You Wanted It, You Got it...VLOG TIME!

The Circus That is After School Pick-up

Now that I've got a kindergartner...again...I'm back to actually having to leave the car, walk up to the school, and make my presence known before the teacher will release the child into my custody.  I've got no problem with having to actually, um, move.  The problem I have is the cast of characters I've had to encounter while I sit and wait outside for school to end.  If scientists did an experiment on the sanity of the American public, and the only pool from which they could draw participants came from the people that mill around school when the final bell rings, this country would be deemed about as nuts as Andy Dick on a good day.

I realize many of you who don't have children are probably thinking, "Shaun, once again you're exaggerating.  I'm getting sick of your blatant stretching of the truth in order to further your own comedic goals.  Just stop it.  And while you're at it, shave your head.  It's just getting sad...like a lawn after a two-year heatwave.  Pitiful."  Wow.  Ouch.  Well, I guess no one has ever heard of "sugar coating" or "not being a mean ol' meanie." Anyway, for your information, I am NOT exaggerating.  It's a different world out there at 3:30pm in a School Zone, and it takes awhile to get used to the people who'll cross your path.

THE OVERZEALOUS CROSSING GUARD

Before you even make it onto school grounds, you're gonna have to get past this guy or gal.  And the sad thing is, this picture really isn't too far away from the reality of who'll you run into out there.  Not literally  run into of course, because they won't let you get that close.  I mean, I understand the safety of our kids, priorities, no need to rush and all that crap, but seriously guy, you don't need to "prepare" us for the light to change and the walk sign to light up by awkwardly staggering out into the street a few seconds early.  Plus, it's 3:15.  School doesn't end until 3:30 and there are more kids in the shed of a guy with a red dot on the map of his house than there are out here right now.  Just relax, Sport.  I'm guessing most of these people are Born Agains who must have done some serious dirt in their past which is why they're taking this job so seriously, as if "protecting the children" is going to get them into heaven.  Well, it won't.  The corpse of that 83 year old woman buried in your yard who had the misfortune of breaking down in front of your house and needing to use the phone 12 years ago will see to that. 

MOTHER WITH 3+ KIDS UNDER 3

You've been busy.  It shows.  One in the swaddle, another in the stoller, yet one more toddling at your side.  No makeup, sweat pants and hair about as well-groomed as Medusa's. And now you're on the hunt for yet another one, finishing his or her (or depending on if you've got multiples, their) day of kindergarten.  You feel sorry for this woman.  A look on her face that depending on the day can either say "I hate my husband" or on worse days, "You know, Susan Smith was on to something".  Seeing her walk everyday like a mother dog with 12 puppies attached to her nipples, you envision her husband leaning back in an office chair, cigar in his mouth.  On the desk is a picture of his wife and kids face down, while under it is the office slut.  Her name is Cindy.  She's 23.  And only has two puppies.

 PART-TIME DAD

This guy's easy to point out.  Jeans from 20 years ago.  A stench from last week's eggrolls, and a look that says "time isn't on my side".  But when he sees his little kid, he smiles like the cheshire cat, overcompensating for all the years he hasn't been there and all the thousands of back child support he owes.  The mothers keep an eye on him because everybody knows that at any one day after an argument with his ex, he might peel out of that school parking lot and the next thing you know his kid thinks mom's dead and they have to move to Mexico...now.  

THE DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES

Good God.  There's a group of them at each school.  Three or four women who are always seen together and who every other mother wants to be like.  I hate these women.  I sit and watch from the outside like I'm Christof peering in on Truman.  It's like high school.  All the other women's heads turn when this group makes its appearance.  They are dressed well, are generally on a MILF level, and welcome the groupies that start surrounding their crew.  When their kids finally do come out, they're too busy showing their minions their new handbags to notice.  Pretty soon little Timmy just gives up on trying to tell his mother about the pirate hat he made in class, and just smokes a butt until she finally shuts the hell up.

CRAZY LATCH-KEY KID

I didn't really know that a kid who went home by themselves was called a "latch-key" kid until I was older.  Then, when I started having children of my own and running into these kids more often when I would pick my kids up from school, I could really see how crazy they could be.  But think about it.  You're a 7 year old kid.  Walking home where you're there by yourself.  A Hot Pocket in the freezer and a note that says "Watch TV.  I'll be home at 6."  You're bound to start getting into something.  This girl I saw yesterday obviously got into schizophrenia.  I was sitting in my car waiting for my daughter.  She was walking down the sidewalk towards me...talking to herself.  She was about 12, coming from the middle school.  No Bluetooth in her ear.  Just a dose of good ol' fashioned mania.  As she passed my car, she started looking at me.  A cold, weird stare, while still mumbling to herself.   I dropped my eyes from her unsettling gaze and looked down.  She was seriously freaking me out and I figured if I looked down she wouldn't feel as if I was challenging her, you know, like what you do if you ever run into a rhinoceros or something.  Latch-key. 

 THE JUDO VAN

Have you guys ever seen this thing or is it just something here?  Every day after school, there's a stretch limo that pulls up, covered with information about this Tae Kwon Do place down the street.  The driver picks up a few kids after school, and I'm sure takes them straight to Tae Kwon Do practice.  At the same time, another place, this one Judo, pulls up in a huge church van, again with "Irving's Judo" or whatever it's called pasted all over the van, picks up some kids and whisks them off.  I can't decide if these things are cool or just plain weird.  I mean, I want to say it's cool, but at the same time every time I see these rides I think "The cult's back in town."

CREEPY LURCHER GUY

Oh he's there.  You just won't see him until it's too late.

What? Of course it's real Coca-Cola, kids. This one is just, um, Obama's special brand.

Ah...President's Choice Cola.  That takes me back.  That, along with "Red Pop", supermarket "Black Cherry" or simply "Grape".  You could feel the tooth enamel being burned away with every gulp of this shit.  God my parents were cheap.  And now I'm the same way.  Well, you know what, when you're jobless, with no prospects and a house you can't afford, then some things just go the way of the decent Eddie Murphy movie...they just don't happen anymore.  In this house, that means buying name brands.  It's taken awhile but I've finally gotten the wife on board with this necessity of life, and happily we pass right by the household names like "Toucan Sam" and instead head right to the shelf with "Parrot Steve".

Now if you're living alone, or just you and the spouse, then you can easily get away with buying these "brands", adapting to the taste and saving a buttload of money each month.  However, with kids it's a damn different story.  They are bombarded with so many commercials on a daily basis that they can not only recite the jingles but give a rundown of the ingredients word-for-word and tell you whether it is part of a nutritious breakfast.  That is why the first thing you do is leave them at home when you go shopping.  Secondly, you lie.  Sorry but that's the way to do it.

Stupid Greedy-Ass Kid: "What is that?"
Parent Who Only Wants the Best For His Family: "It's Kool-Aid."
Stupid Greedy-Ass Kid: "Well where's the Kool-Aid Man?"
PWOWTBFHF:  "He's there. Go away."
Stupid Greedy-Ass Kid: "No he's not.  There's a big cup on it with one eye and a mustache."
PWOWTBFHF:  "It's the Kool-Aid Man's father.  The Kool-Aid Man is on vacation."
Stupid Greedy-Ass Kid:  "It says it's the 'Red Punch Guy.'  What is this?"
PWOWTBFHF:  "I have cancer."

Now as far as I know, I don't really have cancer, but at least in that moment it'll be enough to steer the conversation away from your brokeness.  And then you can use the generic kleenex you bought to wipe his tears because his "Daddy's dying".  Anywho, I figured for those of you thinking of saving money in these economic times and going generic, I'd give you a bit of a review of the items that are currently or have been in our house at one time or another.  And when reading this, remember...the point of these things is to help you save money, not give you great taste.  For example:

FAKE OREOS

If there is ANY product you don't want your kids to see that it's a generic, PLEASE, make it fake Oreos.  Oreos are so ingrained in their heads that they can spell it before they can their own name.  The Wife takes special care to open the package right when she gets home from shopping, dump them in the cookie jar and discard of the package before anyone's the wiser.  But it's not like they won't know by looking in the cookie jar.  It's like someone took special pride in smashing them all with a hammer before putting them in the package.  The odds of you getting one whole, pristine cookie is about as good as getting good weed from a guy named Albert.  

"ALWAYS SAVE" CHEESE

Tastes like rubber cement.  "Always Save" is one of the brands that has one priority.  Selling cheap shit, cheap.  This stuff melts like it was frozen in carbonite.  (Yes, I know "carbonite" isn't real, but neither is this cheese).  In fact, they don't even call it cheese.  It's "cheese food".  Add the words "imitation" and "process" to the mix and you've got something that even the dog tells you when you try to give it to him, "Look, I'll eat this shit, but I'm warning you now...that new carpet you just got...get ready for it to smell like my bowels.  Just sayin'."  This stuff is SO bad, that it's the ONE generic product I told The Wife to never buy.  We don't skimp on cheese.  You have to take a stand at some point, and this was it.

"PRICE CHOPPER" BREAD

Two dollars cheaper than any other bread on the rack and it's easy to tell why.  Wonder Bread's mutant sibling that somehow escaped from the attic.  The consistency of cheap styrofoam with a taste to match.  Put it in the toaster and you're lucky if when it ejects it comes out in less than 42 pieces.  The only good thing about this disaster is that aside from the cheapness, the store knows it sucks so bad that it throws about two loafs in one package.  Between that and the taste one package can last a month. 

"BEST CHOICE" FROSTED FLAKES

"Best Choice" is the other major generic brand here.  How they get away with actually calling their stuff "Frosted Flakes" is still stunning for me.  However, as a parent, I'm not complaining.  Because at least with this stuff I don't have to lie to the kids when they ask me did I get Frosted Flakes and I say yes.  Never mind that Tony the Tiger is nowhere to be found.  Never mind that instead there's some fat-ass penguin on there for some reason (OH, wait a minute. I get it.  Frosted.  Like cold.  So there's a penguin. Hmmm.)  The only problem is that, like the fake oreos, to actually get an intact flake is rare.  This stuff pours out like change, old buttons, and crack out of the pockets of a homeless man.  Also, note the Price Chopper Milk.  Goes bad at least a week before the expiration date.  But that's why you pour it and fill it with sugary cereal before letting your kids take a whiff.  It's all good.   

GENERIC APPLE JACKS

Sorry, had to stick with the cereal theme here for a minute because this stuff is garbage.  Tastes like chalk.  Chalk past it's prime.  Open the bag and the "freshness" goes bad immediately.  The next day it's hardened a bit and is like chewing a monkey's foot.  At least it's the same color as the real Apple Jacks though and my lies have been enough to appease the kids, who you better believe have asked what the hell this stuff really was.  I once was going to eat a bowl of it, tried it before I put the milk in, nearly wretched, and asked the kids if anyone wanted the bowl of cereal I had just poured because I wasn't hungry.  They had a lovely snack. 

"SAM'S CLUB" BEETS

Okay.  So not sure whether "Happy Harvest" is even a generic brand.  I know it came from Sam's Club though so I'm assuming so.  That's not the point.  The point is that when The Wife and I were in California for a wedding early in the month, my mother-in-law stayed with the kids.  She went nuts and was the greatest, filling our pantry, our freezer, our fridge with food.  It was outstanding.  We're still eating from her shopping bonanza.  HOWEVER, come on.  Beets?  Who the hell eats beets?  What are beets?  I hate beets.  Beets are the meal of the sick and destitute, those who eat refried beans out of a can and ride the rails to Wyoming.  Jesus.  Just thinking of the "beet juice" looming underneath that lid...ugh.

"BEST CHOICE" EGGS

For a taste of farm-fresh ass, buy this shit.  Oh, and a "Large" here must actually be in Chinese measurements because these "large" eggs are the size of eyeballs, with about the same flavor.  It takes five of these things to make a decent omelet, and the yolks look like these eggs came from a farm of baby chickens with genetic deficiencies who, because of their weaknesses, wouldn't be able to peck themselves out of the egg, let alone survive if they did.  I am an egg eater, which explains my 450 cholesterol number, so eggs are as important as cheese to me.  Shut up.  I know.  I'm a saturated fat mess.  Also, note the cole slaw container filled with homemade barbecue sauce.  The skimping never ends.

"WALGREENS" ANTI-DIARRHEA MEDICINE

Finally.  And most importantly.  Never.  NEVER.  EVER buy this stuff.  I beg of you.  If you value your comfort, you will stay as far away from this box as possible.  I learned this the hard way on a Vegas trip, when my friend and I, fresh from a night of drinking every different type of alcohol available that wouldn't blind us, awoke with runs rivaling that of the Kenyan marathon team.  So we go to Walgreens right next to our hotel.  Now remember, this is Vegas, so money is precious.  I see this stuff on the shelves, it says "Compare to Imodium A-D active ingredient."  I do.  It's the same.  It's $3 cheaper.  Well, that seems like a no-brainer.  Well, we would have to go BACK to the Walgreens hours later to get the real Imodium, because all this shit did was dehydrate us, hurt our stomachs, and do anything but stop the bowel onslaught we had been experiencing.  My friend STILL is angry at me for that decision.

I could do this forever...generic liquid soap, glass cleaner, potato chips...seriously the list never ends.  And I tell you what, if you're having a baby soon, go for the optional "Taste bud scrape" they offer at birth.  It'll save you a TON of hassle when it comes to buying generics down the road.  

P90x + Stupid Blue Hat = SB Wins.

As far as fitness goes, my life has pretty much been a combination of failure and chicken wings, one usually the result of the other.  The problem is I hate working out.  I hate running.  I hate lifting weights.  I hate Nash Bridges.  Seriously.  Nothing to do with Cheech.  Dude rocks.  I have no problem with Cheech.  The problem is Don Johnson.  I USED to think he was cool, until he Big-Timed me when I saw him out at a bar in L.A. and he told me he wouldn't take a picture with me because he was "in a meeting".  You know what, screw your meeting.  There's no one around and it's been a long time since "Tin Cup", Sport. You should be happy a black man recognizes you who isn't Tubbs.  If I see you again, I not only will NOT ask you for a picture, I'll just go over to your table, lean in, take a pic of the two of us, and say, "That'll be five bucks."  The shock of the moment will be worth the eventual restraining order.

So, back to fitness.  Finally, after years of a vicious circle that basically started out with a childlike glee for the new body that I would eventually get from the gym/kickboxing classes/Tae-bo/Six-Minute Ass, but ended with yet more disappointment because...what?  It's "Six-minute ABS"?  Really?  Well, then.  That would make sense.  I kind of wondered what the point was of being able to crack open walnuts by doing squat thrusts.  Hmmm.  What a waste of time that was.  Except I did come up with a pretty good recipe for walnut hummus.  So if you're interested, you know, I, uh...have a recipe for walnut hummus.  

The only thing that would work for me, after years of failure, would be the P90x.  For a guy like me who doesn't like to go anywhere to work out, or for that matter work out in front of anyone, this thing's perfect.  DVDs that you can watch at home.  And you see the results above.  However, a lot of you have asked me what it's all about.  "Shaun," you've said, "You're an adonis.  You truly are.  I would rather they had waited to produce the movie Rocky until you were old enough to play Apollo Creed because Carl Weathers, although serviceable, has nothing on you and should have simply been known for Action Jackson."  Well thank you.  I agree.  And because of your kind words, I have decided to give you a better picture of what the P90x is all about, by comparing a few of the program's workouts to famous TV Supervillains.  So you wanna do P90x?  Well, read on first.  

DISC ONE: CHEST & BACK(Push-ups and Pull-ups)

Aunt Esther

An angry, brutal, unforgiving workout.  Despite your pleas for mercy, it doesn't stop coming at you, and continues to beat you even when you're down and begging for the sweet embrace of death and Elizabeth.  It's a confrontation with an ugly competitor that has no soul and no intention of being your friend and making you feel good.  Throwing up is usually part of the equation when you come into contact with this thing.  You want it to die.

DISC TWO: PLYOMETRICS(Jump Training)

Mumm-Ra

An extreme case of ADD. Can never die.  Every spell it throws at you has the sole purpose of exhausting you mentally and physically.  It despises the fact it ever has to stop and take breaks.  Can't ever look at itself in the mirror because its own evil is even too much for it to handle.  Decides once in a while to take it easy on you by changing forms into something you are familiar with and aren't too afraid of, but for the other 95% of the time, it is a hyper, abusive creature most likely addicted to meth.  

DISC FOUR: YOGA

The Pedophile Shopkeep

Interested in specific positions.  Especially the downward dog and the child pose.  Very quiet.  Creeps up on you and before you know it you're breathing heavy, are sweaty and have had your body contorted in ways that you never thought it could.  Wants your entire relationship to happen in a place with dim lights and Enya playing in the background.  Prefers males because it knows they are less likely to tell about their experience.  

DISC FIVE: LEG & BACK (Squats, Calf Raises, Lunges, Pull-ups)

The Joker(Heath Ledger version...yeah I know he was in the movie and not the TV show but come on, dude was the best.)

Sick.  Twisted.  Takes a special pride in watching your limbs shake.  Plays head games with you.  Wants you to think you've got a chance at surviving at first, but then halfway through makes it clear that even if you do survive, at the very least you'll be walking with a limp for weeks, and worst case your extremities will be rendered useless forever.  And the worst part is once you finally do get used to its torture and appreciate it for its uniqueness, it dies of an accidental overdose.

DISC SIX: KENPO X(Kickboxing)

Boss Hogg

The one villain you're really not all that scared to see.  You've beaten it before and you'll beat it again.  Extremely loud, but not really that much of a threat.  It's habits put a lot of stress on your heart and lungs, and many times its accent makes it hard to understand what it's trying to say.  Will make you sweat it out each week but in the end you'll come out of it feeling invincible, like there isn't a canyon you can't jump or a daisy you can't duke.    

DISC EIGHT: CORE SYNERGISTICS(Push-ups, yoga, core, legs, weights)

Godzilla(The old, cheap-ass suit Godzilla, not the Matthew Broderick technologically bastardized Godzilla)

A psychopath.  Doesn't know what it wants to be.  One second it's your friend.  The next it's tearing down your city.  Basically wants to be everything to everyone and because it can't, it gets frustrated and just starts smashing shit until you get the message.  Some people love it and some people want it to go back to its home planet and never come back.  Every time it makes an appearance, you'll need to spend quite a bit of time rebuilding.  Trying to reason with it usually ends in confusion and disaster.

DISC 12: AB RIPPER X(Abs, not Ass)

Stanley Roper

Only comes around once every few days.  Knows that although it needs to make an appearance every so often to make sure you're staying on the right track, it also knows that you don't ever want to see it.  No matter what you do it's disappointed in you.  You can never live up to its standards and it knows this, which is why it's so cocky every time you see it.  If you spent as much time actually working with it and being responsible instead of trying to avoid it all the time, you wouldn't dread it so much and the two of you might actually have a good relationship.  But that will never happen because you aren't really gay. 

Hopefully this cleared some things up when it comes to the P90x workout plan.  I find you can always go back to television for the answers to many of life's important questions.  Speaking of which, does anyone remember who this guy is?  

First one who answers correctly wins a free "Just Give Up" book when it's published.  Here's a hint...the show rocked.  Yeah, so it's not a great hint.  Whatever.  I'm the one giving away the free book. 

"...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.

Somebody Has a Little Too Much Time on His Hands

So You Wanna Work in Stocks? No, Not Wall Street Stocks...Picking Up and Moving Big Boxes Stocks.

As a 37-year old father of three, there's no better feeling than being able to provide for your family.  I have yet to have experienced that feeling.  So I was hoping that I would finally be able to accomplish that goal through an impressive combination of unemployment checks and late night, part-time stock boy work at a dollar over minimum wage.  Now one would think that for a late-night stock boy job, a company would pretty much take anyone who applied:

- 49 year old pedophile who needs more toys to lure the neighbor boy to the shed: "You're in."

- 3-time convicted murderer who actually is at the interview in his prison-issued uniform because he just broke out:  "Welcome aboard."

-Anyone black: "Try the waffle house down the street."

But Jesus God.  It was like applying to be the President's fluff man.  The online application took 30+ minutes, and it included a psychological assessment which I guess wanted to make sure that if a co-worker dropped a crate of Barbie dolls on your foot, you wouldn't retaliate by asphyxiating him by shoving all of the Monopoly houses and hotels down his midget throat.  Oh, did I mention this was a toy store?  A toy store which apparently has no problem hiring incompetent midgets.  Seriously, every other place I've worked there's been a clear policy about incompetent midgets.  You either reach the doorknob or you count to 20.  If you can't do either, then no job.  AND there would be an interview...at the beginning of which the manager would make sure to remind us, quite firmly actually, that although this was a toy store, "If you are hired, there will be no playing with the toys."  Well then.  That's a deal breaker.  I usually spend my early mornings recreating Dora the Explorer episodes while swinging a lightsaber and riding a Big Wheel.

If you noticed, I said that the manager told "us".  It turned out that this was a "group interview".  That's right, not only was I already embarrassed enough walking into the store interviewing for this menial position, but now I had to do my begging in front of three equally destitute individuals.  Let's meet them, shall we:

The popped collar meets pussy.  A more appropriate juxtaposition there isn't.

CANDIDATE #1: THE DOUCHE:  Complete and utter tool.  You've met him.  The guy who knows everything, asks a million questions to prove how "smart" he is, talks about how many jobs he has and how he's in school and how he's experienced at everything and how he was supposed to be Governor but the paperwork didn't make it in time so now he's applying for this overnight stock position.  This guy was a pain in my ass.  Because there were two guys and two girls at this thing, me and this guy had to work together on this "project" the manager had us do, I guess to see how we'd work together, our thought process or whatever.  The project?  Using lego like things and working together to put something together, giving it a name and how much it would cost.  Well, I wanted to build a robot.  A bad-ass robot with the firepower of a tank and the hardened soul of a convict.  I'd call it "The Heterosexual Convict Robot Who May Have Experimented Once or Twice While in Lock-up".  AND it would be anatomically correct down to the gaping hole in his backside.  But no, genius here thought that would be too "shocking" to the children.  Okay, dude, you tell me a child who hasn't been violated by age eight.  I know I wasn't the only kid whose uncles sent me Valentine's Day cards. The Heterosexual Convict Robot Who May Have Experimented Once or Twice While in Lock-up will let kids know it's okay not only to accept what happened, but to go after the bad guys with a combination of a filed-down toothbrush and a syringe filled with HIV.  But whatever man, I guess I'm the idiot here.  We ended up building a car.  

Even if they were Asian, I absolutely do not want to taste any salad these women have to offer. 

CANDIDATE #2: THE PROSTITUTE:  Wow.  Just wow.  She walks into the interview room with a skirt on that I wouldn't let my daughter wear but my daughter would wear it anyway because she'd wait for me to go to the bathroom and then change back into whatever it was I told her not to wear and then slyly sneak out of the house and then change back into the skirt I told her she COULD wear right before walking back into the house.  But back to the interview.  This woman was a disaster.  No more than 25 years old, and the first thing out of her mouth during the "Introduce yourself" part of the interview was, "My name is Hooker Johnson and I have five kids.  Well, six because I've got a step-child too."  I'm not sure whether I was more disgusted with the fact she was 25 with five kids, or whether her parents would actually name her "Hooker".  I mean, aside from them being fans of the short-lived 80's action show, "TJ Hooker", they really must have had low expectations for their child's future.  Then during the aforementioned project phase of the interview, the interviewer clearly said, "Each group has a bag of legos (or whatever they were)...the ONLY thing I ask is that you keep the pieces separate."  What's the first thing this woman does?  "I'm gonna take some of your pieces."  Great. So I guess we know who was the "Thievin' Trick" out there on the streets.  I just let her take it.  Why not.  My violated convict robot idea had already been squashed, so I didn't really give a damn.

Interesting how Beyonce was one of the first results when I googled "Philippines".  Thank you Google.

CANDIDATE #3: THE MAIL ORDER BRIDE:  Yep.  A mail order bride.  From the Philippines.  She started off by apologizing for her broken English.  It wasn't that bad.  What was bad was that because she'd only been in this country for six months, she had no knowledge of the phrase "TMI".  To her, I guess, TMI stood for "Tell Many Inappropriacies" because she just let the personal stories fly. (I realize "inappropriacies" isn't a word, but to make the joke work I had to stretch the truth.  But you don't care.  You laughed anyway.)  But honestly, I learned more about work permits and Filipino delicacies than I care to relate.  Then, when we broke off into individual interviews, the prostitute went first, leaving me, the douche and the immigrant in the room alone.  That's when she mentioned how she met her husband (25 years older than her) on the internet, she came here and married him, and now spends her days alone in the house doing nothing while he works "his great job" as an AT&T agent.  She kept saying over and over how the age difference meant nothing to her, which let me know that it did and that the picture of the strapping young hunk she saw on the internet was quickly realized to be either an old photo or not him at all, when she stepped off the plane and saw this:

The things we do to get into this country.

At that point I felt like calling protective services for her.  Come on.  Locked up at home.  Knows no one here.  Husband is the person who calls people at dinnertime asking if they want to change their long-distance service.  And now she feels her only way out is to work the overnight shift moving boxes.  I decided against making the call, however, because Filipinos can cook, and if we both get the job, I can promise her a way out of her mundane and trapped existence, and will whisk her away to a tropical paradise.  In reality though, I will do no such thing...I just want her to roast me a damn pig.  

Between the perm and the chest hair, I'm so proud of my people. 

CANDIDATE #4.  THE BUM.  That would be me.  As you know from a couple of blog posts ago, I decided to go bare bones to this thing, stripping myself of any education, accolades or positive experiences, and going in there like I had just gotten released from C-block and walked into the first place I saw that said "Fry Cook Wanted".  I tried my best not to use big words, to not be too clever, and to not dominate shit like I normally do.  I did a pretty good job of all that, although doing the fake laugh got a little too annoying even for me.  Sista gurl thought she was a comedian, telling jokes that not only weren't funny, but weren't jokes.  Yet if the interviewer laughed, I mustered a laugh too.  I died a little inside each time.  I am NOT a corporate person.  I know that now.  What I am, however, is a broke mug that needs a little change if I'm going to get this book published.  So if that means moving boxes while wearing khaki pants (yes, they won't even let the OVERNIGHT stock crew wear jeans, because God forbid a customer walks in at 3:30 in the morning and sees us in cargo shorts), I guess that's what I'll do.  

I find out probably by tomorrow if they're interested in having me on "the team".  If so, she said she has to do a background check and if that comes back clean they'll offer a job.

So bearing that in mind, if any of you know of any fry cook jobs available, I'm listening.

Dammit. On Top of Everything Else, I Think I'm a Racist.

I'm not sure if anyone has seen this, but apparently earlier this year, a professor at Boise State decided that this would be a great idea to post on her Facebook account.  Here's the kicker...she's black...and the head of the CULTURAL CENTER.  Fantastic.  Yet another reason Facebook is about as effective at lowering IQs as a mule kick to the head, or 5 minutes of watching the Kardashians.  And seriously, why is Pam Grier so angry at this kid?  You'd have thought he was using her afrosheen for lube because from the sight of him he's a chronic masturbator.  Maybe he got caught at work grating the cheese ("Grating the cheese"?? Jesus God what is wrong with me.  I've made him out to be some weird freak of nature with a penis that for some reason has the consistency of a block of cheddar cheese, and he gets off on it shredding in his hands.  After lubing them with afrosheen.  Wait, what am I talking about...he's the weirdo, not me.  Freak.).  And Christ kid, what are you doing running your mouth while she's talking?  EVERYONE knows the first thing you do when a black woman is yelling at you is you shut your mouth.  The second is don't make eye contact.  You're doing both, you dumb bastard.  No wonder you're getting your ass handed to you.  And lastly, what the hell is Black Princess Leia doing in the background?  Two things sista gurl:  1.  Your weave is falling out of one of your Leia side hair buns.  A weave which by all appearances must have come from the yarn section at Michael's.  2.  If you're going to unbutton the top 12 buttons on your blouse, make sure you have something to back it up with.  I mean seriously woman, you have the same body as a 12 year old boy, which normally is a good thing except you're not a boy.  Or Cambodian.  Or wearing a Snuggie with five holes cut out of the front.

So yesterday we had new carpet installed.  Well, as much as we could afford.  Got the cheapest carpet we could, and what turned out to be one of the nicest contractors I've ever met.  Olwaldo was his name. Good guy.  Quick, got the job done.  Very happy with the results.  But during the time he and his assistant were there, I spent quite a bit of time second guessing everything I was doing in order not to be deemed insensitive.  But in the end, I think the fact I even THOUGHT of these things confirmed exactly what I was trying to avoid.  I'll explain.

That's Olwaldo.  He said "chinga". 

So when the guys got there, I offered them water.  Something I would have done for any contractor.  It doesn't matter their race, ethnicity or gender.  In fact, I take particular care to offer those of the female gender many different options of fluids.  Normally I am rebuffed. Which is why the carpet needed to be changed in the first place.  Many stains and such.  Regardless, I think I was a solid citizen at this point, so:

OFFERING WATER: +5 Tolerance Points. 

The basis of a completely unnecessary mental tug-of-war.

Soon it became time for lunch.  The carpet guys had been working for two hours, and had not taken a break.  Only one had even taken me up on my water offer.  But I was hungry.  Very hungry.  So I went to the fridge and saw the components for one of my best snacks, the breakfast burrito.  Taco seasoned beef, eggs, shredded cheese, tortillas, salsa.  I started to take out the ingredients, but froze.  I thought, "Shit.  What if the carpet guys smell the taco seasoned beef? Will they think I'm rubbing it in their faces that I'm sitting here eating burritos while they're working on carpet?  God, what do I do?"  In the end, I decided to fight fire with fire and heat up fried chicken.  

GOING WITH FRIED CHICKEN INSTEAD OF BURRITOS:  -15 Tolerance Points + 5 point penalty for not only stereotyping Mexican laborers, but unemployed black people as well.

I polished off the meal with a bag of chili cheese fritos. In fact you can see part of the chicken bone underneath the bag...a bone which I apparently scraped clean like a savage.  Anyway, the point is, well, how do I say this...I got the chili cheese fritos, and paused a bit before opening it, because, well, I kind of thought that...hmmm...well you know how chili is, um 

THINKING CHILI CHEESE FRITOS ARE AT ALL "MEXICAN":  -50 Tolerance Points.

UM.....

- 35 Tolerance Points.

So after they had left, I started to think about it.  I think I am a racist.  A passive/aggressive racist who doesn't know what he's saying or doing until it's too late.  I thought of some examples of my past experiences, and, well, you tell me if any of these are wrong:

- I tried to pay the Mexican guys who did my carpet in gift certificates to Taco Bell and a used sombrero.

- I went to a Chinese restaurant and ordered the chow mein, but then for some reason asked the waiter if he could also get the stain out of my shirt.

- I stood at the finish line of the Chicago Marathon with an "I love Kenya" banner and a bowl of rice pudding.

- I lobbied to have the African-American parade in town sponsored by the State Unemployment Office and Menthol cigarettes.

- For some reason at the St. Patrick's Day parade, I told this red-headed guy next to me, "You know, I like to get drunk on weekdays too.  And I love tweed."

- This Japanese kid came to me and asked where the nearest McDonalds was.  I said if he opened his eyes, he'd see that it was...

- I went to a Greek wedding and apparently I was the asshole for trying to sell laser hair removal services.

- There was a long line at the post office, and I needed a beer, so I asked the nice Arab guy next to me if he could recommend a good party store.

- We went out for spaghetti and I told the waiter that out of appreciation for the Italians, I bought my daughter Super Mario Brothers.  And Season One of Jersey Shore.

- I went on a tour of the Grand Canyon, and told my Native American guide that I always thought they were the "real Indians", and not those cow-lovers from India.  Then I turned to the people in the group from India and told them I was just bullshitting this dude, because real Indians don't screw me at Blackjack.

No, I don't have a problem.

How to Ace a Job Interview That You're Overqualified For and Really Don't Want

Yeah, who'd have thought this guy would one day find himself out of work.  Seriously.  He's obviously the beacon of self-respect and containment, someone who a Fortune 500 company would be glad to have selling its wares and representing its interests.  Christ.  This was in April of 2007.  I was in the midst of being unemployed for over a year, living in what truly is an outstanding place to look for work...the State of Michigan.*

*The State of Michigan is not truly an outstanding place to look for work.  Here is what I like to call "sarcasm".  However, I refuse to alert people when I'm being sarcastic with a " :) " or " ;) ".  These are the tools of the lazy or the naive.  The fact that now I have to write one of these things after every sarcastic sentence I send someone for fear of them misunderstanding and it blowing up into an email war as senseless as the ongoing war between Africans and Blacks.  I mean, come on.  We both look the same, kind of.  I mean, dem brothas is black as night.  That's why major marathons are run during the day.  I mean, I'm black, but shit.  Compared to an African I'm freaking Chevy Chase.  I guess another difference is blacks enjoy eating meals consisting of a little more fat than rice and dead flies.  But we are the same in that we go bald the same way, and all end up at some point looking like Clyde Drexler.   Yeah.  No clue why Africans would have a problem with us.

So anyway, my unemployment history is probably longer than my employment history.  Some tell me my skills are "not transferrable" to the jobs I've been applying.  Yeah.  I'm sure being on TV has completely wiped my mind clean of how to use Microsoft Word and file papers.  The Wife's explanation makes more sense.  She tells me I'm overqualified for these jobs.  Now THAT'S a theory I can cling to.  It's based on me being smart, them being dumb, and most importantly, nothing being my fault.  Yeah, that'll work.  So...when she told me a place was hiring for part-time overnight seasonal help, I applied.  But I didn't do it the way I normally apply, updating my resume for the particular job, tailoring a cover letter, being professional, etc.  That hasn't worked for three of the last five years.  So seeing as this was an overnight stock position which if I went in there with who I REALLY am, I would have as much success as I did when I applied for the janitor and paperboy jobs, I decided to ditch "Intelligent, college graduated, well-groomed" appearance for a more "Meh. Here's what you get" look.  If nothing else, I was NOT going to be overqualified for this thing.  So here's what I came up with.  Yesterday right before my interview, I took photos to better illustrate how the game plan was going to go down.

RULE #1: ATTIRE

As you can see here, I've abandoned the standard "shirt and tie" look I normally go with to interviews, and gone with the more relaxed look of jeans and a black shirt.  I purposely didn't iron the shirt, and the jeans had a couple of mustard stains on them from years ago.  You may ask, "Why did you wear the watch if you wanted to look downtrodden?"  Well, that was a gamble.  I thought maybe they'd look at the watch, and with any luck, think I had stolen it.  History as a felon would certainly help out here as well.  

RULE #2: HYGIENE

No shave.  Leave it alone.  Let the beard grow and if possible, let the hair grow to an unseemly length as well.  I chose to go with the aforementioned Clyde Drexler balding look.  Also, the great thing was the night before I had tied one on pretty good, and was severely dehydrated, which led to some pretty outstanding dried out "crack lips".  And all I can say is thank God for chicken grease splatter because I had a nice little zit on the other side of my face that really set the whole thing off. 

RULE #3: DON'T FORGET YOUR RESUME.

No, the sheet of paper doesn't look completely white because it's blown out by the flash or the lighting is too bright.  There's nothing on that resume.  Nothing.  I didn't bring a resume at all to the interview.  And when I applied, I dumbed down that resume so much that one would think I'd been confined to a halfway house for the majority of my life, because there was NOTHING on that shit.  I mentioned being an employee for a non-profit...nothing about writing grants or anything, and also mentioned doing sales.  That was it.  Nothing about any TV experience.  Took out the Awards section.  Took out the Special Skills section.  That thing was about half a page long.  They called me the next day.

RULE #4: DON'T BE TOO SMART AT THE INTERVIEW.

My mother put it best when she said "Don't be too smart now!"  I laughed at that.  However I wasn't laughing when she followed it up with, "And look, if you do really well, you could get a promotion!"  She was being sarcastic (that's my last time telling you.  Next time you're on your own).  But she had a point.  I made sure not to show too much wit, give the "felon's stare" you see above, and make sure that if nothing else I threw in "ain't", "fo sho", and "licka stow".  How I would sneak all those words in would be a challenge, but in the end, I made it work.

RULE #5: GO FOR PITY.

My good friend had a wedding recently in which I was one of the Groomsmen.  Anywho, he wanted us to all wear Chuck Taylor's instead of regular "tuxedo shoes".  Well, seeing as I am in my current state of financial woes, I went to Payless.  Yep.  The shoes you're looking at above aren't actual Chucks, but are something called "Airwalks".  I spent the whole wedding worried SOMEONE would notice I was a poverty-stricken broke ass wearing Payless shoes to the most important day of someone's life, but thank God no one did.  That is, until a day later, when I was at my friend's house and he looked down and said, "What??  You wore 'Airwalks' to the wedding??" I was about as ashamed as I was when my Uncle asked to see my room when I was 7, and an hour later I was wearing different underwear and had on a clown nose.  But the point is made.  If the interviewer could notice I had Payless shoes on as well, hiring me could count under some EEOC or HTPN law.  HTPN?  You've never heard of that? Really?  Hire the Poor Negro?  Wow...yeah, I get most of my jobs that way.

So we'll see if this strategy pays off.  If it does maybe the next book is one of how to master the anti-interview.  Stay tuned.