Tuesday, April 28, 2009
My friend and I have decided an extremely awkward conversation would follow along these lines: "Hello, this is Video Express: we're calling you to inform you that The Wrestler is one day over due." "Um, yeah, well, our son shattered the disc and stabbed himself to death in the stomach with the pieces." "Oh, uh, um, okay." "Would you like the pieces back? The mortician says that we could keep them, but if you want them..."
Saturday, April 25, 2009
A good friend of mine and I often have interesting conversations. We get to a point where an idea pops into our heads and we run with it. We aren't sure how we got to the final destination, there being a lack of a good roadmap of the conversation, but they prove humorous. One day said friend and I were walking and talking about the latest Pokemon game. Neither of us is a fan, but we're chatting about it and how they're all basically the same game, re-boxed with a new name, that being the version, or "color". We jokingly went on about all the colors they could possibly come up with until arriving at "Navy." Then my brother who was with us pips in with, "Why not Pokemon: Old Navy?" "Go, Polar Fleece!" "It uses price discount, it's super effective!"
Saturday, April 18, 2009
(3:40:54 PM) GuardianAnubite: Monkeys. (3:41:04 PM) Wolf: They're on fire! (3:41:12 PM) GuardianAnubite: And they dance! (3:44:02 PM) Wolf: With love and joy! (3:44:17 PM) GuardianAnubite: No, I think they dance because they're on fire. (3:44:36 PM) Wolf: I think they dance not just because they're on fire on the outside, but filled with a flame of passion on the inside. (3:45:16 PM) GuardianAnubite: I don't know about you, but the idea of being immolated alive is slightly more important than whatever emotion you feel at the time. --- (5:33:38 PM) Wolf: My feet hurt. So very much. (5:33:46 PM) GuardianAnubite: I can amputate. (5:34:24 PM) Wolf: I'd rather you didn't. I still need my feet for tomorrow. (5:34:51 PM) GuardianAnubite: I can rebuild you. Faster. Stronger. Smarter. I have the technology.
Friday, April 17, 2009
I recently started working at the local bottling plant. For the most part, even though I'm still learning, it's a boring job. The same things happen. Watch the machinery and wait for it to screw up. Just a lot of automation. Today I was working the Labler. It puts the labels on the bottles, can do something like over a thousand in a few minutes. Fast but not that fast, or whatever. Anyway, we're doing President's Choice, a brand used by the Real Canadian Superstore. All the labels are blue, and after jamming tens of thousands of these little buggers into the machine, the ink has eventually transferred itself onto my hands. So, I find myself looking at my hands, stained blue after several hours, thinking to myself, "Well, damn, looks like I just spent my entire morning jacking off a Smurf!" At lunch I said as much to some of my co-workers. They laughed, but then the joke took off. "Is that where you're getting all the glue now that you ran out?" "Ew! I don't want to touch the bottles coming into the packager now!" So remember, if you're drinking some President's Choice Natural Spring Water from the Illecillewaet Spring, chances are I put that label on. And had my hands turn a shade of blue like I'd been jerking off Smurfs. Enjoy.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Sergeant Warawa is moving his down the hall, inspecting the troops, their kit, the layout, everything. His sharp comments rise and fall. Sometimes a soft voice, sometimes hard. Usually he inspects a certain item more than others during an inspection. You don't know which one; completely random. If you're at the end, and out of sight, you could figure out what it was and make it perfect. Or a close approximation of it. Inspections, even good ones, are never "perfect." Being perfect is disallowed. My thoughts are jarred by a clinking sound and the sharp gasp of surprised. Then: "DeCarlo! What is this?" "It looks like pocket change, Sergeant," came the cool reply. "What's it doing in your underwear, DeCarlo? Is there something about this course I should know? A specific role you're playing in it?" I nearly break out laughing. I can hear others trying to muffle their giggling. Sergeant Warawa's head pops out of DeCarlo's cubicle to look up and down the hall at the privates lined up along it, trying to find a victim for a moment before his attention is drawn back to DeCarlo. "You see this, DeCarlo?" "Yes, Sergeant. It's a nickle." "It's a 1985 nickle." Sergeant Warawa places the nickle down. "It better be there next inspection, DeCarlo. I'll be checking."
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
"Czarnowske! Are you yawning in my drill class!" It wasn't a question. It was a statement, bellowed at the top of his lungs. Sergeant Warawa was angry again. "No, Sergeant!" Czarnowske wailed. "Are you lying to me, Czarnowske?" "No, Sergeant!" "I think you're lying to me!" "No, Sergeant!" The last was more a plea than anything. Czarnowske knew what as about to happen to him, at least in a sense. So did the rest of the platoon standing at attention on the drill square. "Czarnowske!" Sergeant Warawa yells, causing the aforementioned private to stiffen a little bit. "I want you to run over there and get me the license plate number of the BLACK car!" Sergeant Warawa follows this up with a wave of his hand towards a black vehicle resting a half kilometer away from the platoon. Czarnowske doesn't move for a second. The platoon holds its collective breath. Then: "Czarnowske! NOW!" Czarnowske takes off running, slipping off from the platoon and making his way toward the black sedan at speed. After a moment of watching him, Sergeant Warawa spun on his heel, turning to the platoon, a twinkle in his eye, and says with gleeful humor: "Too bad for Czarnowske, I wanted the license plate number of the BLUE car!" Some giggling erupts, but everyone stays quiet. Nobody wants the same to happen to them. Eventually, Czarnowske returns. He comes to attention before the irate sergeant and even before he can begin to ramble off the numbers and letters he had memorized, the sergeant cuts him off with a wave of his hand, saying: "Czarnowske! What's the license plate of the BLUE car?" "But Sergeant! You asked for the black car!" Sergeant Warawa turns back to the platoon, bellowing: "Platoon! Am I even wrong?" The coursed reply shrilled up, "No, Sergeant!" "Czarnowske! You better get me the license plate number of the BLUE car! And you better hurry! Looks like it's driving away!" Czarnowske looks over and sees it's true. His face falls as he takes off running away. The platoon laughs at their compatriots expense again. Yawning was definitely out of the question.