THE PROMPT: "Emily - When I Grow Up . . ." 

What's up y'all? Props to Emily~Cowboys+Pirates=1791808 for today's prompt, piggybacking it to my prompt for yesterday in true "Follow Me" fashion. Well played, girl!

So let's get down to business, shall we? "When I grow up..."



Sorry folks. Not happenin'. I've never been married, and my window for kids is slowly closing. I lived the single, frat house rules life for far too long. The first almost 37 years of childhood have been way too real for me.

But I'll play along for the sake of playing along. Seems fair.

When I grow up, I'll be making more than $10 and change per hour. And my paycheck won't be calculated by how many hours I work. Oh wait, I had a job like that once. And damn was it not a lot of fun.

I'll have a wife and a couple of kids. Not a girlfriend. And the kids will be half mine, not half somebody else's. This way, when I bitch about their shitty genes, I only have the people in-house to blame. And I'll be lookin' at my second divorce as well, eventually.

I'll have a nice car, paid for by that non-hourly job. It'll have gas and insurance, unlike cars I've owned before. And I won't get speeding or inspection tickets, because my paperwork will be up-to-date.

I'll enjoy expensive beers with my rich friends, but only occasionally. Cheap beer is for the unmotivated, slovenly manchilds who don't give much thought to their appearance or their liver.

And when I grow up, I'll have no need to jot snarky things online. I'll be sophisticated enough that you will all be able to read my mind, understand what I'm thinking, and laugh the second I raise an eyebrow in your direction. You know, that same way your parents looked at you and made you piss yourself when you knew that they knew you did something wrong.

Face it, I'm never gonna change. At 36, I am who I am, and I don't even know who that is, but he's not growing up anytime soon. If anything like that had happened, I'd be all grown up by now. I'll make bad decisions. I'll be lazy. I'll laugh at fart jokes. I'll never get old, and when I do, I'll take my revenge out on people who've reached the same age as me but look and act it, because I'll be prettier than them. I'll be the guy stealin' walkers and wheelchairs. I'll replace your meds with jelly beans. I'll hit on your nurse and take her to dinner. And then make her breakfast in the morning . Why? Because you probably didn't like me when I was a kid, and my rules and lack of moral standards don't get higher just because my number of years alive does. Or like the Twitter kids like to annoyingly do these days (and I swear to you, I'll never type these four letters in this succession ever again), #YOLO!

Now, somebody be a dear and go get me another beer.

MUSICAL BREAK!!

Well, I guess this is growing up.

THE PROMPT: Follow me! "30-Day Blogging Challenge" 

Good morning everybody! It feels like mere hours since I was last here...oh wait, it was. I've got to say, I've thought long and hard about having to come up with something for everyone else to talk about. It wasn't easy. And I may be repeating a variation of a previous prompt from another month. But oh well. Here we go.

We've all managed to have at least some sort of varying success in our lives...just based on the fact that we have an internet connection and a computer to use to log in at WDC. Most of us have jobs or are retired, which has contributed in one way or another toward keeping the belly full.

I was recently talking to a friend the other day about my job. My corporation is doing a major overhaul of its store-level management structure, to hopefully be in effect by 2014. My position is one of the ones slated to be changed. Basically, what I'm figuring based on the lack of communication from my boss, is that I should probably be looking for a new job. So she asked me what I'd really want to do to make a living.

Well, I never considered a life in retail, to be honest. But that's pretty much my entire work history. I did manage one year of college, which I admittedly wasn't totally ready for at the time. I wasn't focused or responsible enough. I needed more structure. I barely did work, got horrible grades, skipped a lot of classes, and wasted a lot of time.

So it's with a tinge of regret that I can say I would've loved to do the things I actually did in high school and college: work for a newspaper (I had an internship at a local community rag) and be a DJ for a radio station (DJ Buzz was still spinnin' vinyl in '95). The internship was great. I got to cover local sports, write nupitials, and even did a feature that ran county-wide. On top of getting good grades, they thought highly enough of me to actually pay me for some of my work (shhhh, don't tell anyone). And it helped me hone my writing skills. DJ'ing was a blast! I could bring in my own music and play whatever I wanted on the station's open format. I could play rock one minute, hip hop the next, and old school funk later. While songs played I could walk out into the student union and see the reactions of the people.

I have a funny story from my days of DJ'ing that I'd like to share. I managed to get a song banned from campus airplay. Every Wednesday, a chick from Planned Parenthood would set up a table outside the cafeteria where she'd hand out free condoms and safe sex literature. Our station was heard in the cafeteria, the lobby outside the cafeteria, the student union upstairs, and in about a 5-mile radius outside the campus. I became friendly with the Planned Parenthood chick, because that's what 19-year-old guys usually do when a hot chick is passing out free condoms.

One day she asked me if I knew anything about the radio station, and I told her I was a DJ. She wanted to know if there was a way she could get some time, maybe to do some kind of sexual wellness show. The local rock station had a show where people would call in and ask questions, and it was hosted by one of the morning show hosts and a trained, licensed counselor. The morning show guy sort of played the comedic foil. She wanted to do something like that, only instead of having people call in, maybe we could leave a drop box somewhere so that people could leave questions anonymously. I gave her my number and said that after the semester break I'd talk to the program director about the idea for her show.

That afternoon I went in for my time slot. Our only requirements were that we said the station name four times an hour, and read some occasional PSA's. I figured I'd be nice and mention that the Planned Parenthood chick was downstairs handing out free rubbers and taking questions, and then played a song that was popular at the time and relevant to what I was talking about. Well, it turns out that the wife of one of the school's super-important people was in the student union at the time, and found that my song was very distasteful and not something college students should be listening to. The decision was made instantly to ban the song entirely from our airwaves. I guess you can call what you're doing a success whenever someone is trying to censor you.

So follow that, bloggers. What would you be doing if you weren't doing what you're doing to earn a living?

MUSICAL BREAK!!

And just what was that harmless song that got banned from ECC South Campus that fateful Wednesday? Oh, and that Planned Parenthood chick? She never called me back...and was not on the premises the following week (or semester). My entrance into the world of talk shows never happened.

THE PROMPT: "Basically, if you wish to talk about your misdeeds, talk about them. Should you wish to plead the Fifth, talk about your heroics. If you wish to plead the Fifth on that, just blog about your day. If you want to plead the Fifth on that... you're on your own."

Good evening everybody...this tired soul doesn't have a lot to say tonight, but I appreciate that BBWOLF Turning 23 6/3 has given us some options today.

Good lord, I could spend days talking about my misdeeds! And that could be good times, full of juicy stories and humiliating details. But I'm not going there. Sorry to disappoint (*notices the sounds of half of my viewers clicking on the red "X" button on the top right of their screens*). I'll take the fifth for that.

And I can brag and boast with the best of 'em, but I choose not to. I prefer to keep it humble that way. Let's just say I do some good things sometimes, but I am, by any stretch of the definition, no hero. Maybe in some small ways, people seem to think I am, for whatever reason. But I've never jumped into a burning building, leapt in front of a bus, or otherwise saved anyone's life. There's heroes out there for a reason. I'm not one, and I'll take the fifth for that too.

People, I'd blog about my day if it were worthy of the space I pay for to create things here, but naw man, can't even do that. Woke up way too early, unloaded a truck, taxed my body a lot (thank you, heart meds...not really), and came home to essentially a quiet house. And yes, I'll take another fifth for that.

So I'm on my own, literally and figuratively. I'm calling house rules and taking a fifth for that too. So the scorecard reads: four fifths. And since Crown Royal doesn't come in fifths, you all owe me a total of four fifths of Southern Comfort. And I'd bill ya for it, but I don't feel like walking to the liquor store. So I guess I'm peaced out on that thought. Which I don't mind anyway; can't do hard liquor quite the same as I could back in the day. Which I'm fine with.

Speaking of Crown Royal, I bumped into an old friend yesterday. I miss that cat. Our sisters were in the same grade, and close friends for awhile. But since my sister had a different mother, she lived with my father a village over, and I only got to hang out with him once in awhile. That is, until we grew up into hell-raising adults (see the above paragraph regarding misdeeds...we have plenty).

We hung out, well, I wouldn't say fairly often, but often enough. We were close enough that I'd invite him over to my apartment for a few beers, or just hit a bar, or just cause some trouble. He stole the girl I wanted to date; I hooked up with his sister (who turned out to be a great woman in her own right; another regret over someone I didn't hold on to). And through it all, we've remained amicable.

When I was in high school, I played pick-up football in the neighborhood with a bunch of kids. After we all graduated, I stayed in touch with a few, and we'd get together once in awhile. I had moved to a new neighborhood, met new people, played football with them, but this guy was the guy I brought back into my old 'hood. He was like me...fast, not a lot of size, but tenacious and reckless on the field. And we were rarely on the same team...we were usually the two fastest guys on the field. So we'd spend afternoons matching up with each other, basically cancelling each other out unless one of us got a step on the other. We were a long-distance show on the football field. And later on, we were the best guys to be around at the bar. Karaoke, shots, women, good times. They were all had.

And of course, time does change things. Life happens and you grow apart, but these small towns around here never let you fully detatch from anyone unless it's serious. And I mean serious. The names on the bars might change, the names of the girls will change, the beverage in your glass may change, but the good times...the memories, they're always there.

I barely recognized him when he came in to my store yesterday, but I knew the voice. My eyes aren't as good as they used to be, but as he approached with his hand out to shake, I knew instantly who it was. And I'll rarely spend time on the salesfloor with friends, catching up (especially if my boss is around), but there was no way I was gonna let the moment slip without talkin' for a few minutes. And sure, we've got Facebook and all that shit, but nothing compares to talking to an old friend in person.

Like I said, we went though some shit over the years, but we've manned up to each other, and to be able to see past everything is one of life's greatest blessings. He's been diagnosed with MS, battling it like the champ he was when we'd battle on the football field. Unlike me, he's got a few grays now, but he's still the same chill kid I met almost 20 years ago, but with a kid. The same wit, the same passion for life, only now it's even better. We talked about our health, and changes we made...less beer, less shots of Crown, a healthier diet, etc. We talked about his family. I couldn't be happier for the guy.

I don't have many regrets in life. And I've done a lot of things I should regret, but don't. And I regret, at about 3:15pm yesterday (when my shift ended at 4), not asking him if he wanted to hang out and grab a beer or something. I really should've. I think we would've enjoyed that.

MUSICAL BREAK!!

This was a staple at the old Razzberries, one of the places we would hang. Mondays (because everyone goes drinking on a Monday ) was karaoke night. We'd request the original version of this song, and sing it like this. And for every person we pissed off on any given night, two more people loved it. And I doubt that he reads this, but this is for DJ Seanny at the Blu Grille. Good times, my man. You were the only one who could keep up with me, and I'm glad you stopped in the other day. Hopefully, another time soon.

THE PROMPT: "(Yera, May 23) Whoops." 

What's good, fine purveyors of internet literature at its illest? Gonna try to get this over in a hurry before the beer and my patience for lack of sleep run out. I've been rackin' my brain tryin' to figure out where to go with Yera 's prompt for a good part of the day, and I came up with something I'd like to share. Dunno if it fits the task at hand, but you'll have that.

A few years back, I worked for a rival drug store chain that has subsequently been bought over and over again, so it no longer exists. It was a 15 minute walk at worst from my house, which was nice. I had recently been promoted to run their photo lab.

I celebrated by taking a vacation. I'd become awfully close with a nice young lady on WDC; it went from exchanging emails to phone calls to gifts and a lot more. She'd recently moved to NYC, so I hopped a train and met her up there. I'll spare you the details. It didn't go well. I committed several "whoops", she's not on WDC anymore, and we barely speak. But that's not the point.

The train ride home itself was a disaster. I actually went to Penn Station early, hoping to catch an earlier train home (because arriving at home at 9:30pm is a lot more pallatable than 11:35pm). And it was cool; I was set to go.

Then the screens started showing "CANCELLED" for every outbound train. I was short on cell minutes, and cash. I was stuck in NYC. Turned out there was a fire in one of the terminals, and with it being so close after 9/11, they shut the whole place down. They tarped over all of the entrances. This was when it was still legal to (not get caught) smoking in bathrooms in NYC. Thank God...I was starting to lose my shit in there.

Around 8pm, they bussed us up to Albany, where we waited like hostages for an emergency train to take us back to The 'Lo. I got a hold of my stepmother and my boss, and explained the situation. Everything was cool. Except sitting in the food train and not getting home until 6am, when I had to be to work at 8:30am. But I made it to work, punched my clock, delivered the goods, and I was done with NYC for good.

The next day was a Tuesday, which was one of my "long days" (open to close, 8:30am to 9:30pm). That's what you do on a 50-hour week when you're salaried at chump change in a semi-management position that also offers you the keys to the building. The manager was working her night shift, had knee problems, and couldn't climb ladders. It was slow in the lab, so I offered to help her out by putting the summer goods away. It was late September or early October...I'm fuzzy on the date.

Being a semi-member of management, and having a set of keys, I was allowed certain privileges. One of them was climbing a ladder. I was 28 at the time, I believe the accident report would state. But my brain would tell my I was still in my prime, athletically.

I used to hop the shelves in the stockroom like a monkey. I could climb them as if I were still a kid, climbing trees. I'd hop around them like I was dancin' on Soul Train. Or Solid Gold. Take your pick.

So I get on this 15-foot ladder to move some product around, and I decide it's time to step up on to the top of the bay I'm placing product on. But the bay is packed, and I barely have enough room to shimmy along across it. Product was placed. Mission complete.

I shimmy back over to the ladder, and while feeling the way along poducts with my hands, my foot is reaching for the ladder, as I'm now about 20 feet above the ground. I stepped where I thought the ladder was, but, uhhh, there was no ladder there. The shelf, made of painted metal, wasn't so nice to my grip. I conceded myself to falling from twenty feet off the ground, onto a concrete floor.

I let myself freefall in the short window I had before I hit the ground. At the last possible moment, I had the presence of mind to tuck my head into my chest, so I wouldn't crack my dome. My head's been through enough shit before that, physically and mentally otherwise, than to let that happen.

I struck the ground nearly flat on my back. I laid there for a second, and took inventory of my body, Transformers style...arm, leg, leg, arm, head, check. My manager was at the other end of the stockroom, and was horrified. She'd been helping out at the building of a new location, where an electrician died after a 50-foot drop the week before. She heard me moan on the way down and thought the worst.

As soon as I exhaled from it all, a 15-inch box fan fell on my chest from 20 feet up. But that story doesn't end there, y'all. As if that wasn't the icing on the "falling from a shelf" cake. I wound up twisting an ankle pretty bad...bad enough to seek medical attention later in the week, on the company dime. And I had my house keys in my back pocket...so my ass looked like a mosaic for a week or two. The ankle? I've ruined both before. But I've never been so colored on the flesh of my ass in my life.

And it's ruined me for ladders. For life. If I fail at my current job (and let's not get into that right now), I won't advance because I'm not crazy about ladders. All from that little "whoops".

I called the NYC girl afterwards...to let her know I got home after a struggle, and to tell her I got hurt at work. She didn't care. Whoops!

MUSICAL BREAK!!

This song was in my head all day while thinking about the prompt. Well, when I wasn't thinking about other things.

THE PROMPT: "What are your views on waiting for things? Are you patient or do you stress about it? What sort of things do you do to pass the time while waiting? Talk about, was it worth the wait, or all just a bunch of wasted time? (You don't have to mention me in your entry.)"

What's up y'all? Brother Nature 's here with his prompt, so I'll bang out my entry while I'm killin' time waiting to go to work.

When I was younger, I definitely lacked patience. No matter what; you name it. Everything was "bigger, better, faster, more", and that's not just the name of a 4 Non Blondes album (whatever happened to them anyway?). I couldn't wait for what was next in anything.

Now, I'm a little older, and perhaps a bit wiser. I recognize the value in waiting for things. Like in football, for instance. Being a good running back isn't just about being stronger and faster. It's about being smart enough to wait for a play to develop...trusting your blockers to open things up for you, and waiting for the right opportunity to let your athleticism take over. Or in music...maybe you'd like your favorite artists to come out with new music at a quicker pace. But in waiting, you realize that they're tweaking their art so that the final product is the best set of music they can possibly produce. And in life, sometimes waiting and having patience allows you time to better plan things, gain perspective you might not have had if you'd rushed into a decision, and lets your hopes and dreams grow, so that when the time is right, you can fully appreciate them even more.

There's truth to the old saying, "Good things come to those who wait." I've learned that having patience is a lot better than to stress out over the outcome. Everything happens for a reason, all in due time, yadda yadda yadda. I can spit at you all sorts of mad cliches about the topic, but they're all pretty much true. Except the one about the early bird, cuz we all know he still gets the worm. But the late bird gets the warm spot in the nest, fo' sho'.

One last thought...it's not about what you do to pass the time. Some read, some sleep, some eat (too much). I guess it depends on what you're waiting for. If I'm going to the doctor, I like to have a newspaper. When I'm killing time before work, I'm probably looking up useless knowledge on the internet. When I'm waiting for my shift to end at work, I try to look busy...and sometimes I manage to accomplish things along the way. But the key thing is managing expectations. I like to live by the saying, "He who expects little is seldom disappointed." I try not to get my hopes up. And I try not to think the worst (which in some scenarios is a very hard thing to do). I'd rather be pleasantly surprised rather than largely disappointed. And that's the difference you achieve when something is worth the wait.

MUSICAL BREAK!!

Bet you couldn't wait for me to shut up and get to this part!

THE PROMPT: "Since Brother hasn't initiated today's blog, how about we just blog about our day."

I agree, friends. What's up now? I was looking forward to my Canadian brother from another mother Brother Nature 's prompt and outlook. Instead, I get BBWOLF Turning 23 6/3 's consensus. You'll have that for tonight folks, about five hours after I had decided I was ready to commit an entry.

So we ordered pizza from another giant corporate pizza chain tonight, Papa John's. And it wasn't good. The only allure is that they recently opened in the area (after having to watch their commercials for years during football games), and we had some coupons. And it sucked. It doesn't even deserve me putting it in italics; it sucked that bad.

Pizza Hut. Dominoes. Little Caesers. And now Papa John's. I could name at least five pizza places, locally owned, on the way to any of these chumps, that has better pizza. And fuck it, it's worth it to spend the few extra bucks to support the local businesses. And it's not just about the pizza. It's the wings, the subs, the tacos, all of that!

This is Buffalo, fools. Don't be bringin' your cardboard pizza around here anytime soon, no matter how cheap you price it. Cuz cheap, well, is just cheap.

MUSICAL BREAK!!

Yup, this was me this morning. Because in my mind, I'll never get old.

THE PROMPT: "One of My Embarrassing Moments"

What's up, players? I've got a steak marinating and a grill ready to fry it up nice. Plenty of PBR in the fridge to wash it all down. blainecindy - I love my WDC! has me turnin' off the music for today's prompt.

As per my own personal protocol, I shut the music off when I'm writing. Closed out Facebook too. Don't need any distractions when I'm making magic out of words with less than four syllables.

Now, what I'm about to share isn't an embarrassing moment for me, per se. I would never do that. Why would I? I mean, I'm <insert awesome verb I insinuated I was a week or two ago that I can't remember now> swaggering swagger. But the situation I'm about to relate could be embarrassing, depending on the cast of characters.

FROM THE FILES OF RETAIL HELL, AN EXCLUSIVE!

I may have told this story before. And if I haven't, well, I haven't told a good story lately about lube. So here's one.

G-Stamm takes a call from a customer. It appears that she's found a receipt from our store amongst her husband's belongings. "Can you explain to me what these things are?" she asked.

At the time, our receipts were pretty basic. The descriptions of products were very abbreviated. And as for this conversation, they went like this (more or less):

DRX 12 LUBR SENS
K-Y 3.8OZ

And this woman is legitimately concerned. So my boy jots down what he hears, and checks it out. Turns out it was a 12-pack of Durex condoms and a bottle of lube.

The woman was aghast. "What would my husband need that for??" she asked. Well, I guess if you have to ask, you'll never know.

Poor lady.

MUSICAL BREAK!!

In honor of the official busting-out of the grill (apologies to the Sahlen's hot dogs we had last month...because marinated steak is that much better), I offer this...

THE PROMPT: "Snow ~ Somewhere ... Some when ..." 

Good evening from the sunny suburbs of Buffalo, friends, where the ol' mercury topped out at around 80 today. Word on the street is that tomorrow's gonna be even better. Add a day off to that equation, and my Italian skin might get a little darker. You can take that to the bank.

I'm a little pissed. I had an entry all set to go, opened another tab, and totally accidently closed the tab I was writing in. Totally lost an entry. So this is now what it's gonna be like to try and recreate it.

We've been graced by Prosperous Snow with a beautifully poetic entry. And I gotta tell you...ain't no toppin' that, and that's my word. I went all mock-lounge lyrically last night, and I'm not sure I can do it again. But I am intrigued my the thought that the prompt could make an awesome title for a poem, although my head doesn't want my heart to push my hands in that direction at this time.

But I've been feeling fanciful lately. It's springtime in full e-f-f-e-c-t, yo, and it's almost my favorite time of the year. The weather's nice. Everything renews. Growth of all kinds start to occur. It's almost romantic in a way.

Ah, the hell with it. Let's do one for the lovers out there. This time, with feeling.

Somewhere Some When

Somewhere there you are.
Someplace where you stay.
When the sun's upon you
it chases the clouds away.

Somewhere there I am.
Someplace I remain.
I fill myself with hope
when the world starts to rain.

Somewhere there you are.
Someplace far from here.
When the whens become then,
we'll watch somewhere disappear.

Somewhere there I am.
Someplace far from there.
When the whens become then,
we'll be someplace we can both call here.

And with that said, I won't put my poetry against anyone else's. But of all the things I've written in the blog arena, this might be port-worthy. And the original is slighty better...but it's lost forever in cyber-purgatory. If anyone sees it, hit me up.

MUSICAL BREAK!!

If there's ever been a week to live for, I'll take this one.

THE PROMPT: "Something's Telling Me It Might Be You"

What's up y'all? I have to tell you, I love this prompt from Earl PubNewEbook . Wanna know why? Well, I'm too young to have memories, but I have the music, and it totally sounds like it could be something Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin sang back in the day. I see a nice lounge with a tiny corner stage, barely big enough to fit a tiny band. The men are in suits, and the singer's tie is slightly undone and the collar's been loosened. He may or may not have been comped one too many gin and tonics at the bar, but when he sways it's still to the beat. The women want him, and the men want whatever he's drinkin'.

At worst, it reminds me of terrible 70's AM radio soft rock, sung by a dude who never had another hit record again and probably never knew what it was like to be able to say those words to anyone before. He toured the hell outta that album, lost his virginity to a groupie, lost his earnings to coke, recovered, tried a brief comeback as a pop singer, relapsed, ended up on Oprah, and now he's sellin' insurance and living in his parents' basement.

I could get philosophical, and ask, "Which of these scenarios are you?", but I won't. It's not my turn to write the prompt, and it's even more likely that neither of them are. So I'll do the next best thing, and get all sing-songy on ya.

Something's Telling Me It Might Be You

Who's the girl who puts the shine in my sun?
Who brings the vodka when I run out of rum?
She does the dishes and cooks for me too...
and something's telling me it might be you.

I know a girl who can dress like a lady
and when she talks, she cusses like crazy.
When we're alone she's never a prude...
and something's telling me it might be you.

She changes the oil in the car.
She picks up the tab at the bar.
She punches other girls checkin' me out.
She doesn't argue, she just shouts.
She puts out her cigarettes with spit.
Her stories are almost legit.
She crosses her legs with more legs.
She likes beer with her bacon and eggs.

Darlin', every word I sing here is true...
and something's telling me it might be you.

Yeah, she's crazy but I guess I am too...
and something's telling me it might be you. It might be you!

MUSICAL BREAK!!

I thought about maybe playing something loungey, something old. And then I remembered this amazing gem while searching Youtube. Sinatra it is!

I went to Arby's on my lunch break, 'cuz that's what I do. Since the district manager was in doing a visit, I ate in the breakroom instead of the office. There's a door on the sales floor that opens into a hallway; on the right is the ladies' room, water fountains, a closet with a mop sink, and the mens' room, and the breakroom is on the left.

This door has a window, but I usually don't pay any attention unless I actually see someone coming out (and honestly, the opportunity is rare when two people are using that door at the same time). There was nothing in the window, nothing in my periph to catch, so I opened this door like I have hundreds of times before and began to walk through it.

Then I heard a clunk as the door bounced back at me, and a lady yelling, "Jesus Christ!". I was lucky enough not to walk into the door as I jumped back and my heart raced a bit. And boy was this lady pissed. I guess I would be too if I just got my dome clocked by a door. The only way I see this happening is that she was looking down, reaching for the door handle while I was walking in; thus, putting her out of the window's view. It had to be the perfect storm of events. She bitched and moaned and looked slightly disoriented. "I could've had a skull fracture!" she said, as she backed away and went back into the bathroom, while I was apologizing like crazy. I felt really bad.

But I was on my own time, not the company's, and I was hungry so I sat down to eat. The woman came into our breakroom. Her glasses were bent. She said she was ok, and she knew it was an accident, but, "Jesus Christ, what else is going to go wrong today!" I again apologized, asked her if I could do anything for her, and finished my meal after she declined and left...

...to talk to the store manager. Who had to file an accident report. Who came into the breakroom and was like, "Really? Really? You just hit an old lady with a door?" I explained the situation, told her it was an accident, told her I apologized, and my boss was like, "She was Jesus Christin' you up and down! Her glasses are bent, she's got to go for a mammogram at two, she's not sure she can drive...this woman's pissed! I couldn't even get the info I needed out of her to file a claim without 'Jesus Christ' this and 'Jesus Christ' that, and how she could have an orbital fracture." Apparrently, I hit the wrong senior citizen to fuck with. But is it wrong of me to think that maybe, after everything she said not only about me, but her conditions, if I hit her a little harder, she wouldn't be suffering anymore? Yes, I'm that kind of jerk.

What makes it worse? After my break, I went to the door that leads to the time clock, lockers and office. I saw my manager and district manager walking up the aisle toward me. I stopped at the door, looked at them, looked in the window with my hand above my eyes as if I were looking into the distance, and looked that them, who were laughing. My boss looked at me and said, "You're such an ass!" Jokes abounded all day. Because we're horrible people who have not bought tickets to hell...not season passes...but personal seat licenses to every event Hell will ever offer.

Later in the day, my boss is telling me about how crazy her mother's been acting. I told her to have her come in and stay for awhile, and when she goes to the bathroom...she just busted out laughing.

THE PROMPT: "The reason I was born into the world."

Good evening fine readers. blainecindy - I love my WDC! has graced us with today's humbling prompt, which I am ready to disassemble into something that may wind up looking much like the opposite of her statement (meaning, "reasons I shouldn't be allowed to mingle with the others").

I was put here to laugh. I'm not the funniest guy, and I've got quite the repertoire of cornball humor, but occasionally I can bust out a line or two that brings the whole room down in laughter. That there alone is worth enough, when I see that look of unadulterated enjoyment on people's faces, to say it's a good life. Boom. Entry completed? Nope.

I've always believed in the "give one, get two" theory. As in, make a joke about your friend (in good fun, of course), expect to be the butt of the joke twice in return. So, with the great power of laughter, so comes the great responsibilty of taking the joke. It's a lesson I've learned the hard way at first, but being able to laugh at yourself is a wonderful science that, when applied correctly, can endear you to almost anyone..."Oh, look at him! Poor guy! He's so stupid he's cute!"

The things I've been able to prove to the world already and can die knowing I made an impact somewhere:

White men (5'6") can jump.

Any idiot with two feet can dance. And some do it better than others. I can dance. Most will disagree.

Any idiot with a computer and a decent internet connection can write a blog. Not many can say they've won some awards for it. But I can. Words...they apparently aren't for everyone.

My head may be more than a hatrack, but my face won't pay the rent.

But the one thing...the "main reason", as I like to call it when we're having a discussion like this where we talk out our reasons for being here, the reason I was born into world? To create. Whether it's what you're reading now, or busting a few rhymes to make someone smile, or put together a gift for someone, or whip up a crazy recipe just to make a meal, creation is the heart of it. I can't sit still; my mind doesn't have an off switch. Ideas are always swirling around in my head about something.

Some people are born doing what they love. Some can pick up a skill or a hobby at an early age, be lucky enough to turn it into a career, and then wind up being miserable the rest of their lives because their "fun" has become a job. I aspired once to be a journalist, and enjoyed studying and working at it, but in the end I was never able to attain that goal. In some ways, I consider myself lucky for that. I couldn't imagine working for a newspaper or a radio station all day, and then coming home and writing about it. But it would've been a pretty sweet gig. I guess I was put here for other reasons instead.

MUSICAL BREAK!!

I once spent over an hour in a barber's chair, with two Supercuts stylists, trying do get them to cut my hair like this legend's. It barely worked. I'd never in my life had to use a blow dryer to style my hair, but for about a week or so I looked like the younger version of this dapper gentleman, only I wore glasses. And he's better looking.