So it wasn’t until just recently (this year in fact) that I finally jumped on the cellular telephone bandwagon. I had been reticent for a long time to join the cellular fold for a multitude of reasons. I have always felt that if I need to make or receive a phone call I will make sure I am by a phone. I value my time alone highly and I don’t need any of my douche bag friends interrupting a nice relaxing drive on the freeway. No offense to my douche bag friends of course. Above all I absolutely hate being “that guy”. You know the one I’m talking about. The guy in the gas station, super market, dildo supply warehouse, liquor store, et all who is SO damn important, whose time is SO valuable that he cant hang up the phone for two minutes so he can pay for his fourteen inch black rubber phallus. However the one piece of cell phone related culture that drives me up a wall faster than any other is the dreaded fucking headset. It makes me want to knock out every one of your blue teeth with a fucking hammer. It takes a very special kind of self absorbed vapid asshole to walk around with one of those things strapped to your head. If you hold your finger up to me one more time with the intent to inform me that I must wait a moment so that I may blessed with your attention I will break the fucker off and choke you with it. As truly horrifying and nauseating as it can be I choose to walk the earth fully immersed in the world around me. I suggest you try doing the same.

I have come to realize that a precious few things actually inspire and spur me to write. Rain, rage and women. I had two out of three today so I sat down at the ole typin’ machine to do some damage. You see the problem is I can’t just sit down and think, “What really pisses me off?” and let it flow. The blind and burning rage needs to be fresh and organic. It just so happens I was served some free range, cage free, farm fresh rage today while I was at work.

            She came in first. One of the few things that actually makes me like my job… No not a woman. I work at a comic book store. women don’t go to comic book stores, unless they are there because of a guy. Kids are one of the few things that actually make this job enjoyable and I’m not talking about teenagers. Teenagers are horrible loud and mindless automatons who bug the shit out of me. And I’m not talking about babies either. Babies are disgusting, parasitic, eating, shitting, screaming machines. However when it comes down to it I don’t like all kids either. I like the shy ones, the quiet ones who are glad to be there and want to see something different, something that might change their lives, even if they don’t know it. Kids that remind me of a young Jaz Brown make me want to stop and share everything cool that I know and tell them it’s not going to suck forever… Just most of the time. This girl fit the bill. Her father however was blind heartless cock who had know idea that he was raising a little girl who would do anything to get the attention of the opposite sex just because he couldn’t be bothered to get off the fucking phone and act like she was worth it. He was a loud talking dick with a headset jammed in his ear.

            “Yeah well if they don’t get it together down there in administration some heads are going to roll… yeah well, that’s what I told her… Well I cant wait to lay off that little Russian fuck in the mail room.”

            They were in the store for about a half and hour and he was on the phone the whole time. Something would strike the young girl, excite her, light the flame under her heart and he just couldn’t be bothered. It made me want to tell her that it was going to be ok, that she could come live at the store. I did not do that however. What I did do was walk over and talk to her because her father was obviously talking to someone FAR more important about things that just absolutely COULD NOT WAIT. It took her a few moments but soon enough we were talking about what kind of art she liked, what sort of covers looked interesting and what a horrible douche her father was… Well maybe not that last part.

            I suppose the moral here is: HANG UP THE FUCKING PHONE and show some interest in your daughters life otherwise Ill be seeing her in “Tight Young Virgins 12” in ten years.

Perhaps its because I’m a masochist or maybe it’s the fact that I’m the sick sort of soul who sees the magic in the truly horrifying. Regardless there is something truly enchanting about having a shitty job. Aside from the discounts it’s the only thing that explains why I continue to work at a comic book store for minimum wage. The amazing and tragic specimens of humanity that walk through that door make it all worthwhile. One of my most hated and therefore favorite customers is the kind of character I couldn’t come up with on my own even with unlimited amounts of the finest drugs. Allow me to paint the picture for you. About five foot eight inches tall and two hundred eighty pounds. An oversized fanny pack clinging to the underside of his porcine breadbasket which seems to be perpetually wrapped tightly in a purple polo shirt which bears the war wounds of ultimate cheeseburgers of days gone by. Would you expect any less than greasy matted hair? I would assume not. However, allow me to up the anti; mutton chops. This addition baffles me every time I see his nauseating visage. Is this suppose some sort of hip garnish who’s intent is to convince you that you’re not eating uncooked pig intestine stuffed with Crisco? Its not working. His fingernails are unreasonably long. I can only assume the reason for the protractedness of his nails is to accommodate the accumulation of the crusted sewage that won’t fit in his fanny pack. Granted he is not a pretty man but it only gets better from there. He has a ritual. He comes in at the same time every day without fail. He walks directly to the new comic book rack and picks up the most recent Scooby Doo comic book or some comparable children’s title. Then its right over to the adult section where he carefully chooses very important titles like Sticky, Blowjob or Anal Intruders From Mars. It’s a horrifying and amazing juxtaposition. This is where our interaction begins which is just as ritualized as the rest of his weekly trip to the comic book store. I tell him how much he owes for his smut and children’s books and he gives me the money. I carefully drop the change into his palm with the intent of avoiding direct contact with his disgusting paw. Then even if I already have his comics in a bag and have them held out for him to snatch up and run off to mothers basement he says the same thing,

“I’ll take a bag. If you got one.”

Yes I have a bag. Its right here. Your comics are inside of it. Take it and go away.

People are magic and horrible. If you’re disgusted take a moment and let it wash over you’re pallet like a fine wine. There’s a reason Da Vinci liked to work in grotesques.

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you have never been inside of a comic book store in your life. And Im fairly certain that you rarely ever (if at all) leave your house. However, just because your completely devoid of any sort of simple deductive reasoning does not not mean you are incapable of finding the price on the cover of a comic book. Or maybe you are.
Your children… Your children are horrible little people with cold black hearts who im im sure will grow up to be horrible big people who steal and fight and end up naked and drunk on COPS. They will grow to hate you because you were incapable of controlling them or teaching them some semblance of social norms. They will hate you. But trust me…They will never hate you as much as I do. I fantasize about applying my converse to your asshole till the rubber hits the back of your teeth.

I need sedatives.

I work at a comic book store. Its a good job. A fun job. The pay is absolutley appaling but what I do here really cant be catogorized as “work”. I sit around and read. I watch movies and listen to music. I have found however, that the longer I work here the more I begin to take on the characteristics of one of the record store clerks from “Hi-Fidelity” or the guy that works in the movie place in “Clerks”. The other day someone called looking for a particluar book. I told him that we had it but I wouldnt sell it to him. There was a prolonged pause on the line as my words sunk into his fan-boy skull. He asked me “why not?”. My response was simple. “cause it sucks”. Ive also found myself becoming more and more exasperated by most anyone who walks through the door. Dont they know Im trying to read in here? Dont they understand that Im trying to watch a fucking movie!? Do they not grasp the idea that Im one stupid question away from showing them their own internal organs?…..