http://mcity.livejournal.com

Meet the Woods, a family on vacation from the Bahamas. Coming down from the Carolinas, they stop at an 'El Cheapo' gas station, an establishment of somewhat dubious repute. Three members of the family are attracted by the bright lights of a nearby building, and wander toward the Formica tables planted firmly in...the Failure Zone.

Seriously. It exists.


Hey everyone, did you know that the Motorola K1 KRZR is like drinking unicorn giggles?

just so you know now

WARNING: Maybe-spoiler for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Work. A bit of a lull. I'm leaving on my lunch break in half an hour.

"Hey, Jonathan, want to know the ending of the next Harry Potter book?" says a previously mentioned coworker.

I feel my heart sinking; at this point, I've managed to successfully avoid any spoilers for two weeks. And since I have a pre-order, which is supposed to be picked up toady, I signed of the Internet for the homestretch.

I hadn't counted on real life spoilers.

"No," I said, and covered my ears. I couldn't think of any better signal than the ol' childhood standby. "No no no no no no." He smiled and padded off. Silly Jonathan.

A few minutes later, he asked how Harry was gonna defeat Voldemort. I said he would have to destroy the horcruxes and face off in a battle in some arena, but don't tell m-

"Nuh uh," a toadlike smirk spread across his face. "He has to kill himself."

He didn't even stay to discuss it; he just kept on with that smug smile, and wandered off, a remarkable feat in a store only slightly larger than a shoebox. As if, having spilled his emotional load, he pulled his pants and wandered off to the kitchen, leaving me with a face whose contents can only be described as "What the hell?"

I wonder what kind of a sandwich one makes oneself after verbal bukkake.

The worst part? When I asked him why, exactly, the hell did he tell me this, he bleated something about "It was on the news!"

No. No it wasn't. And if it had been, I wouldn't have needed you to tell me.

I pointed out that that was not an actual answer and asked again. He mumbled I would've found out anyway. Yes, by reading the book. I will die someday, but I'd rather die in my sleep at 75 than bleeding out from a gunshot wound to my gut in a dark alley tomorrow.

It's not so much the spoiler that bugs me-I use the Internet, I know what lengths people can go to for a lie-as the sense of violation I feel. I wanted to go into the book expecting nothing, hoping everything. A virgin reader, if you will. And now I'll have to draw that image.

The point being, whether it's true or not, the "spoiler"will color my perceptions of the book. And I like to read things as pure and untrammeled as possible.

And the strange thing is, I know why he did it. I've been there. When book five came out, I went to my sister a few dozen pages in, and informed her, over her strident protests, that Ron and Hermione had become prefects. I did not use the Internet, seeing as we were in Florida at the time, but there were doubtless no shortage of hollow trees I could yell into. Failing that, the toilet bowl. I immediately felt guilty, thinking of the times I've been spoilered, and lied, claiming I was just joshing with her. She, of course, doubted the veracity of my claims, but the point is, I felt remorse. This chucklehead felt no such regret.

See, we all have impulses that could hurt others. What distinguishes the dick from everyone else is that he regularly acts on these for his own satisfaction, without any regard for the desires of others. Some even deliberately hurt people. And when your life is geared toward that? When you pain others just because it'll make you feel better?

You're doing it wrong.

Labels:



It happens several times every week, if not every day. Some young whippersnapper comes in and asks if we have any Playstations.

"Do you mean PS2s?" I ask.

They look at me oddly. "Yes..."

And I give them the price.

The Playstation came out about twelve years ago, and it's already been forgotten by most of the yuth of today. Heck, they're eight, the only PS most of them have ever known was black and blue. The amount of kids asking if we have the PS2 is outstripped only by the amount who keep asking if we have GTA. And this is understandable. What's strange is the ones who come in and ask if we have the Game Boy Advance charger.

"You mean the SP?" I ask, knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"$18.99."

It is at times like this that I take my chariot home, and look over the dark forest from my tower, and the full weight of my twenty years bears heavy upon my brow. I'm so disconnected with the youth of today, their cars and clothing and hippity-hop. I've always felt a few steps off from my peers, like I was looking down a cardboard tube. I assumed I was alone in my geekery, my drawings and writings and love of obscure internet catchphrases.

Then, one day, a dude came into the store, wearing a Bleach shirt, with several other young men of the type that buy bootleg shirts with Tony Montana. Because he's the original gangsta thug.

"Is that a Bleach shirt?" I ask.

"Yes."

Time for the test.

"All your base are belong to us."

"I know that, that's from, that's from...don't tell me..."

"Zero Wing."

"Zero Wing, that was it!"

So here was a young man, who could've been me. He had friends who were not like him. That much was obvious from their sideways hat.*

I had assumed that I would never make friends who weren't geeks, and that since I had difficulty finding them, that some elder had neglected to tell me the secret handshake. Turns out they were living among us in plain sight; more than meets the eye.

*I have a theory; If there is a Man, a powerful individual determined to keep a Brother down, all he's doing is thinking up ridiculous fashions and releasing them onto an unsuspecting Black public. We do the rest.



There are two stereos in the store.

Well, actually, there are about a dozen. But we're focusing on these two. My boss regularly plays music on them, through radio or CD.

One of my coworkers has an annoying habit of turning up the radios to 24 or so. The thing is, it's impossible to conduct a conversation past twenty. And this guy is standing in front of the set when he turns up the volume.

So he's there jamming to the beat, while everyone else in the store can't hear themselves think. And when I try to turn it back down, he sneaks it back up when I'm not looking.

Dude, can't you live without bad remix Christian Reggae for eight hours? It's not that hard. Millions of people do it every day. Try it and see!

Labels:



Dear boss,
So we found a 'best of Kelly Clarkson' CD in one of the product boxes. Most likely, a customer was holding it while looking at the product. wait, it belongs to an absent employee? Oh, well, he probably just happened to be holding it in his hand while he showed the customer the pro-wait, no don't. Don't launch into one of your little talks about how the employees need to pay attention, especially me. You've done this several times, and it grows tiresome.; you start your little quiet lecture about a perceived fault based on something that happened, and when you're corrected, you go on about the fault anyway. It's annoying.

Thank you,
-Jonn

Labels:


Trufax


a364 woodThingie
by ~u63r on deviantART
1. If I leave for work early, say, to get a delicious breakfast from the Wendy's at the mall, the bus will be late.
2. If I go into the nearby BKs to get their overpriced crossan'wiches, the bus will come at some point between me making my order and it being delivered, no matter how long I waited.
3. I need my frakkin' license.

Labels: