Thursday, October 28, 2010

2 Terrifying Obstacles You Must Face In A Restaurant

There are a lot of dangerous professions out there, just waiting to snatch your existence from you. Miners, bomb squad, loggers, firefighters and so on. These are all dangerous jobs. Working on a farm is a dangerous job. You could get sucked under a combine or kicked in the testicles by a horse. Supposedly the most dangerous job in the world is a crab fisherman. Talk about a disproportionate reward there. But I'm afraid whatever you think you know about dangerous jobs... is so very wrong. I work in a restaurant, and I have it on high authority that it is the single most dangerous profession on earth, next to those cavemen way back in the day who had to defend their territory against those giant bears.

"This sucks..."

It is a job fraught with peril, where around every corner there lingers a disquieting evil, intent on depriving you of your earthly vessel. There is something people don't quite understand about working in a restaurant. There are plenty of hazards to most any job. If you work in a grocery store, you may have to talk to someone stupid eventually. But for most hazards, it's usually very clear that you should stay away from them. For example, if you work with poisonous snakes, don't put your dick in one of the cages or jam a snake in your eye. It's just common sense. It's not like that in a restaurant. In a restaurant, you don't have the luxury of safety.

If it was my intention to release this article on my 50th birthday, I would go to the trouble of walking you through maybe a quarter of the hazards to working in a restaurant. But instead I will focus on the two most terrifying prospects you have to face while working in a restaurant. If you have an aversion to descriptions of carnage, you may want to avert your eyes now.

2. You may have to turn off a light
Have you ever stared good and hard at a lightswitch and thought, "my god, that thing could kill me..."? Well you should, because it can kill you, or inflict the necessary psychological damage to make you wish you were dead. In fact there's not a lot stopping it from doing so. It is possibly the most twisted, nefarious, oddly convenient (and simple!) invention ever concocted by man. Everyone desires illumination at some point in their lives, whether it be literally or metaphorically. The only question is, are you brave enough to set your life on the line?


This is a question I had to face two days ago. I had finished mopping the floor, so after I'd dumped the water outside, I locked the back door and put the mop away. After returning the mop to its proper domicile, I have to turn off the light in the back hallway. Don't be fooled, it only sounds simple. Luckily I managed to turn off the light without causing myself serious harm. It almost felt as simple as just... pushing the switch down. Tragically, my co-worker Eddie was not quite as fortunate. This was a test which he would fail completely and miserably.

My co-workers and I were all sitting in the restaurant, relaxing, when suddenly our eyes widened in terror as a bloodcurdling shriek emanated from the back hallway. I went back into the kitchen to investigate and there stood Eddie, white as a ghost. "Scott, I'm not finished the bottles yet. You turn off the light too fucking quick, I gotta do the bottles!! Fuck!!!!" He wasn't making any sense. It's like he could have just turned the lightswitch back on instead of taking a shit and yelling at me nonsensically. I tried to calm him down before he made another grave mistake, but I was too late. He walked right into what people in the food industry dare not speak of. It has a codename...

Prospect 1.

1. You may have to open a door
Oh not just open a door. This door could also be locked, so you could very well have to unlock it, then open it. My heart quakes in fear at the very thought of it. What sick, desperate straits would drive a man to invent something sinister like that...?

As I said earlier, when I'm finished mopping the floor, I have to open the back door so I can dump out the mop water. It takes a special kind of courage to open a door. Courage that I never knew I had. What could be hiding behind that door? What could happen if I open it...? What if there's like... a fucking ogre behind it waiting to club me to death? Thankfully these are questions I never have to face, because the door I get to open is a screen door. All I have to do at the end of the night is close the actual back door and lock it. Closing a door is remarkably simple, so logic would dictate that opening the door would be just as simple. But as Eddie proved with the lightswitch, simple concepts are often unreasonably demanding.

There was a bit of miscommunication between myself and the waitresses. I was told that the bottles were done, and I didn't hear Eddie vacuuming, so it seemed everything was done for the night, so I closed and locked the back door as always. Then Eddie lost his shit when he went into the back to discover that it was a bit darker than normal, then he was on the verge of internal hemorrhaging when he realized I had closed the door. I had already loosely apologized and given an explanation where it really wasn't necessary as to why I turned off a light. I was about to explain the whole door thing, but my efforts went unnoticed.

"Oh fucking fuck shit fuck bitch fuckin' stupid fuck cocksucker!" is what Eddie mumbled as he wrestled with the back door. I think he was trying to convey his anger to me in a way that his words could not by opening that door as menacingly as possible. It was possibly the saddest thing I've ever seen in my life. This old man, red in the face with baseless rage, locked in a fight to the death with this door, and the door appeared to be winning. Eventually he did manage to turn the knob and boot the door open, but by that time I had already turned around and walked away.

I wasn't upset. In fact I have great sympathy for the man. The tactical nature surrounding a door is preposterous. I'm amazed he made it out of that one without a scratch. I feel like he could have just, y'know, opened the door instead of screaming like 10 year old child, but that's irrational thinking. I could have killed a man two days ago by closing that door, so I must applaud his gallantry.
If you're wondering why my banter feels so warm and sarcastic in this article, it's because it is! This isn't the serengeti, wild man. These are very paltry, non-trivial irritations. Settle your ass down. If you don't have the ability to, at least write down some of the absurd shit you say, because it's always classic comedy gold. Seriously. Eddie is this 75 year old man who grew up in the bronx, so he has a wicked accent and is completely serious about everything he says.
 He once caught some kid peeing on the side of the restaurant and threatened to cut his dick off and jam it up his ass. I didn't see the end of that exchange, so it's entirely possible that kid is still out there somewhere with his own penis in his butt.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Scott's Product Line: Guaranteed Only To Fuck You Over

A few minutes ago, a deadly neurotoxin had covertly worked its way into my bloodstream, and was shutting down all of my primary functions. I was in a state of partial paralysis, but was still aware of all my surroundings. In other words, I was watching television.

I was watching some reality show that I didn't understand, or at least I think it was a reality show, then it cut to a commercial break. It was at this point I remembered I really didn't want to be doing this, so I started to get up. Then some woman popped up on the TV and started complaining about migraines. "Every light, every sound, it all makes it worse." Following this were two more people with similar sentiments. After the first minute and a half passed, they revealed the miracle prescription migraine medication. The same three people were then interviewed again, and now their lives were a cavalcade of sunshine and happiness. Then came the list of potential symptoms.

Now, I'm no stranger to excessive lists of unrealistic symptoms. I was on Accutane in junior high. The list of symptoms for that medication came in a book thick enough to beat a bear to death with, and it didn't even include the pregnancy section. But the list for this medication was egregious. Have you ever been to a bidding? Me neither, but I hear the people at those things talk absurdly fast. Try to imagine that, but in fast forward, and you have the narrator's approximate speech velocity.

I wanted to leave, but the commercial just wouldn't stop. It altered the very fabric of reality and ceased to make any logical sense. Some guy teaching his kid how to ride a bike, a couple cooking supper together, all laughing maniacally like some kind of deranged creature on a permanent caffeine buzz.

Does taking this medication mean you're at risk of laughing so hard you vomit your own asshole? It makes no sense, why are these people so happy, can they not hear the narrator? He's still going, y'know. "Upon taking this medication, you will be beset with the desire to devour your own vagina." "If you take this medication, you will hail the coming of the zombie apocalypse and extinguish the human race." "If you are a human being, please do not take... whatever the fuck this is."

So after about three hours, the commercial finally ended. I stood there for awhile, benumbed in stupefied wonder. I couldn't come up with a satisfying or logical reason why this commercial, or the drug it was advertising exists. How can this possibly be legal? Then it started to make sense. There's a market out there for preying on weakness, and making other human beings miserable for your benefit. Provided you have no morals, are declared insane, and have the negotiation skills necessary to convince someone else that taking a pill that could set their ass crack on fire to relieve them of a headache or whatever, is actually safe. Having no compassion for the human condition can go a long way.

Upon becoming fully aware of this, I raced upstairs and discharged all the ideas I had, then with my judo grip on Microsoft Paint, illustrated them for you. Coming soon to nameless retail stores near you:

They Do Stuff!

Got a stiff back? Stop being a whiny pussy. You got to take Scott's Back Pain Remedy, you stinky ass-faced bastard! It's the baddest son of a bitch medication on the block.
They're designed specifically to relieve back pain. That's all the information we have on these terrifying fuckers, because we aren't qualified scientists and have no idea what we've done. But don't take our sketch ball word for it, try it for yourself! What are you waiting for? But seriously, don't take our word for it. We aren't liable for any negative side-effects that may occur as a result of taking this medication.

- Paralysis
- Meningococcal disease
- Multiple forms of cancer
- Peeling your own skin off


It'll CREAM Your Shit!

Do you suffer from itchy skin? That's fucking nasty. You should really take care of that or else no one will ever love you. Oh you've tried, but all the products you use never point to a permanent solution? Fear not, comrade, for Scott's Skin Ointment has been called into existence! This pocket sized ointment is the only absurdly expensive, horrifyingly dangerous permanent solution to irritable skin. Guaranteed! And, if you call within the next five minutes, we'll also throw in a complimentary sledge hammer so you can brutalize yourself to death in just about the most painful and difficult way possible.

- Rotting of testicles
- Unidentifiable fungus on feet
- Collapsing of lungs
- Someone runs your cat over with a lawnmower
- Demenia
- Vomiting out of every orifice in your body
- Nausea
- Cannibalism
- Melting eyeballs
- Insanity
- Loss of vision (generally associated with melted eyeballs)
- Nuclear diarrhea
- Priapism


One Pill To Rule Them All, And In The Darkness, Bind Them

Is your life just fine? Are you craving attention, but lack the experience of real life tragic circumstances for people to feel sorry for you? Then it's your lucky day, you whiny little bitch. Take Scott's Angst Medication, and within seconds, you will be swimming in the outward manifestations of the ridiculous scenarios you concoct in your mind on a daily basis. Guaranteed to make your friends (who don't care about you) continue thinking you're a loud, whiny bitch who's so slutty she needs to hire a traffic cop for her vagina.

- Hallucinating

- Maybe you'll actually shut up before any more dicks get in your mouth
- Updating your status on Facebook with song lyrics that allude to imaginary problems purely for the sake of attention like an angsty cunt

That's all I could come up with, because my life is so tough. My heart quakes with sorrow.

Monday, October 18, 2010

The woes of not being able to take a shower

Friends... I come to you today humbled. I come to you as a different man. A broken man... But more specifically, a greasier man. It's been 24 hours since I last took a shower, and I fear these may be the last words I write to you as a sane man. Before my fleeting grip on sanity and reality is surrendered, and the assiduous grease takes me, I'd like to tell a tale of the last few stinky hours of my life that have been spent without a shower. I'm not sure of my own intentions with this contrivance. Perhaps so you can diagnose the signs with ameliorate haste, and elude them better than I.

Showering follows a routine all across the planet, unless you're a hippie and rely purely on water fountains or rain to clean yourself. At night you sleep, then when you wake up, you take a shower. So you see, spending a portion of the day without a shower is no stranger to anyone, assuming you don't shower while you sleep. Subsequently, it's fair to assume you wake up mildly greasy, your breath smelling faintly of a decaying corpse. Unless you wake up next to someone else and cannot remember how they got there, or if you wake up in jail spooning with your cellmate Jamal, there's no need to feel bad. Smelling like shit in the morning is just nature playing a prank on you. Thankfully the instrument commonly referred to as a shower exists, so that you may become clean, exude confidence in your fine acknowledgement of proper hygiene, and show your face in public. When the aforementioned pattern is disrupted, things spiral out of control. This has been my life for the past few hours.

I awoke this morning to the euphonious sound of someone doing the dishes. This meant two things. First, I didn't have to clean the kitchen. Second, I wasn't going to be able to take a shower right away. It didn't bother me though. I planned to relax for awhile, have my breakfast, and eventually procure a shower (in the non-prostitute sense, obviously).

I was concentrating very much on writing, so I had neglected my shower temporarily. Thankfully I remembered before it became too late, and schemed to emend my oleaginous self with undue haste. I departed from my lair and proceeded to the bathroom. Before I turned on the shower, I decided it would be wise to investigate the rest of the house, and ascertain whether water was already in use. Turns out it was, infact. The laundry machine was active. I wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere, so it wasn't a problem. I'll just play some guitar while I wait. Just to clarify, I mean actual good guitar, not douchebag playing at a campfire guitar.

After a fair amount of time had passed, I felt another attempt was in order. Sadly, my brother was occupying the shower. Fair enough, I suppose, he has to go to work. While telling you that acceptable hygiene standards are fundamental at a grocery store would be difficult (i.e. falsehood), he required the shower more than I, so I was generous in not flushing the toilet, and anxiously, but patiently, awaited my turn.

After more time had passed, I once again attempted to take a shower, but it appeared the dishwasher was on... again... I wasn't abruptly besieged with a crazed sense of bewilderment, but this was starting to become irritating. The task of the dishes had already been completed. I felt we'd exhausted our supply of dishes, but apparently not. Evidently the few remaining cups in my house took priority over my cleanliness. My beloved hot water, employed uselessly without adequate return...

I found myself collapsed on my bed sometime later, having been choked to a state of partial consciousness by a foul miasma. Taking a shower was now imperative. Integral to my survival. I journeyed to the bathroom, was about to open the door, and was rewarded with a fart of extraordinary magnitude from inside the bathroom, occupied by my father. The sheer force of his ass was enough to make the door shake. It became clear to me in that moment as to exactly why he had been eating fiber-enriched cereal in the morning, and had packed himself 4-bean chili for lunch.

I started writing this story after that defeat, made some supper, still staggering with humiliation. But finally, the long anticipated shower had arrived. I stepped into the bathroom, and two things became immediately apparent to me. The bathroom was still beset with a vile, poisonous stench, and the window was open, so the bathroom was freezing cold. When I finally got in the shower, there wasn't very much hot water remaining for me, then someone flushed the toilet 30 seconds in.

So it wasn't a moral victory, but at least I don't smell like whatever would come out of my ass after an extensive cherry-pie-only diet anymore. If nothing else, I've proven that my massive vocabulary can be applied nicely to internet obscurity, but not to my research paper which I should be working on right now. Suck it, english.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

What is this "Sun" you speak of?

I wrote the following article on March 28th, 2009. Figured I'd tell you this before you got all confused why snow starts melting in October here in Canada. This is actually when it starts falling and we all bust out our polar bears to ride to work. It's fucking sweet.

Over the past while, an alarming number of people have been talking complete nonsense. A large practical joke, no doubt. Something about "summer" and this thing they call "sunlight" that comes from the "sun". Luckily my ears are finely tuned to detect bullshit, so I dismissed these wild notions of "heat" and "warmth" immediately. I know what warmth is and isn't. What it is, is the feeling shortly after I put on a massive sweater and sit infront of my heater. It's not something that is, or can be produced in nature. That is the work of science fiction. It's a myth. As you can see, my intellect is far too vast for your Machiavellian scheming. I will not be fooled so easily.

But lately, the number of people foolish enough to fall for these tricks is growing at a frightening rate. The majority of the population seems to have been infected by some kind of parasite, or there's some sort of diabolical compound floating around, twisting human beings into hollow shells incapable of rational thought. I fear I may be next, because as I walked outside today, it appeared that the snow outside my house was... actually melting. It wasn't just my house either, it was happening everywhere. Everywhere I went, slush and puddles. What's more disturbing, is that I found myself without my winter jacket, because I was... warm.

I knew that it simply couldn't be happening. Something was horribly wrong, and the truth needed to be exposed. Tragically, the majority of the population now consists of a bunch of mindless drones, so I decided to look into this more deeply myself. Just when I thought I was on the verge of extricating mankind from mass delusion, I discovered through my tireless research in that astronomy book I got when I was a kid, to my horror, the sun is an actual fucking thing.

It has a FACE!

The sun is a celestial body in our solar system that your average world of warcraft player has no knowledge of, has the ability to turn vampires into sparkly homosexuals, all while looking like a giant flaming testicle. Its energy comes from nuclear fusion. From the 30 seconds I spent investigating this matter, to my narrow understanding, what that basically means is, a couple hydrogen atoms get forced together which eventually creates helium atoms, and this process releases a shit tonne of energy. This energy comes to earth as light. The big bitch keeps us warm is what I'm saying.

What does this mean for us?

Just as I was about to make a joke about destroying the sun, I learned that she's a bit of an important attention whore and holds our planet and several others in our solar system in place. So we orbit the sun and spin on a rotational axis, which is where the seasons come from.
Sometimes half of the planet is tilted towards the sun, and sometimes it's not. These points in the earth's orbit are called solstices. We are currently in a transition between the seasons of winter and summer called "The Vernal Equinox", which is a really faggy way of pronouncing "spring". Both hemispheres are receiving roughly the same amount of exposure to sunlight. So because of earth's orbit, very simply, the northern hemisphere will soon be exposed to more sunlight, and soon it'll be summer.

... so I guess the sun isn't scary at all. Well, with that in mind, I'm going to assume I speak for everyone when I say FUCK WINTER! Goodbye, asshole. Thanks for nothing. I sincerely hope someone molests your face with their balls.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

I've decided what I want to be after I die!

I've long struggled with the question, "what do you want to come back as after you die?" Occasionally I would think of something "wacky", to dust off an old term, like coming back as a pepper, or a table, or a rake so I could slap someone in the face, but I really only thought of boring things. I'd think of my dogs and answer back, "I'd come back as a dog!" When asked to explain it, I'd say I just picked the first thing that popped into my head and gave it no consideration whatsoever.

They don't even give me points for honesty. Everyone who has ever asked me that question gets angry at me afterwards, which has never made sense to me. Are they suggesting that this should be a question that I actively think of an answer to so they don't end up disappointed? Personally I think people have a hard time admitting that they're stupid. It's an asinine question because I don't have any plans for coming back. But that was before I actually came up with something awesome, now I'm determined to survive death in a non-physical form, and come back as this fuckin' guy.

He's a character from the videogame, Donkey Kong Country 2. He has no legs and somehow floats several feet above the ground. He wears a badass suit coat, has arms but doesn't have any hands. What he also doesn't have is a face. His entire face is replaced by two giant eyeballs, staring directly at your tits. His body doesn't exist from the waist down, which means his dick doesn't exist. This might seem horrifying and confusing to my male audience at first, but I personally find the notion of ghost dick to be hysterically funny. Here's a picture of him. Took me like half a goddamn hour to find too:


His purpose in life is to throw barrels at people, and just occasionally, he throws bees and porcupines at your ass, all while laughing his ass off. Now, I've made a point never to use terms like "ballin'", or anything similar in my writing that would lead anyone to suspect that I'm a giant, blubbering douche, but it's become necessary for me to make an exception. How ballin' is that?! He throws barrels at people! For no reason other than to piss you off as well. What a jerk! That just sounds splendid. Very befitting. I now have concrete ammunition for the next person unfortunate enough to ask me that question. I have no idea what I want to do with my life, but I am prepared to kick death in the balls upon my arrival.

If my plan fails, however, I'll gladly accept coming back as Bill from Left 4 Dead:

This is somebody's grandpa

Friday, October 15, 2010

I hate my toaster

It fucking sucks. It deprives me of my dignity and it makes me want to kill myself. Not the toaster like a reasonable person, just myself. Others may die also. My toaster is the physical manifestation of the word malevolence, which, by a strange coincidence, is what my shit consists of the day after miserably choking down the burnt, massacred revulsions almost every day of my rotton existence. Breakfast used to be awesome. Now every morning is about as enjoyable as drinking anti-freeze or stepping on the easter bunny.
You see, I love breakfast. I've never really considered myself a morning person, because it usually takes me a few hours after waking up to regain all of my energy and general ethusiasm about living. But when I voraciously devour a delicious breakfast sculpted in the very eyes of the Gods themselves, this process rapidly quickens. Breakfast is a good indicator of how the rest of my day will be. So when I eat an exceptionally terrible breakfast, all the joy is instantly sapped out of my already dried up, flea infested heart. Here's my normal morning routine during the summer, which differs from my morning routine during the school year in that I don't want it to suddenly catch fire and get sucked into a jet turbine.
I awaken at around one in the afternoon, staring at the strange, yet compelling fuzz hanging from my ceiling, realizing that I stayed up until two in the morning on xbox live playing Halo 3 with very angry and very loud children who really hated me. I then hope the rest of my day will be more rewarding. I stand, give specific areas of my body firm scratches (my balls and ass), then proceed downstairs with very little clothes on to blatantly stretch infront of the enormous window in my living room. The horde of hot women who live on my street and are conveniently my age typically catch me at this interval in the day, and shriek because I'm just so toned and hot. They then begin stripping down infront of my house, sensually delivering back massages to each other while another woman of equal tenderness dumps buckets of sunscreen on them in slow motion. Now it's breakfast time, bitches!

I proceed to my kitchen, my underwear not doing the greatest job of containing my junk, mostly because my underwear is partially jammed in my ass crack. In the industry we call this a "wedgie". I pop two pieces of bread into my toaster. If you've ever attended an english class, this is what is referred to as the initial incident in the story. Given the title, you probably know where this is going. You may be asking yourself, "why doesn't this idiot just have cereal?" I could eat cereal, but all my parents ever buy is Raisin Bran which tastes like shit, and only grandmas eat it. Toast is awesome and manly, because you can put a whole array of interesting things on it, the majority being suitable for breakfast purposes. Butter, jelly, peanut butter, nutella, etc. etc. When it's around, I take to smearing absurd amounts of nutella on my toast, because it's like... delicious angel poo?
Anyway, about two seconds later, I hear the familiar sound of toast being done. But what's this? Only a short allotment of time has passed! This is puzzling to me, and disturbing. I return to the toaster to find that my toaster hasn't conjured the magnificent toast befitting of my sexiness. I push it down again, only to have it pop straight back up because the stupid switch thing is broken, meaning I have to stand there holding it down looking like an idiot. I suppose one could classify this as advantageous, because one could then keep a better eye on their toast. People who think that are obvious failures at life. Nevertheless, I courageously trudge forward.

About a minute later I let go of the switch to find that I can't actually see my toast. You see, the slots occupying my toaster were actually 10 foot rifts. I would either lift my toast out of its respective slot to be left demeaned clutching a tiny chunk of unsinged bread and having the remains of the bread return to the depths of my toaster, Gandalf style, or I would attempt to lift my toast out of its respective slot, only to suffer a mild electric shock, a second degree burn, then have the fire department kick down my door and ax off my hand. Thankfully that morning I planned ahead and used freakishly tall bread, so I was able to remove my toast with relative ease, only to discover that one side of my toast had been cooked with the delicacy of a flamethrower, and the other had barely been singed. I then turn the toast so the unsinged side could be delightfully toasted, and I would at least manage to salvage half of my toast. But no, this seemingly intelligent move was met with failure and humiliation.

The unsinged side of my toast would somehow manage to remain unsinged, while the already burnt side would break off into the toaster and set ablaze, stinking up that section of my household, so that the piercing stench could act as a constant reminder of my total failure for the rest of the day. My soul partially reduced to rubble at this point, I attempt to salvage the remains of my toast, gloriously buttering every inch of it. Similarily to how most women liberally attempt to fashion my nipples with butter the second they lay eyes on me. But no, the butter knife snaps upon reaching the surface of the butter because my family always leaves it infront of the open window all night for some fucking reason. At least I think it's my family. Who knows, maybe it's the evil butter gremlins.

Operating my toaster is the equivalent of being forced into a closet with an extremely attractive, extremely intoxicated woman. Your heart racing, thumping furiously in your ears, your untrained hands sifting through the dark, searching and finding. But what you find is not the luscious, golden sweater kittens you had perceived, but is actually the oddly firm and pulsating ball sack of an ex-sex offender recently released from prison. I hate my life.

Thankfully I can officially call my toaster my old toaster, as I've received a brand new toaster which has the potential to crash the FBI database, deep space exploration and time travel. But I will forever scold my old toaster with scathing severity for leeching the happiness from my veins and filling them with disgust for all living creatures. By the way, the usage of the word "all" in the previous sentence is a bit misleading. What that sentence should have read was, my toaster leeched the happiness from my veins and filled them with further contempt for Jeff Hardy, who currently occupies the advertisement on the left side of my screen. Fuck off, Jeff Hardy.