"...pending a background check." Oh boy.

From Stockboy to Champion...perchance to dream.

So I got the call.  Yep.  The seasonal, part-time, graveyard shift stockboy job that pays a dollar over minimum wage is that much closer to reality...pending a background check.  I swear to God.  It's like I'm applying for a job with the DEA.  Online application that literally included a 30 minute psychiatric questionnaire.  In person interview that lasted an hour and a half.  And now a background check.  I haven't been this thoroughly checked out since I went to that doctor who gave me a prostate exam but didn't wear gloves and who wasn't really a doctor.  Anyway, I need the stockboy job to...wait a minute, you know I'm kind of offended by the term "boy".  We've gone through years and years of being called every derogatory name in the book, and I will not abide by the blatant racism that continues to exist in our society.  So please, no longer refer to this job as a stockboy.  Instead, I would like to be called "Stocknegro".  It's more sensitive to who I am as a black man.  Thank you.*

*Dear Minority Blogger,


Despite your pleas, we have decided against referring to this job as a "stocknegro".  We, however, will meet you halfway and cease the use of "stockboy".  We will henceforth refer to this job as a "stockpeoplewhodon'tmatterandwhoshouldbebanishedtosomefarawayisland".  We hope this is satisfactory.  


Best,
Fox News

Well that's...predictable.  Anywho, I need the job to raise money to self-publish the "Just Give Up" book.  I won't go into too many details, but to self-publish a book is a pain in the ass.  You have many different necessities...printing is just one of the expenses.  So a part-time gig, no matter how crappy, has to happen.  However, now I have to wait on this background check.  If you don't know me, that's not a slam dunk by any means.  My only hope is that they hire "Joe's Background Checks", because Joe's also triples as a check cashing outlet and liquor store, and maybe I'll slip through the cracks.  I mean, there's quite a bit that ol' Joe could find if he just took a little time to look.

Kicking a door in with Oxfords...either really bad ass, or really...um...what's a non-offensive word for "gay"? 

RED FLAG #1: BREAKING & ENTERING.  Yeah, so just to let you know, the majority of these red flags are going to be the result of an enormous amount of alcohol consumption.  This happened about 12 years ago.  I had one of those epic nights that I'm prone to have.  Out at the bar, drinking until you've made 50 more friends at the bar, none of whose names you remember, and none of whom are girls.  So the next morning I wake up really early with a crushing headache.  So I'm going out to get the hangover food of champions, (insert your own choice here, although if it doesn't rhyme with "Quarter Pounder with Cheese" you're wrong).  

I grab the keys.  I grab my wallet.  Where's my wallet.  It's in my jacket.  No it's not.  It's in the car.  No it's not.  CRAP.  Where's my wallet.  Did I leave it at the bar?  I left it in the bar.  I had to have left it in the bar.  Yes, it's definitely in the bar.  I will go to the bar and get my wallet.  (The thought process of a person who's hungover and still drunk from the night before is probably worth a study of some sort.  Fascinating.)  I drive to the bar.  The bar is closed because it's Sunday morning at around 7am.  Here's where things get stupid.  I decide that there's no way I'm waiting until the bar opens to get my wallet.  I need to eat now.  So, I do what any sane person would do.  I kick the door.  I kick it again, trying to break the glass.  The glass breaks.  I kick it until there's a big enough hole for me to squeeze in, and I go into the bar.  Now bear in mind, it's out in the open...anyone could have seen me, oh, and I was an anchor on television...yet I'm now inside, walking around like I owned the place, a place I'm in because I just kicked a door in.  I went into the office, looked behind the bar, basically looked everywhere I could until I realized that the wallet wasn't in there.  Then I climbed back through the hole I created, got in the car, and left.  It wasn't until I sobered up that 1)I realized the magnitude of what I had done, probably when I drove back past the bar later in the day and saw the hole had been boarded up, and 2) I found my wallet...in my pants from the night before.  

So I'm the asshole because I think that guys who drive BMW's are assholes?

RED FLAG #2: VANDALISM.  This happened about six years ago.  A freaking ridiculous night out, closing the bar down and then taking the party to another dude's house where we continued to play cards and drink until 6am.  I only know this happened because a friend of mine was lucky enough to get messages from me on my walk home, and he would later tell me about them.  Apparently I have a subconscious problem with people with money.  He told me how I was rambling on about how I was going to spit on BMW's and other "rich people's shit" as I walked past them, because as I apparently put it so eloquently, "I HATE THOSE RICH MOTHER F^*@%RS!!!"  Yeah.  That's classy.  So, a walk home was apparently spent looking out for expensive cars, and then spitting on them.  The Wife would pick up the story from there, as she would relate to me that when I walked in the door at 6:45am, I woke her up in a drunken haze with something extremely important to give her.  I had picked a dead flower off of the ground and handed it to her as a peace offering for being out so late, and then professed my undying love for her.  A bigger romantic you won't find this side of the Mississippi.  

Jason Bourne strikes again.

RED FLAG #3: DAMAGING PUBLIC PROPERTY.  Again, about 12 years ago.  I had achieved what I thought was success.  As an anchor on television, and only being 25 years old, I felt a level of celebrity that I had not yet experienced, but, let's face it, I deserved.  The only problem was I really didn't wait for the celebrity to kick in before I had already started abusing it.  It doesn't matter if you're on TV, it still takes awhile for people to realize you're there, recognize your face, your name, etc.  You can't be on TV for a week and walk around like you're freaking Carrot Top or something.  Speaking of Carrot Top, have you seen him recently?  Jesus.  Guy is some sort of crazy mutant with the muscles of Sly Stallone, the hair of Willy Wonka, and a creepy, plastic surgery face gone amok that even Joan Rivers calls "too much."  He will not be allowed around my children, no sir.  

Anyway, I had this bit where I would walk into random parties, say I knew "Steve" (because seriously, there's always a "Steve" at a party, and knowing him usually gets you in), and then enjoy a fun evening of drinking their beer or liquor.  Well, for some reason, one night I was in a saucy mood.  We were driving around looking for parties.  We saw one.  At this point I not only turned my truck onto the curb,  I kept going and parked it on the lawn of this house, and even pulled it into the hedges they had near the house.  Some girl came running out, yelling about what the hell was I doing and I'd ruined her hedges and stocknegro.  I calmly got out of the car and headed towards the house and said, "It's okay, I'm Shaun B."  She told me to get the f off her lawn.  This was puzzling to me.  I clearly told her who I was, yet she was still yelling at me.  So I reiterated who I was, trying to explain to her that it would be best for all people involved if she simply let me park there and showed me to the keg.  At this point she yelled and cursed so much that even the friends with me said that we should probably go.  We left.  Her loss.

I thought Ripley killed all of the Aliens.   Apparently not, as they seem to have found a new place to incubate.

RED FLAG #4: INDECENT EXPOSURE.  I'm not sure what it is about me that makes me want to take off my shirt 90% of the time that I go out.  Oh, yes I do.  I'm fine.  Now that we've cleared that up, yeah, I likes to take my shirt off.  You can pretty much set a clock to it.  Like the sun rising, or Jennifer Aniston getting her heart broken, it's an inevitability.  One of the more embarrassing times happened at a baseball game last year.  A friend and I had gotten to the parking lot around 10am to start tailgating.  The only thing was the game didn't start until 6pm.  The sad thing is we knew this.  So you can imagine that by the time 6pm came around, well, I could have as easily been at a Winger concert because blurry is blurry.  A problem with this night was that it was super hot out.  So the shirt was off early and often.  Combine that with the many more beers I had throughout the game, and I was as sweaty as a black man trying to get a loan.  

So as we're leaving the stadium, we run into a coworker and his wife.  I had only met this woman once before, but felt the need to hug her like she was my long lost sister.  Now bear in mind...shirtless, drunk, sweaty, black.  Add a nice blouse she was wearing and you've got a truly embarrassing moment.  After I let her out of my vice grip, she must have felt like she just went two rounds in the oil wrestling pit.  I wouldn't be surprised if she went to the lady's restroom, took the blouse off and tossed it, making the choice to go with just the bra, because it had to be like she was walking around after bathing in a tub of eels.  My coworker told me to put on my shirt.  I asked why, because I didn't look good?  He said, "No, because you're a news anchor."  'Nuff said.

Jesus.

RED FLAG #5: THEFT.  Many of you know about the Christmas tree friends and I stole in a drunken rampage from one of those lots on the street.  If you don't know, well, friends and I stole a Christmas tree in a drunken rampage from one of those lots on the street.  This was about six or seven years ago.  Anyway, that isn't the worst part about it.  After we walked down the major city street for probably a good half a mile, HOLDING A STOLEN CHRISTMAS TREE, we got it back to my friend's house, where we would stand it up, and of course, drink to the achievement.  Well, my friend's parents would come over one night, and completely rip him a new one for what we had done.  They were disgusted that grown men would stoop to such a level, especially seeing as the spirit of Christmas was most definitely built on the exact opposite principles than we had exhibited.  They couldn't believe it and said they were sorely disappointed.  

Then they took the tree home and decorated it themselves.