Jitterbug
My yesterday ticked on like normal without much break in the routine. I woke up, went in, endured a series of meetings, and then exercised and yelled my afternoon away. My throat is starting to get a little sore. I'm developing this low, scratchy voice thing that lasts longer and longer each day. At first, it was like 5 minutes of post-practice sultry gab, but it's grown well into 90 minutes. I'm getting good reviews on it from X and Y chromosomes alike but I have mixed feelings. The only time I can effectively use this is when I'm involved in activities of the erotic nature and who knows if the vocal cords will cooperate! As a result, it is otherwise forever useless lest I commission a 1-900 number and start charging the lot of you to hear my sultry, yummy musings. I know that makes you hot. Oooo. If you have any suggestions for my newfound vocal talents, please let me know. But moving on.
Around 5 or so, Boss tells me that I have to go down to the CFB Hall of Fame for a little school representation/strength-con discussion. Fair enough. I'm in support of anything that gets me out of evening meetings... there's nothing really wrong with evening meetings. It's a rehash of the day fueled by 3 or 4 pots of coffee. Around the time Boss starts to OD is when the meetings conclude. Typically, this is identified around the time his hair starts to curl and he acquires this perpetual smile reminiscent of The Joker. After evening meetings is dinner and after dinner is.. gasp!.. more meetings! But right now, not much happens in the day. There's a lot of planning, conditioning (well, only for me), planning, and meetings to talk about planning. This is all punctuated by the occasional meal and/or shouts from the secretaries about the latest crisis on daytime tv. In any case, I changed into my school rep gear (polo shirt) and hit the road. A redlight stopped me at Michigan and North Shore(?). I think it's North Shore. I don't know... if you're heading south, it's the stoplight at the bridge, near the park and all of that recreational business. Not that it matters.. I'm just giving you people some perspective on my ordeal :) In any case, Wake Me Up Before You Go Go started playing on the radio. At the sound of *Jitterbug,* I felt a little itch, a slight bug. *Jitterbug* My hands tapped the wheel to the growing beat. *Jitterbug* My hips began to shift. *Jitterbug* My left foot tapped the clutch. And then *You put the boom boom into my heart! Oooh oooh! You send my soul sky high when your loving starts. Jitterbug into my brain* YEAH YEAH! That's all it took. I was rockin out '80s style to Wham. It doesn't get more shameful than that but I didn't give a bloody damn. My arms were flyin, my head was rockin, I was singing to some imaginary being in the intersection and he was feelin my flow. Had I had been on my feet, the butt dance would have been in full groove effect. I would have pointed ahead with one hand while I held my air mic in the other. Though there's no telling what type of karaoke magic was about to be unleashed on the Bend, I'm certain I would have been an Ameribrit Sensation. You all know how I like to show off the swerve in my curve! But alas. It was not to be, as not only was my arse subdued by a prison known as the seatbelt, but I also became a statistic while belting the chorus. My head snapped forward as did my already flailing arms. Could George Michael really have affected me so severely? I mean, thinking about him circa 1985 does turn me a bit red but it's never induced whiplash. I turned down the radio and took a listen. [Yes, I was listening to the '80s station. Sod off] Sprinkling. I checked out my rearview. Nothing. I got out of my car and walked to the back. A Corvette, possibly an '03 or '04. Hardtop. Shattered, wrinkled, cracked, and just about any other adjective that describes how suddenly useless and undrivable this formerly pristine machine had become. What made matters worse though was the disturbing array of colors that adorned the frame. From pink and yellow to green and orange, the car looked more like a rainbow sherbet than a machine of grace, style, and speed. Must have been an Indy 500 Pace Car at some point... it's the only explanation. Standing to the side of the car was a man wearing a wife beater, tight jeans, and loafers with tassles. His Buddha hung lazily over his belt. His hair was black, jet black, with the whole '50s duck tail thing in the back and the big Fonzi pompadour in the front. I really didn't know what I was looking at but his olive skin was so oily that any pimples he should have had probably drowned before they had a chance to get out. He looked familiar. "I-I-I ought to have you arrested! You stopped too quickly!" "I wasn't moving." How can you drive and listen to Wham at the same time? I submit that this is impossible. "You were moving and then the redlight came on and you stopped! That caused me to crash!" What? Red means stop. Green means go. I learned this at Mrs. Mynor's Nursery School in 1986 and I'm quite certain these posits hold true in the world today. "You fucking women drivers." Very mature. "I'm calling my lawyer!!!" I briefly considered kicking him in the face and tossing his chunky butt into the river but I thought better of it. Instead, I called the police. As it was too early in the day for SBPD to be writing tickets for underage drinking, they arrived on the scene pretty quickly. I gave my version of events as did witnesses and all was well (for me). Captain Midlife, however, was given a breathalyzer (beep beep beep) and had to undergo a sobriety test. During the finger to nose affair, my integrity took a nap and I made a couple obscene gestures. He went completely ballistic, was restrained, and got stuffed in the back of one of the cars. Around this point in time, his lawyer appeared. Lionel Hutz at his best, he first yelled at me for framing his client. Only Johnnie Cochran can say such things with a straight face. Anyone else really oughta kill themselves. But it got worse, as he then tried to bribe the police... with a 50 dollar bill. "There's nothing a little Ben Franklin can't cure." I pointed out the fact that he was, in fact, trying to bribe them with a $50 and that means Ulysses S. Grant. The lawyer stared at me, unfazed, as if I'd just ruined everything. Hmm.. perhaps I had. "Sir, you have the right to remain silent." So that was that. I checked out the back of Cooper and though a bit of purple paint remained on the bottom side of the bumper, he suffered no damage. I have nothing interesting to say about the rest of my night.
[Fast forward to today]
Omar and I went to King Gyros for lunch. Mmm. While we were pulling in though, I spotted something that was all too familiar - the mangled pace car. And it wasn't just in the parking lot. It was up on some flat bed truck taking up 8 spaces in the parking lot like some kind of trophy to this jackrat's midlife crisis. He suggested we go in. I suggested the drive-thru. He parked and got out. Ass. All went well though and we returned to the office with our food. We were back around 20 minutes when there was a commotion. I heard "white hair," "Corvette," "black fellow," and "gyro." Like a rere I poked my head out. "You! It's you! You disrespect me on the street and then in my store! I forbid you from King Gyros." He can't do that. Gyros are wonderful and delicious. I'm not a real fan of the sauce but I do like to dip my gyro in it and then I eat it up yum. To ban me from the store is a little rash. I mean, I understand that he's a little angry about his pimp machine being run under my Jeep. Picking up townies is probably severely hampered when you have to rent a Ford Escort. Further, the prospect of having to sell an additional 10,000 gyros to buy another one is probably a rather depressing matter. Maybe if he sells them all as combos, he'd only have to peddle 9,500. It's all about thinking positive! But banishment? I raised an objection. Probably not the wisest choice. In response, he clenched his fist and began prattling off in Greek. At least, I think it was Greek. I mean, the guy owned a gyro stop and I saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding, so I think my assumptions were dead on. I didn't have to worry about it because: "Hey you get the fuck out of my office okay?" The bossman, dispensing justice :) Sometimes I wish he'd wear a cape. It'd be so much more appropriate. "You don't come here and make noise. We'll throw your ass right back on the street." That's right we will!! Mr. Gyro piped down and tried to explain the situation, but Boss wanted nothing of it. Boss grabbed Gyro by the shirt collar and walked him to the door like a 6 year old being taken away to find the belt. I couldn't help but feel slightly let down. No final confrontation. No shake down of thunder. Just out the door without another word. Christ, security hadn't even shown up yet. But, well, maybe that's how it was supposed to be. It can't always be bullets and fireworks I suppose.
When the Boss came back in my direction, he said that we're ordering from King Gyros for lunch for the rest of the week just to make that greased fatsquach deliver. I like the way Boss thinks. It turns me red :)
Around 5 or so, Boss tells me that I have to go down to the CFB Hall of Fame for a little school representation/strength-con discussion. Fair enough. I'm in support of anything that gets me out of evening meetings... there's nothing really wrong with evening meetings. It's a rehash of the day fueled by 3 or 4 pots of coffee. Around the time Boss starts to OD is when the meetings conclude. Typically, this is identified around the time his hair starts to curl and he acquires this perpetual smile reminiscent of The Joker. After evening meetings is dinner and after dinner is.. gasp!.. more meetings! But right now, not much happens in the day. There's a lot of planning, conditioning (well, only for me), planning, and meetings to talk about planning. This is all punctuated by the occasional meal and/or shouts from the secretaries about the latest crisis on daytime tv. In any case, I changed into my school rep gear (polo shirt) and hit the road. A redlight stopped me at Michigan and North Shore(?). I think it's North Shore. I don't know... if you're heading south, it's the stoplight at the bridge, near the park and all of that recreational business. Not that it matters.. I'm just giving you people some perspective on my ordeal :) In any case, Wake Me Up Before You Go Go started playing on the radio. At the sound of *Jitterbug,* I felt a little itch, a slight bug. *Jitterbug* My hands tapped the wheel to the growing beat. *Jitterbug* My hips began to shift. *Jitterbug* My left foot tapped the clutch. And then *You put the boom boom into my heart! Oooh oooh! You send my soul sky high when your loving starts. Jitterbug into my brain* YEAH YEAH! That's all it took. I was rockin out '80s style to Wham. It doesn't get more shameful than that but I didn't give a bloody damn. My arms were flyin, my head was rockin, I was singing to some imaginary being in the intersection and he was feelin my flow. Had I had been on my feet, the butt dance would have been in full groove effect. I would have pointed ahead with one hand while I held my air mic in the other. Though there's no telling what type of karaoke magic was about to be unleashed on the Bend, I'm certain I would have been an Ameribrit Sensation. You all know how I like to show off the swerve in my curve! But alas. It was not to be, as not only was my arse subdued by a prison known as the seatbelt, but I also became a statistic while belting the chorus. My head snapped forward as did my already flailing arms. Could George Michael really have affected me so severely? I mean, thinking about him circa 1985 does turn me a bit red but it's never induced whiplash. I turned down the radio and took a listen. [Yes, I was listening to the '80s station. Sod off] Sprinkling. I checked out my rearview. Nothing. I got out of my car and walked to the back. A Corvette, possibly an '03 or '04. Hardtop. Shattered, wrinkled, cracked, and just about any other adjective that describes how suddenly useless and undrivable this formerly pristine machine had become. What made matters worse though was the disturbing array of colors that adorned the frame. From pink and yellow to green and orange, the car looked more like a rainbow sherbet than a machine of grace, style, and speed. Must have been an Indy 500 Pace Car at some point... it's the only explanation. Standing to the side of the car was a man wearing a wife beater, tight jeans, and loafers with tassles. His Buddha hung lazily over his belt. His hair was black, jet black, with the whole '50s duck tail thing in the back and the big Fonzi pompadour in the front. I really didn't know what I was looking at but his olive skin was so oily that any pimples he should have had probably drowned before they had a chance to get out. He looked familiar. "I-I-I ought to have you arrested! You stopped too quickly!" "I wasn't moving." How can you drive and listen to Wham at the same time? I submit that this is impossible. "You were moving and then the redlight came on and you stopped! That caused me to crash!" What? Red means stop. Green means go. I learned this at Mrs. Mynor's Nursery School in 1986 and I'm quite certain these posits hold true in the world today. "You fucking women drivers." Very mature. "I'm calling my lawyer!!!" I briefly considered kicking him in the face and tossing his chunky butt into the river but I thought better of it. Instead, I called the police. As it was too early in the day for SBPD to be writing tickets for underage drinking, they arrived on the scene pretty quickly. I gave my version of events as did witnesses and all was well (for me). Captain Midlife, however, was given a breathalyzer (beep beep beep) and had to undergo a sobriety test. During the finger to nose affair, my integrity took a nap and I made a couple obscene gestures. He went completely ballistic, was restrained, and got stuffed in the back of one of the cars. Around this point in time, his lawyer appeared. Lionel Hutz at his best, he first yelled at me for framing his client. Only Johnnie Cochran can say such things with a straight face. Anyone else really oughta kill themselves. But it got worse, as he then tried to bribe the police... with a 50 dollar bill. "There's nothing a little Ben Franklin can't cure." I pointed out the fact that he was, in fact, trying to bribe them with a $50 and that means Ulysses S. Grant. The lawyer stared at me, unfazed, as if I'd just ruined everything. Hmm.. perhaps I had. "Sir, you have the right to remain silent." So that was that. I checked out the back of Cooper and though a bit of purple paint remained on the bottom side of the bumper, he suffered no damage. I have nothing interesting to say about the rest of my night.
[Fast forward to today]
Omar and I went to King Gyros for lunch. Mmm. While we were pulling in though, I spotted something that was all too familiar - the mangled pace car. And it wasn't just in the parking lot. It was up on some flat bed truck taking up 8 spaces in the parking lot like some kind of trophy to this jackrat's midlife crisis. He suggested we go in. I suggested the drive-thru. He parked and got out. Ass. All went well though and we returned to the office with our food. We were back around 20 minutes when there was a commotion. I heard "white hair," "Corvette," "black fellow," and "gyro." Like a rere I poked my head out. "You! It's you! You disrespect me on the street and then in my store! I forbid you from King Gyros." He can't do that. Gyros are wonderful and delicious. I'm not a real fan of the sauce but I do like to dip my gyro in it and then I eat it up yum. To ban me from the store is a little rash. I mean, I understand that he's a little angry about his pimp machine being run under my Jeep. Picking up townies is probably severely hampered when you have to rent a Ford Escort. Further, the prospect of having to sell an additional 10,000 gyros to buy another one is probably a rather depressing matter. Maybe if he sells them all as combos, he'd only have to peddle 9,500. It's all about thinking positive! But banishment? I raised an objection. Probably not the wisest choice. In response, he clenched his fist and began prattling off in Greek. At least, I think it was Greek. I mean, the guy owned a gyro stop and I saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding, so I think my assumptions were dead on. I didn't have to worry about it because: "Hey you get the fuck out of my office okay?" The bossman, dispensing justice :) Sometimes I wish he'd wear a cape. It'd be so much more appropriate. "You don't come here and make noise. We'll throw your ass right back on the street." That's right we will!! Mr. Gyro piped down and tried to explain the situation, but Boss wanted nothing of it. Boss grabbed Gyro by the shirt collar and walked him to the door like a 6 year old being taken away to find the belt. I couldn't help but feel slightly let down. No final confrontation. No shake down of thunder. Just out the door without another word. Christ, security hadn't even shown up yet. But, well, maybe that's how it was supposed to be. It can't always be bullets and fireworks I suppose.
When the Boss came back in my direction, he said that we're ordering from King Gyros for lunch for the rest of the week just to make that greased fatsquach deliver. I like the way Boss thinks. It turns me red :)
posted by Flash at 2/22/2005 11:22:00 PM
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