEASE?" He's now starting to cry. I watch this with something approaching sadness.
The Bitch... nope, STILL to good for her... Fucking Bitch says "I'm sorry, it's $2.00."
It's no longer sadness but anger I feel. As Mommy and the kid (possibly Circleville's last hope... a child that WANTS to read) start out the door, I say "Let me go to my car, I have a few bucks in the console."
"No, I couldn't ask you to do that."
"You didn't ask," I say, smiling.
"We really have to go, but thank you." And they're gone. Fucking Bitch has been watching this, and when I turn around, she quickly turns back to her work. I can't believe I've just witnessed this!
I walk out to the car, grab the two bucks I knew was in the console and some change, and walked back inside. I dumped the bills and then the change into the jar and said "That's for the next kid that comes along and needs a book to make his day!" I walk out without waiting for a response.

The following Saturday I returned to pick up a book I'd reserved Friday for the long weekend. The book was one the Circleville library owns, it was in the system when I reserved it as "in stock," so I didn't forsee any problems, even when I saw Fucking Bitch behind the counter. I was so fucking wrong...
I didn't bother to browse like I normally did, I just wanted to get my book and go home, sit on the porch with a beer and read. I handed her my library card and very politely said "I should have a book on hold."
She scanned the card and said "It's not been logged in yet."
I stared at her... I didn't know what to say. "Uhh, I reserved it yesterday... is it here? Did someone else check it out?"
"It's here, sir... it hasn't been logged in yet."
"What's that mean?"
"It means it's in the back room, waiting to be logged in."
Now, if I understood what was happening, and I think I did, this was going to get me nowhere. I said "I'll stop by tomorrow," and I walked out.
Sunday, Fucking Bitch was once again behind the counter. As soon as I arrived at the desk she said "It probably won't be logged in until Monday, when the guy who does it's here." I'm shocked. Literally mouth-hanging-open SHOCKED! One, she couldn't tell me this yesterday?! And two, IT'S RIGHT BEHIND THE COUNTER WAITING TO BE LOGGED IN! I don't get angry, though... I get full-on pissed off!
"Look, take the thing off reserve for me, I don't want it anymore. Then, when it goes back on the shelf, I'll retrieve it myself. I'm going to browse for a while." And I did. For an hour and a half. I even managed to find a few more books I wanted. But the one I'd reserved still wasn't on the shelf.
Upon returning to the check-out counter, I asked the girl (no Fucking Bitch to be found) "I took a book off reserve earlier and was wondering if it was still on the shelving cart?" She looked around for the book... in the back room, on the reserve shelf, under the counter, and then actually went to the shelf where it should have been and couldn't find it.
She returned to the desk and looked the book up. "It's been checked-out." No... fucking... way. I looked at that spot on the shelf every few minutes for an hour and a half, and it was never put back. Fucking Bitch did it, I knew she did, though I couldn't prove it. On Monday morning, I went back to the library and filed a complaint with the very nice librarian I chat books with, and she said I wasn't the first to complain. Big fucking surprise, there.

I haven't seen Fucking Bitch in a month. I hope she got fired, I really do. Give the job to someone who understands what a librarian's there for, and what it means to be a good customer service representative. I don't know who'd hire a fucking bitch like Fucking Bitch...

But I'm scared to death of going to the BMV.

The "WalMart Shopper": An Army Of One

First and foremost, let me say that everyone who shops at WalMart is not a "WalMart Shopper."

I'm going to explain the term, though I'm sure most of you already know what it means. Those of you who don't are probably members of this impudent, inconsiderate, egomaniacal, and just plain rude class of citizen. You may know them by different names such as "asshole," "jerk," "fucking prick," and many, many others. The WMS is, in it's own mind, the only individual on the road, in the store, and, in extreme cases, the wide world. Certainly undesirables we must strive to educate. But in order to educate, we must first explore the individual. I've compiled a few scenarios for you, so you may better identify a WMS. If you ARE a WMS, you'll find out here. And if indeed you are, please make the effort to apply the helpful hints I've also included to make yourself a more conscientious and desirable member of society. With everyone's help, we can eliminate the need for the term and bring our society one step closer to the civilty of which we all dream. Of course, that'd mean I'd no longer have anything to write about. HAHAHA!!! Right, as if one blog no one even reads can have that much of an impact. But I digress... let's begin.

How to spot the WalMart Shopper
1) The WMS hasn't got the time to bother trying to find a parking space, whether the store's busy or not. Look for cars idling or outright parked in the "no parking" zones between the two entrance doors; the sure sign an invasion has already begun. This includes any and all other stores, as well. Despite the term, the WMS isn't exclusive to Wally World.
2) The WMS will rarely return a cart to the corral, regardless of how near or far the corral sits. 'Ware the rolling cart, friends.
3) Once inside, the WMS is in top form. The first thing to watch for is the using of the in-door to go out. Small children are particularly vulnerable, as a WMS will stare at it's receipt from the register to it's vehicle. Careful, kiddies, hold mommy's hand.
4) Your trip down the aisle has prerequisites attached: quick reflexes, a keen eye, infinite patience for ignorance and/or a quick wit, and at least two viewings of any one of the four "Indiana Jones" movies (you can substitute three showings of at least two different "Die Hard" or "James Bond" flicks). These are intended for your own protection when the WMS is in the aisle, either not watching where it's going, chatting on the phone, or just doesn't care if it injures someone.
5) A WMS tends to park a cart either in the middle of an aisle or, if the aisle is wide enough, it will park it slantways across the aisle, while it looks for that Hershey's cocoa it's absolutely CERTAIN it saw was on sale. This is a cry for help. This WMS is aware it has issues, and wants someone to acknowledge this truth. That's your job. I prefer the "don't ask, don't tell" method in these cases. I take the cart and move it forward in whatever direction I happen to be traveling. This rarely gets much of a reaction, but if it does, a simple "excuse me" should suffice in response.
6) While shopping in the main aisle, careful of the WMS who comes barrelling into the aisle heedless of what may be coming the other way. This is an all too familiar occurance, and garners neither surprise nor apology. In fact, you're likely to get a sneer and a huff, and if you continue forward regardless, a very stern "excuse me!" I prefer wit in this situation... you may choose to ignore it, it's entirely your call. Keep in mind, however, they'll never learn if you remain silent.
7) At check out, if the WMS in front of you has forgotten an item, it'll run back for it. ACT FAST! Remove the cart and step ahead of them. When it returns and cries foul, say you don't save places. It's not required. Once they leave it, they have zero recourse.
8) Walk quickly to your car, eyes and ears open, and children in hand. Oh! Almost forgot, yank those keys out of pocket or purse, and have them ready!

Congratulations! You've just completed the course. Put these tips into practice everywhere you go, and we'll cure the world of the WMS in... hmmm... 50-100 years? Do it for our great-great-grandchildren.

OH! Almost forgot again! The keys are for me and the other people who shop at WalMart. If you see a particularly awful WMS in action, key that motherfucker's car.

Hey, you, get off of my cloud (you don't know where it's been!)

Alright, I get it. You don't smoke. You don't like it when someone smokes around you. Fine, I don't do that anymore (only because it's now against the law in most states to smoke indoors in a public place). Including bars, at least in Ohio, which is the dumbest fucking idea I've ever heard. I can't have a "smoky treat," as my friend Joey calls it, after the meal I've eaten in my favorite restaurant unless I go outside, 25 feet from the entrance. Okay, I accept that. I don't like it, but I accept it. But what happened today was so fucking bizarre, I ran right back here to share it with those of you who actually read this shit I write down. It happened at the place I'm coming to believe will be responsible for the decline of modern civilization. Forget the 2012 bullshit, nukes, chemical warfare, the taliban (is taliban capitalized?... I say no, and what I say goes here), George Bush (oh yeah, he's still a threat... he's quietly plotting, believe me...). No, the world will end in aisle 13 of the home of the rollback: WalMart.


I was having a particularly bad day. I had to take off work for the second day in a row. My ebaY biz has hit a snag, so I haven't made a single dime today. That, and the fact it's hot as hell outside and it's still only May have had me on edge all... fucking... day. Those who know me know that when I hang my head, it's time to leave me alone. Of course, not everyone DOES know me. Woe to the fool who unleashes the beast. (That's actually just something I threw in there because I thought it sounded ominous... I'm not, as a rule, a bad guy. But don't poke the bear...) Someone decided to cut the rope, unlock the cage, and open the door, and that was a BIG mistake. (Again, I just thought that sounded cool... it wasn't all that bad. Well, not for me, anyway.)


I stopped at Wally World on my way home to pick up a pack of gum, salsa and some chips. Yes, I shop at WalMart, I fuel the evil machine just like everyone else. I hadn't finished my cigarette yet, so I decided to remain in the car while I pounded that nail and listened to "The Pretender" by Foo Fighters. You know, just calming myself a bit before I had to deal with those "WalMart shoppers" (next post, I promise, I'll explain the term next post). Both the driver's and the passenger's side windows were open because of the heat, a nice breeze was blowing, and I felt just a bit of the stress draining away. That's when the following conversation began...


Asshole: Hey! HEY!

*I turn around and see a man of 45-50 years of age addressing me from the car parked in the space next to mine. His passenger-side door is next to my driver's side*

Pretty Reasonable Individual Casting Killjoy (me): Yes?

Asshole: Would you mind putting that out so my wife can get in the car?

P.R.I.C.K.: Put what out?

Asshole: Your cigarette.

P.R.I.C.K.: What?

Asshole: Could you at least roll-up your window, please? My wife would like to get in the car.

P.R.I.C.K.: How is my smoking preventing her from getting in the car?

Asshole: *sighs* She doesn't want smoke flying in her face, and I don't want it in my new car. Thanks. *He opens his door*

*Okay, to this point I was simply annoyed... now it's full blown anger. I turn the cd player up a notch, lay my head back, take a long drag, and blow it out the window*

Asshole: *voice elevated* Do we have to do this? Either put that thing out or close your window! I'm not asking again!

P.R.I.C.K.: Thank you, I appreciate that.

Asshole: What?!

P.R.I.C.K.: I said thanks. Now why don't you back that fucking thing up and let her get in back there? 'Cause if you tell me one more fucking time to put it out, you're not going to like my reaction! I don't smoke in your fucking stores, your fucking clubs, your fucking restaurants, or your fucking house! If I decide I want to sit outside and smoke in my fucking car, IT'S NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, ASSHOLE!

*Asshole gets in the car, puts it in reverse, and rolls down the passenger side window*

Asshole: I'm calling the police, I have your license plate number.

P.R.I.C.K.: Fine.

*Asshole and wife (saved from the very dangerous smoke) pull away*


This story, while not word for word, is how my night went from bad to worse. The police never showed, of course, but I'd lost my appetite. I went home. On the way I pondered what the hell had just happened. I stewed in my anger. I thought if I had those three or four minutes back, the way I felt now, would I have changed anything? It would've been easy to roll the fucking window up so the lady could get into the car. If I'd have done that, things would have been alright... for Asshole. But not for me. The request was unreasonable, and I've heard requests similiar to his in the past. On any other day, I may have done it, to avoid trouble. Just sucked it up and put it out. Not today. Today was the wrong day to ask, and it was certainly the wrong time to assume that, by saying "thanks," this would end the debate and he was going to get his way. I can be a prick.


As he was pulling back to his wife, I stepped out, dropped my cigarette, and crushed it under my shoe.


I haven't yet had another. But now I'm finished writing. And it's high time for a "smoky treat."

You're a moron (and your mother dresses you funny)

I live in a small town called Circleville, Ohio. Not much to do here, though we do have the very popular Circleville Pumpkin Show once a year. Ever heard of it? No? That's alright, it's not central to this story anyway. I was just curious. Anyway, there's a library, I have no idea why. I'd be surprised if many here knew how to read with the way they act (for those of you who live in Circleville, I obviously don't mean you... you are, after all, reading this... or looking at the pretty background. Either way it's appreciated). There's no Macy's, no Barnes and Noble, but we do have an abundance of gas stations, pizza joints, and ice cream parlors. There's even a guitar shop called "The Hippie Hut." Yep, it's THAT kind of town. And, of course, a WalMart. Doesn't every town, big or small? I believe everyone in town's been there a time or two. Even the fifteen or twenty black folks living here. See, Roundtown's predominantly white, at least 99%. I've never had cause to believe that, other than a few folks I've worked with, anyone has a problem with the other 1% of the community. Until a recent trip to Wally World, that is...


I was in the mood for a bit of cheese and pretzels and decided to hit WalMart, since they also have a Red Box (for those that don't know, it's a refridgerator-sized box that dispenses DVDs... for a buck... best thing since sliced bread and porn onDemand). I knew what I wanted and made a beeline for the dairy aisle, not wanting to interfere with the shopping excursions of the "WalMart Shoppers." (I quoted the term because we'll discuss these people in a later rant... promise.) I walk around the corner into the dairy aisle, at the VERY BACK of the store (this is important, Roundtowners, that's why the capitalization... I'll learn you yet...), and walking toward me is a man of about 35, 6 feet tall, scruffy beard and 'stache, giveaway trucker cap, black shirt, blue leans and cowboy boots. Typical daily wardrobe for a redneck. Yes, I said redneck. If it's good enough for Jeff Foxworthy, it's good enough for me. Anyway, the shirt's what gave me the idea that there may be trouble. In the middle of the shirt, wrapped in flame, were three letters written loud and proud: K K K.


Really... this is unacceptable. I called him an idiot as I passed by, and a few words were spoken, but the trouble I'd anticipated seemed to have passed. Now, it may sound odd to you that I take issue with the wearing of the shirt. This blog is, after all, based on the idea of free speech. And you'd be right... if you weren't SO wrong. I have absolutely no problem with the dumbass wearing the shirt. Zero. Nada. Wear it! If that's who you are, say it loud! Say it proud! But do it where it matters. Do it in a place where the message will be clearly received, not in a place where the chances are less than 1% of running into someone who might take the message to heart.


Do it in Columbus.


Columbus is that great big capital city of ours, 20 minutes north of here. I'm certain the message you're trying to convey will be received there. Walk into any WalMart, you won't be lacking in people that will hear you loud and clear. But no, you won't do that, will you? And I know why: you're a coward. Did it make you feel brave to walk from one end of that store to the other? You had absolutely no groceries in hand, basket, or shopping cart, so you weren't there to shop. And that's one hell of a detour to the automotive department. So... you made the trek for the bravado alone, right? Did you think you impressed anyone? Well, you're right. You impressed ME. After all, I wrote a blog about it, didn't I? Congratualtions, motherfucker.


I just hope you can read.

24- The Library (a mostly true story)

(A recent trip to the library has reinforced the truth of an old saying: people suck. My name's Mick... and this is going to be the longest 24 minutes of my life...)

The following events occurred between 11:10am and 11:34am...

I remember when the library was a peaceful place. I remember being told to shush by an old blue haired woman in spectacles when my voice happened to rise above a whisper. And running in the library was unheard of in those days. These were the thoughts going through my head when I again saw the two tots barrelling up the aisle toward me. I glanced around, looking for an answer to this dilemma, looking for hope, looking for the woman who trailed the kids inside. Looking for the parent. Then I spotted her, over by the DVD section, blissfully unaware of the goings on, with her iPod plugged into her ears. I decided I'd have to take matters into my own hands. I walked over to engage her in polite conversation...

Ma'am? Excuse me, ma'am? Yeah, I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time? Yes, I'm sure you are, but since this is obviously your first trip to the library, I'd like to explain to you how it works. Please have a seat over here. Oh, wait, careful! Take your head out of your ass first, wouldn't want you to break your neck. There, now... you see that gentleman over there, the one about to take a seat in that big, comfortable chair? He's on his lunch hour, and since he's on a diet, he thought he'd come here and read a few chapters of the new Harlan Coben novel. Yes, I think the man's writing is juvenile as well, but this gent seems to like him. And the older woman, there in the large-print section? She's taken to reading romance novels since her husband of 53 years died a year and a half ago. They remind her of the old days. The young man there on the computer waited almost an hour for one to come available so he could research the essay he's writing on quantum physics. I don't know what the fuck it is, either! That's not the point! Try to focus, here, will you?! Okay, the guy two seats from him is trying to get internet porn on a library computer. No, he can't, you're right... and I suppose I'll have to wait until I get home to take a piss now. Don't want to run into him in the restroom, you know? Anyway, last but not least are those two women and the man behind the check-out counter. Know what those are? Those are what we call the librarians. They get paid to assist us in our pursuit of knowledge. What they are NOT paid to do is babysit. Look behind you. Hang on, they're coming. There they are! They look to be about nine, maybe ten. They're really moving! And around the corner and-WHOA! They almost took out that pregnant woman! Did you see that?! They need to be reined-in, lady. ME?! Not my job... it's YOURS! And before you give me that line of bullshit about you can't hire a babysitter every time you want to borrow a movie, it's not about that. It's about teaching your kids there's a time and place for that behavior, and the library isn't it. So, the next time you- wait, what? Bullshit, I saw them walk in with you! What's that you say? You saw their dad drop them off and go where?!...

Five minutes later...

...Sir? Excuse me, sir? Yeah, you, buying the 12-pack of Miller and the Camel Lights. I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time? Yes, I know my nose is bleeding!...

Step one: offend EVERYONE

Have you ever seen someone on the street, on the local news, a restaurant or movie theatre or any other public place and thought "How is this person allowed to roam free in society? Why isn't this person in a mental institution? Or jail? Or at the very least under close observation by a mental health professional? Do they actually allow this person to BREED?!" I'll bet you've felt this way a time or two (and if not, you're just not paying attention to your surroundings). Hell, I'm not even through the first paragraph and some (a lot?) of you are probably wondering these things about me! Still, if I can help jog your memory, I will. After all, I'm here to help. Following is a list of people about whom we should be asking these questions. If you disagree, you're probably on the list. Twice. The list is shorter than I could've made it, but I'd like to eventually get to the meat of the blog. And at this point, I'm absolutely certain you'll agree with me on that one!

People We Should Remove From Society

1) Parents who allow their children to run helter skelter in any public place that doesn't specifically encourage that kind of behavior. Contrary to popular belief, shopping malls are not playgrounds.
2) People who talk or text message on their phones in movie theatres. When I'm watching my favorite actress get naked on the big screen, it's distracting to me and the other perverts in attendance when the screen on that phone lights up so you can let your girlfriends know how the date's going. Idiots.
3) Parents who bring children not yet old enough to potty by themselves into a restaurant where the lowest entree costs $25.00. I don't want to be seated anywhere near a crying kid when I'm trying to enjoy meal, drink, and conversation. FYI, most restaurants have take-out. Place your order, take your food and get the fuck out. Simple.
4) People who write checks in the 12 item or less lane. Puh-lease! These are the same people who hold up the drive through at Mickey-D's because they're making three different orders for three different families. FUCKING idiots.
5) NIMBY's, one and all. (Not In My Back Yard) George Carlin first discovered these people in the 70's. These are people who, for one reason or another (usually fear of dropping property values) do not want certain types of establishments built or businesses run in their property zones, ie jails, porn shops, Hooter's, you get the idea. (Note to stay at home or trophy wives: if you want to remain close to your husbands, quit bitching! Eventually, he's going to end up in at least one of these places anyway!)

I could go on and on, but the meat awaits. I'll touch on a few of these further along. Some you may agree with, some not so much. That's your opinion, and you're certainly entitled. Why not blog about it? You can still do that in this country (for now... seize the opportunity when it's still there!). It's called "freedom of speech." Remember that? It's that great big cement foundation on which this country is built. And no matter how cold, cracked, or chipped it's become, it's ours.

Enough foreplay. Let's get naked, shall we?