I went back to my hometown of Huntsville the other day, where the newspaper is delivered with free samples of pudding (No, I’m not joking). Alabama can be an interesting place. Especially when it’s compared to someplace like New York.
On my way, a car in front of me started blowing white smoke from the hood. The driver pulled over, and against my better judgement, I stopped to help. I grabbed a bottle of water for her radiator, and stepped up to help. On the way, I noticed her license plate. She was from New York. Before I approached the door, I announced something about her needing some water. This is something you wouldn’t expect to elicit any hostility. But remember this is me we’re dealing with.
The driver stepped out of her door and immediately triggered a can of mace aimed directly at my face. I’ve learned many things in my life. One of the newest lessons is that it’s difficult to convince a woman that you’re not trying to hurt her while you’re disarming her of a can of mace. I took a glancing blow in the left eye as I dodged the stream, and will have ultraviolet dye on my neck for the next 4-6 weeks, but I’m not blind.
I like to think that I can take everything in stride. It is in this tradition that I not only helped the woman with her radiator, but I complimented her choice of mace, and taught her a better way of holding it to make the stream more accurate. Hopefully she will have changed her mind about people from Alabama.
From people who need to be maced, to people for whom mace is not enough. That’ll show her.
Sometimes when I talk about my shit luck with all things, people think I’m just being pessimistic, that I focus on the bad things because I’m some kind of emo prick. Well I’m not. I haven’t had bangs in 9 years.
I work at a psychiatric hospital set out in a very secluded area. The closest place to make food and drink runs is a combination McDonalds/Pilot gas station about 10 minutes away. I made a run there last night at about 3:30am to grab some drinks and pretzels. As soon as I walked in the door, I heard someone dashing like mad out the back door of the McDonalds. That’s when I noticed the upraised position of the arms of everyone present. Either they were holding a small rave, or they had just been held up. I saw no blacklights.
About 5 seconds after I walked in the door, just as I was trying to calm people down to see if everyone was okay, here comes the fuzz. Some flashing lights and rushing uniforms tend to send mixed signals to my head, and here’s why- no sooner were the cops through the door that I found myself filling the sights of six Beretta 9mms. Seeing as I was the only one present not wearing a uniform or positioned behind a counter, they automatically assumed that I was the one responsible for the silent alarm.
Fortunately, the employees were very quick to confirm that I was not the one who had held them up, that he had made haste out the back door, that he was wearing a blue hoodie, and had arrived in the blue van parked outside. Despite the specifics, one of the cops, namely an obvious rookie who had come through the door with his gun pointed at my head took out his cuffs and said that he would have to detain me “until they’re sure.”
Now, having a gun pointed at my head is one of my little pet peeves, so I wasn’t feeling too terribly cooperative at the moment. Add that to the fact that extortion of authority figures is always something I’ve excelled at.
COP: “Turn around please.”
ME: “You know when you guys came through the door, you were the one with your gun pointed at my head. Which is interesting, as you cops are supposed to aim for
center mass. That’s the kind of thing that doesn’t look good to superiors, given that the
whole thing is on camera. So why don’t you be a good cop and go review the security
OTHER COP: “Leave him alone, Jim.”
After everything was cleared up and I’d given my statement, I finally got back to work, having taken about twice as long as I should have for my break, so I had my supervisor to answer to. Fortunately, she was understanding, and I checked in with security to be on the lookout for blue hoodies. So you see, this is not just me being a pessimist. This is simply the way the universe opperates.
The funny part is that on the security footage of the cops rushing in, and me raising my arms, you can clearly see me rolling my eyes.
Working in a hospital, I have a mandatory flu shot I have to take every year, so that infection can be at least mildly controlled. I got mine this morning. Some people have a needle phobia, and hate shots. Then there’s me, who lacks the mental capability of fear, and pain is a phantom of mind, so my main goal in getting shots is to freak out the nurse in some fashion. This time she took care of that part for me.
-Nurse gives the shot in the muscle, and turns around to grab the cotton ball and bandaid, turns back-
“Well… that’s not supposed to happen.
-Blood is flowing down to my elbow-
“Do you have hemophilia?”
“Not in the least. I think that’s arterial. Watch…”
-I flex my arm to create shallow spurts from the hole-
“Yep. Definately arterial.”
My blood clots very quickly, and it would have stopped bleeding in seconds, but the nurses were freaked, so I wound up sitting in a chair with a tourniquet on my arm eating a twix, and freaking out anyone who showed up with an aversion to shots. “Hey! Squinting won’t help! Hope They don’t STRIKE AN ARTERY!! haha!”
Ah, good times.
damn the luck…
You know how sometimes you wake up naked someplace up in the mountains with blood all over your mouth next to a disembowled bear? Well I hit my head on a branch on the way down. Scratched it.
Just give it time…
It takes a special kind of person to track serial killers. This is because in order to know how a serial killer thinks, you have to think like them. You have to see things as they see them, know what they know, and want what they want.
I’m writing my thesis on the minds of serial killers.
I live on a college campus.
I am an urban legend waiting to happen.
How? one might ask
If you’ve never managed to cut yourself with salt, I can tell you-
Oil, bullwhips, Martha Stewart, and children…
… oh, and golf as well. Thus has been my morning.
I went to the Ford dealership to get an oil change, and it took quite a while. Before it was taken to the garage, however, interesting things had to happen. Because I can’t even get a vehicle serviced without looking like someone you wouldn’t want to housesit. The serviceman opened the door, and a bullwhip fell out at his feet. Yes, I have a bullwhip. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not what you think. Did I explain to him that I’m not an S&M freak? Of course not. I said, “You’d best ignore that.” and continued to the ‘customer’s lounge’.
There I spent the next two hours sitting next to a four-year-old who sat there tying knots in the drawstrings of his shorts, guaranteeing the use of a blade to remove them, while watching Martha Stewart on the convenient TV (“It’s a good idea to hang a sheet set on a pullstring above the bars of your cell door. That way, the guards won’t be witness to your activities with your cellmate. And that’s a good thing.”)
The only reading material available were Ford pamphlets, and a golf magazine. I read the pamphlets first. It took five minutes. And I’m not fond of golf.
So, what can you do with small children, some golf balls, a whip, and Martha Stewart? Well, among other things, you can visit a Ford dealership.
For cutting stuff off your face-
You’d think that all razors are made the same way. And that since women’s razors are cheaper, that you should get them instead.
But you’d be wrong.
You’d be left with a face full of stubble, and some useless purple razors.
A bit of history…
At first glance, people often wonder about me. What’s his deal? They may ask themselves. Where did he come from? What the hell happened? Why is he beating that mime? Well the answers are distant, and vague at best. But in short, everything comes down to nature vs. nurture. As for my genetics, they have baffled my family, as well as a few doctors ever since I hit puberty. But the real question comes down to environment. How was I raised? one might ask. As to that, we must go back pretty far.
Baby books. We all have them, our parents bought them during pregnancy in the hopes of documenting their baby’s first everything, along with mementos such as hospital braceletts, hair clippings, first lost tooth, first blood and urine samples, etc.
It’s easy to trace chronology when looking at the baby books in my family. My oldest sister’s baby book is bursting at the seams with information regarding everything from her first toy to her favorite things to spit up. The second oldest sister has a baby book which covers the important things in the early years- first word, birthdays, first days of preschool, you know, things for parents to be proud of. Then there’s mine. It’s obvious that mom and dad got tired. And rightfully so. My baby book is depressingly bare. Or rather it would be, if I took it at face value. But looking through it, I just have to laugh. Because it’s so funny. And not to keep from weeping.
First we have this:
GAAAHHH!! WHAT THE F-…. Oh. It’s just newborn baby Siege. Those of you who think I’m cute can save the oohs and ahhs. Nine months after this picture was taken, I would look like this. And about a year after that, this would happen.
Back on the subject of baby books, and of genetics, we have the first lack of entry to chronicle my lineage.
Or not. But hey, a baby was being born! Who wants to sit and painstakingly draw out a family tree when they could be announcing the birth!
Okay, so I’m without family, nameless, and sexless. It should be noted that the first thing I did in this world was pee on the doctor who delivered me. You’d think that would have clued them in. But it must have pissed off the doctor (no pun intended). Maybe that’s why he didn’t have me immunized for any disease or infection that could be waiting in the hospital.
But no worries. Today, my immune system is as dangerous to infection as the rest of me is to mimes. Besides, they were probably too busy showering the new baby with gifts to worry about some stupid shots, right?
Why mom chose red ink for this, I’ll never know. Apparently I had given her so much trouble with the one hand, she didn’t bother trying for the other. Can’t exactly blame her, as she was recovering from her third C-section. I just find it amusing that my cute baby handprint looks like something you’d see in a window during the aftermath of a zombie outbreak.
At this point, you’re probably thinking, “What an ungrateful sot. He’s made it to college, so he must have had great parents. He should have to watch Joe Don Baker eat sausage for an hour as penance!” Well you’re right. At least about the loving parents part. Let’s hear from them:
Here we come to birthday number two. All for the best, as I spent the majority of the first one chucking ice cream on the floor.
This is one of the only actual entries in the entire book. If you can’t read the writing, it basically talks about how everyone got sick for my birthday, and the festivities had to be postponed. Twice. I eventually got to have presents two weeks later.
Clearly, it isn’t an actual birth certificate. This is just something the hospital puts out for benefit of the parents. At least in most cases. For me they didn’t bother. Wonder why? Let’s take a closer look:
Ah. So that’s it. No doctor would put their reputation on the line by aplying their ridiculously illegable signature to that statement. They were all busy looking at me asking each other, “Is it… supposed to do that?” One other thing the book tells me is popular nicknames for me. Apparently, someone was fond of calling me ‘Short Change’. This could be in reference to my stature. Or it could be that they felt that they had been duped. Either way, it would be one of the first of many nicknames to grace my presence in the future, including Siege, Yeti, You In The Shorts, Machete, and Please Place The Weapon Down Sir.
So ends the history lesson. Fell free to pontificate on that as you will. As for the mimes, they just really annoy the piss out of me.
This is why I’m going to Hell. What’s your excuse?
I recently had to spend $400 on textbooks. This vexes me. And so when I was told I need another book for my world religions course, I wasn’t too thrilled, especially when it’s a portion of the longest text in recorded history. I didn’t want to buy a copy of the Baghavad Gita, so what do I do?
Drive 10 minutes to the airport, and pick up a copy from the Hari Krishnas.
Also I once stood guard while two friends had sex in the church confessional on our retreat just before confirmation ceremony.
So why are you going to Hell? Is it because you like Cher? Or is it simply because you read this site? Write in, and spare no gorey details.