WaWa RAGE!

I have seen a lot of hilarious shit happen inside of WaWas. For those of you who live in far away lands (AKA outside of the PA, NJ, DE, MD or VA) WaWa is a convenience store/mecca of all things awesome. Some of them have gas pumps (SUPER WAWAS), but all of them sell delicious food, and they have touch screen menus where you can order this delicious food without ever having to talk to one of the comatose teenagers working behind the counter.

WaWa tends to be a real happening place around noon on a weekday, as tons of people on their lunch hour pour in, picking up super rad food. The parking lot is packed, as are the narrow aisles inside (remember, this is a convenience store) and the lines at the deli and cash registers tend to be long. All of these factors combined spell out a recipe for disaster. Tensions are running high, most people are in a rush to get back to their soul-sucking jobs and scarf down a hoagie and wonder at the misery of their existence, they don't have time for you to count out $5.42 in dimes and pennies, and if you insist on doing so, they just...may...

...snap.

The incident that stands out most clearly in my mind happened a few years ago. I was working the day shift at a call center and I decided to head to WaWa to pick up some lunch. As I'm standing in front of rows and rows of beverages, hating life because I work in customer service and trying to decide whether I wanted raspberry Snapple or Arizona Green Tea or should I just slit my wrists in the parking lot and forget my fucking lunch altogether, I hear a woman's voice carrying over the rows of combos and potato chips and stacks of toilet paper. 

"I am TOO PRETTY and TOO IMPORTANT for THIS."

My brain soaks up the odd statement briefly, but it quickly drains out of both ears and is discarded. I continue staring numbly at the rows of plastic bottles stretched out before me.

"I am TOO PRETTY and TOO IMPORTANT. To be KILLED. In the PARKING LOT. By a DERELICT."

It's hard to accurately describe the strange, singsong way this woman spoke in text format, but I capitalized those words because thats exactly how she said it, with loud emphasis on those words in CAPS. She had my attention now, as well as the attention of the whole fucking store. I peeked around the aisle and looked at this diminutive woman standing in front of the ATM machines. She was about 5 foot nothing, middle aged, mousy brown hair, enormous coke bottle glasses, dressed like an unsexy librarian... and yelling about how pretty and important she was. I blinked, confused, and then a gruff looking guy in paint splattered clothing retorted something back at her that I can't quite recall, but it became clear that this man may have come close to either hitting the woman with his truck or getting in a fender-bender with her, and he had already apologized, but that wasn't enough for her.

"I was ALMOST KILLED. IN THE PARKING LOT, by a DERELICT. And I am TOO PRETTY and TOO IMPORTANT to be KILLED be a DERELICT."

I was frozen in awe. The man had gone up to the cash register to pay for his stuff, and he turned back to the woman and replied "Lady, you're crazy. I think you need to spend some time in church."

This really pissed her off, because she got louder now.

"I HAVE SPENT MY LIFE IN CHURCH. AND I HAVE SPENT MY LIFE APPLYING MYSELF. THAT IS WHY I AM NOT A DERELICT."

She said the word "derelict" with such venom, I was surprised she didn't start frothing at the mouth. It began to sink in that this crazy bitch thought the guy was a "derelict" because he was clearly a blue-collar worker. He was in work boots, paint-splattered navy blue Dickies and a navy blue t-shirt, also covered in flecks of paint, and was driving a truck. She obviously had some kind of (TOO IMPORTANT) office job, judging from her business casual granny wear. 

I imagine this woman must think we still live in some kind of caste system, where construction workers, electricians and painters are nothing more than mere peasants and administrative assistants are considered royalty.

These derelicts can fix your toilet, but they don't know Microsoft Excel. Worthless!

She probably really thinks that people who don't wear pantyhose with their nun shoes and can't type at an average speed of 45 wpm, yet still work hard and provide for their families, are not worth as much as she is.

Dost thou mean to tell me thou hast not ever

created a PowerPoint presentation? How dare you even

look upon my countenance, wretched creature!

I wish I could tell you this story ended in some kind of out-and-out brawl between peasant and noblewoman, with the stupid bitch getting tossed out of WaWa on her ass, but thats not the case. She just continued to rant and rave the entire time she was in there and eventually stormed out, leaving a lot of snickering customers behind her.

I laughed for days about what a piece of shit that broad was.

THEN WHO WAS PHONE?! - mobile postingz

My friend Hot Dog has been making fun of me for not blogging enough. When I explained that the level of my desire to sit on a computer and type up some shit (when thats what I do all day at work) is basically zero, he pointed out that I can blog from my phone. He also suggested instead of drawing in my sketchbook and scanning it, I can just scribble on napkins or scrap paper and take a phone picture.

So here's my first post via Blogger for Android. No post would be complete without one of my painfully shitty drawings either, so here you go, fine art via Post-It.

Yeah, thats supposed to be Hot Dog, drawn as a hot dog, but what it really looks like is tampon with an angry face wedged in between two flattened asscheeks. Theres even an unintentional string danging from what was supposed to be a cooked wiener.

Thats it for my first mobile post, though I may attempt to make more in the future, as it will allow me to spew my nonsensical text across the Interwebz while taking a crap.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.5.8

Ginger is not a food item.

I love the shit out of sushi. With my discovery of the joys of those little fish and rice and vegetable rolls, came the discovery of ginger, which I was astonished to realize people actually eat. People put that shit in their mouth, chew it and swallow it. And they enjoy doing so.

BARF.

Ginger looks like someone took a potato peeler to a vagina and started carving off slivers in near little rows, and tastes like someone then went ahead and soaked it in Lysol for flavor. Ginger tastes exactly like something you shouldn't be eating unless you want to spend your night bonding with the call center rep over at poison control.

LYSOL SOAKED VAGINA SLIVERS. DELICIOUS.

In other news, I found the next photo when I did a google image search for "ginger," and it made me laugh out loud:

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU!

I'm the worst blogger ever, also a sometimes (or most times) troll with worn out underpants.

I started this blog in what, April? Made two posts and promptly forgot about it for months.

Its not that I had nothing to write about either, I just kept telling myself OH YEAH, I'll get on that shit tomorrow.  I even had a couple of stupid drawings lying around in my sketchbook that I never scanned. So I'm scanning them now. If they gave out Olympic medals for procrastination, I would have so much gold I would be a king.

The drawing below illustrates an issue I've been having with my underwear lately that I find really annoying. I have about a million pairs of underpants, but I never throw any away unless they really start getting holey. It just feels like such a waste to spend a bunch of money on cloth I'm just going to fart into. However, there are other ways underpants can degrade over time, such as losing elastic in the waistband. The resulting effect is that I'm walking around in broad daylight, in public, with my underpants completely off my butt, but my pants still properly in place. This is really a joyful experience because you get all the discomfort and feelings of total butt exposure without actually suffering the social stigmas of plumbers crack.

On the left is how my butt actually looks, completely clothed. On the right is how my butt feels, completely exposed.

What ends up happening is that I finally have to find a quiet spot to hide in, be it behind a parked car or the toothpaste aisle of Walmart, dig my hand down the back of my pants and hoist up my drawers. I often get caught doing this, because I am not stealthy.

I don't know where I was really going with that. Its midnight and I should be in bed.

Here's another drawing I made of how I normally look during the week, when I am doing things other than socializing with friends... such as going to work, doing laundry, taking a dump, cleaning, staring at walls, chasing the kitten away from my dinner, and doing basically everything except going out at night:

Hobo troll. Unkempt and dumpy.

This is what I look like before I go out with friends (cue angelic music):

I am radiant, I am groomed, I am a shining beacon of dazzling beauty. Okay, not really, but I'm at least cleaned up and presentable.

My question to you is, WHICH ONE IS MY TRUE FACE?! Is it the face I show the world when I will actually allow people to photograph me? Or is it the face I have on the other 90% of the time? If I'm an ugly disgruntled troll most of the time, isn't that who I really am? Isn't the dashing, debonair version of me really just a farce?!

A FARCE!!!!!!!!!!

Bedtime.

Most things were cooler when you were a kid.

Growing up is boring.

The Boner Phallacy

I feel the need to confess something to the readers I don’t actually have yet. I can’t draw a dick to save my life.

I’m laying that out on the table because you’re probably going to be seeing a lot of dick drawings here, and its important that you recognize them as actual dicks. It may seem that I have an unhealthy obsession with cock, but its not that I’m a sex-craved pervert, I just retain the humor level of an 11 year old boy. Boners are funny.

My inability to draw dicks spawns mostly from my inability to draw anything at all, but also from laziness. I draw dicks in one fell swoop of the pen -- starting from the left side of the shaft, spouting out a quick, malformed head, continuing on quickly down the other side of the shaft (in the process making the right side of the head blend with the shaft) and further down to sketch out two truly grotesque looking testicles that appear to be engorged. There is no detail, no veins or ball hair… just something that looks a lot like a drawing of a dog bone. My drawings are impulsive and lazy, just like me.

I live with Beard. Along with having the ability to grow luxurious facial hair at superhuman speeds, Beard can draw quite well, and often becomes incensed when he sees my terrible drawings of schlongs. If there’s one thing that Beard can draw beautifully, it’s a large, veiny cock.

One night we were out at a bar, and I proceeded to draw a dick on the doodle app on my cell phone. Beard couldn’t believe how fucking terrible it was. “That is ridiculous,” said Beard. “You always start with the head first, then draw the rest.” I hung my head in shame, loathing my ignorance of the precise and delicate art that goes into drawing a glorious phallus.

Beard proceeded to sketch out a dick on the only paper available, a one dollar bill. It was a true masterpiece.

I spent that boner dollar by accident in Las Vegas, and I’m still mourning the loss. I hope whoever is currently carrying that shit in their wallet appreciates the beauty of it.

While I am fairly certain that with practice I could learn to draw a better-formed cock, I have a certain fondness for my mutant genitalia. I find it lends my drawings a subtle charm when someone has to crane their neck and look at my boner sketch and say “What the hell is that? Is it supposed to be a penis?”