"Laryngyopharyngeal infection."
Greetings to one and all from my house in Sandy, Utah! Yes, you heard me right! I'm writing this Issue from my very own dwelling place! We'll get to that in just a second. What is everyone up to today? Are you all living the dream? I'm sure you are, for today is Tuesday - the day when dreams are made. Topics to be discussed today: Getting embarrassed at work, getting hit on by an older woman in the parking lot, my side of the story, and the latest installment of "The District: Season Two". On we go!
I don't get sick often. Maybe a couple times a year. And, thankfully, my track record with work has typically been pretty good. I have never missed a day due to sickness in my many years in the workplace... until today. I was suffering from a sore throat throughout the entire day yesterday, but I had been taking medicine and I hoped that it would just pass and I'd be fine today. Such was not the case, as I woke up this morning with my head feeling like a balloon. I could hardly talk at all, which, if you think about it, is not very conducive to working in a call center. Ten hours of taking phone calls? No, thank you! So I called in sick at about 6:30 and went back to sleep for four more hours. I'm feeling all right now, but I still can't talk very well. I've got to go visit the doctor here in a little bit to get them to write me a note saying that I wasn't out golfing, I guess. I understand why employers often require a doctor's note when an employee calls in sick, but, I'm sorry, this is the dumbest thing ever. I suppose I'll find out exactly what happens here in a little bit when I have to go in, but, like, do they want me to cough on them? Do they need me to blow my nose in front of them? Would the nurses like me to sing "Ave Maria" for them? I'm capable of doing any of those, so if that's what I have to do, that's fine. Being a doctor must be a really, really horrible job. Here's a thought, though. What if I go in and they tell me I'm not sick? I know I'm sick, so why do I need somebody else to verify it for me? So now I get to go in and pay for somebody to tell me something I already knew in the first place? Should I have just gone into work, taken a few calls (whilst contaminating everyone else in the process), and then just asked to go home early? I don't know. I don't get it. Oh well. I guess I'll get two days off in a row this week, which is nice, but it would sure be a lot nicer if I didn't feel crappy and could actually go out and do something fun. Hopefully I'm better by tomorrow. That would be highly preferable to the alternative. There's one thing that's certain, though. I never want to have to call in sick again.
Do it.
Speaking of work, I had an embarrassing experience yesterday that I suppose I'll share with you because, um, I guess that's what I do in my blog, right? So, I take Spanish calls from time to time at work, being one of the relatively few bilingual employees. I like it. Hispanics are always so nice to me. I was talking to a guy yesterday like I always do. I was trying to ask him some stuff to figure out what he needed and, apparently, he was having a really difficult time understanding me, I guess, because he asked me if I would rather just speak English to him. Are you kidding me, man? I know I'm not Mexican, but my Spanish doesn't suck THAT bad. The worst part of it all was that a couple of my bilingual co-workers overheard my uncomfortable transition from Spanish to English. I don't think I blush very often, but I'm sure I did at that point. I hate when Hispanics try to speak English to me, unless it's Spanglish, which I love. Luckily, this guy's English was perfectly fluent (sarcasm). I hope he didn't expect me to dumb down my English for him, but there was no way I would do that for him. I treated him just like any other customer, talking with my same vocabulary and at the same rate that I normally would. It really bothered me. I remember one post-mission experience I had where I was at a Mexican restaurant and I went up to the counter to order in Spanish. I told the cashier what I wanted and she looked at me with a blank expression and said, "Excuse me, sorry?" I repeated my order to her again, in Spanish. "Sorry?" Eventually, I just told her in English. I wanted to shake her and say, "I'M SPEAKING YOUR LANGUAGE!!" You've got to be kidding me, people. Just because I'm White doesn't mean I'm not good at Spanish. Stupid stereotypes.
No me puede entender??
While I'm venting, I simply must recount something that happened to me last Wednesday night as I went to the dollar theater to check out a movie. I got there about 15 minutes before the show was going to start and there was hardly anyone there, so I found myself a parking spot and sat there for a couple minutes as I waited for a friend to show up. I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when I heard a thud and felt my car shake a little. Then there was a second thud. Startled, I looked to my left to see an older lady who was trying to get three kids into the truck next to me. It took me a second to process what had happened. She had opened the passenger-side door of the truck so widely that she had hit my side-view mirror. Then she hit it again. Through my tinted windows, I gave her the "What gives?!" gesture for a few seconds and she stared back at me like it was my fault that she couldn't get her door open. I had done a good parking job, clearly within the lines, but I still conceded by backing out and moving to a different parking spot. I'm not usually one to glare or give people the stare-down, but you can bet that I didn't take my eyes off this lady. Seriously?? As she finally packed the grandkids in the vehicle and started backing out, she gave me a little wave, as if to say "oops!" Unbelievable. The part that scares me most about all of this is that I was SITTING IN THE CAR as she hit my mirror. TWICE. One little bump is understandable, maybe, but twice? Seriously?? While I was sitting right there?? What would she have done if I wasn't there to move for her?? The stupidity of some people sincerely amazes me. It's been a while since we've had a really good Boo Box victim - and what I really should have done was just roll down my window right then and there and do this, but I think I'd like to Boo this lady. Who's with me? Everybody together now - BOOOOOO!!
Come on, lady.
Cody had his yearbook signing day yesterday. He'll be a senior in high school next year, which he finds awesome an I just find preposterous. He texted me a picture yesterday of something he found in his yearbook. There was a girl in the picture holding a sign, which read "MOVE IT, SELL IT AND LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN." Cody commented, "I didn't know you '5-Fingered' a PLT sign!" (Clarification: if you get something for a "5-Finger Discount," it means you stole it.) Let me shed some light on this situation. I've explained a couple times what "Move It, Sell It, and Leave the Door Open" means, but I don't know if I've talked about where I got the sign originally. The Peer Leadership Team (PLT) is a group of preppy students in high school that... well, come to think of it, I don't know what they really do, other than look down upon everyone else and hang out with the "special needs" students. They had a bunch of signs that they'd use in their meetings, I guess, intended to teach people how to resist peer pressure. One PLT member in 2004 was also a member of the high school band. She had some of the signs in her possession as she prepared for graduation and she kindly donated them to the band. I, as the incoming band president, graciously took ownership of the signs. I'd take them to sporting events and make the entire band chant the phrases, such as "Ask Questions!" Everyone's favorite chant was "Move It! Sell It! And Leave! The Door! Open!" The signs quickly gained somewhat of a cult following. And, as they say, all good things must come to an end. One PLT member (who was also a member of the choir) didn't quite like the fact that the band had obtained possession of the PLT signs. The sneaky little son of a gun talked to the band vice president about the signs and they were soon confiscated from me. I was pretty ticked about that. They thought I had stolen the signs when, in reality, they were bestowed upon me! They were mine! But, alas, they took their signs back soon thereafter. I guarantee you that I could have made better use of those signs than they ever could have dreamed of. So what did I do? I made my own signs and continued to take them to sporting events.
I have something to confess. Last summer, I watched this show called "Love in the Wild" and I secretly loved it. It was the perfect blend of reality TV, misadventures in dating, shallowness, stupidity, and unintentional physical comedy. It was beautiful. And it starts up again tonight. That is all.
**THREE HOURS LATER***
Twenty bucks?? It cost me twenty bucks for that? Preposterous. What a colossal waste of time and money. I guess it's official, now, though. And at least I didn't have to wear a mask when I went into the clinic. Goodness. I've learned two lessons today: I either need to A) never call in sick again or B) learn how to forge a doctor's note. Geez. Oh man! I almost forgot! It's the first Tuesday of the month, which means that I've been neglecting the latest episode of my blockbuster CBS crime drama, "The District: Season Two"! Let's get to it, then.
It appears to be...
["We now join the following program currently in progress..."]
...and the doctor says to me, "Well, you don't have strep!" That's a relief. Craig T. pats me on the back and Donny says a silent prayer of thanks. I guess this means that I'm safe to get back on the crime trail. We have been piecing the great Whoop Grass heist together, piece-by-piece and we recently came across our largest incriminating evidence yet. We had been at Austin's funeral, I mean wedding reception, and we saw some clown (literally) sneaking away with the deadly gasoline. We were confused as to why that clown had access to the fatal fuel and, as a matter of fact, we were equally vexed as to why there was even a clown at the reception in the first place. These were the things I pondered as I mounted my Harley-Davidson motorcycle, flanked by my partners, Craig T. and Donny.
We were setting off to follow another lead the District had given us. They had pointed us in an eastward direction toward Denver, claiming they had made contact with a valuable source there. It was ten hours by motorcycle, but it gave us a glimpse into the scenic landscapes of cities like Green River, Rock Springs... and Laramie. When finally we reached our destination, we wiped the sweat from our brows with our bandanas, cleaned the dirt from our leather chaps, and made our way into town.
I know this place. I'd been here before on a family vacation. I know just where to go to get all the juicy gossip. We strut our way down the street for several blocks, then I extend my arms to the sides to stop Craig T. and Donny. This is the place. I look up at the sign. "All-American Biker Bar - Denver, CO", it reads. The country music is bumping as we tip off the bouncer. He makes way for us and allows us to enter. The bar is filled with the mangiest mutts known to man. A tangle of beards, a mound of muscles, the stench of too much musk lingers in the air. Donny looks uneasy, like he wants to vomit. I purvey the area, scanning the crowd for our contact. One biker gives Donny the eyebrows. No, no. Where is the contact? I squeeze my way between two burly men, trying to make my way to the edge of the room. That's when I see it - a lock of golden hair, flickering like a flame, just out of my reach. "Hey!" I yell. "Hey! Wait!" I frantically look back at Craig T., who gestures to me to make my way up the stairs in the corner of the room. Craig T. begins pushing us forth through the crowd. It sounds like Donny is crying a little as Craig T. helps us barge out of the crowd. I glance up the stairs to see the golden hair disappear into the upstairs loft. We climb the stairway, two steps at a time. At last, we reach the top landing. I knock twice, politely, on the door, labeled "V.I.P." A man peers through the peephole at us and the door is opened a crack.
One by one, Donny, Craig T., and I make our way into the V.I.P. loft, discreetly flashing our District ID badges at the doorman. There's our contact, seated right in front of us. It's a woman. Her flowing, golden hair hangs neatly to her shoulders. She gives a slight nod of the head to the doorman and he silently exits the room. She motions for us to sit and then reaches into the breast pocket of her business suit (a little out of place, considering our current locale). She retrieves several pictures from the pocket and spreads them across the table in front of us. "These," she starts, "are pictures of a man lost in love." The man in the pictures looks glum. His all-but-bald head, the defeated expression on his face. "This man's name is Raymond Richards. Forty-three years old. A former mechanic from New York City. He gained quite the reputation as the finest auto mechanic in the north-east. He specialized in the manufacturing of alternative fuel. It was his dream to create the world's first regenerative fuel." She flashes some charts and graphs that mean nothing to me. "Theoretically, the gasoline would recycle itself after each use, thus providing its users with unlimited fuel." Craig T. asks what happened to Richards and his experiments. Was he successful? "He was on the brink of success, gentlemen. But on the eve of the mechanics' convention where he would unveil his new product, Mr .Richards received a visit from his estranged wife. You see, she had left him several years before, based on her disappointment in Raymond. She believed he would never amount to anything. But now, with his global breakthrough, she came back to him. Though Richards believed her return to him to be genuine, she, of course, had other motives. Richards set up an quick, romantic, candle-light dinner. He prepared it all by himself. All except for the wine, that is. His ex-wife said she had just the drink to celebrate this tremendous occasion. She slipped into the kitchen, poured each of them a glass of wine, and then poured a few drops of Richards' famous gasoline into the beverage. To make a long story short, after one sip of the liquid, Richards fell down dead, right there on the spot."
"It killed him?" asked an emotional Donny. Our contact went on to inform us that Richards was, indeed, pronounced dead by investigators later that night. "Whoop Grass..." Donny pondered out loud.
"Yes, gentlemen. This is the Whoop Grass you have been tracking down. As you have seen in your past few cases, Whoop Grass, if ingested, can be fatal. However, our story does not end here. You see, Mr. Richards only consumed one small sip of the gasoline. Somehow, it was not enough to kill him. Though he was pronounced legally dead at one point, later that night, Richards came back to life. The tiny dosage of the poison was just enough to knock him out temporarily! Once re-animated, Richards was broken out of the morgue by his former lover and they retreated back to their secret laboratory - a cave dug out beneath a well-known American landmark. It is there that they resume their love - an evil, maniacal love. But it is not love for each other, no. No, they couldn't care less about each other. It is their love for technological advancement that drives them - even to the point of insanity. And now they are building an army to take over the country. Their army is growing by the dozens every week. They travel around the country on a weekly basis to recruit followers."
"But why hasn't anyone been able to stop them?" I ask. It's a little hard to focus on the story, but I'm really trying. The bikers in the bar below have broken into a drunken chorus of "God Bless America"...
[GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD BLEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMEEEEEEEERICAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA...]
"It's not that simple, Aaron," she says dismissively. "Nobody knows it's them... until it's too late. They travel the country under the guise of two of America's most beloved friends."
[MYYYYYYYYYY HOOOOOOOOOOME... SWEEEEEEEEEEEEET.... HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME!]
"We don't understand," spouts Craig T impatiently. We tried to recall all the information we'd obtained so far. A car crash, a movie theater. No, that would have nothing to do with it... A punch bowl, a clown... A clown... Two beloved American friends... "Wait," says Craig. "Barnum and Bailey? They're traveling with the circus?"
"I knew you'd catch on," says our contact slyly. "Very good, Craig T. And you must stop them. They are planning to travel to America's biggest cities and poison main water sources with their Whoop Grass. They create diversions by parading clowns through the streets."
[GOOOOOOOOD BLESSSSS AAAAAMERICAAAAAAA! MYYYYY HOOOOOOME... SWEEEEEEEEET... HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME!]
The music draws to a merciful close and we're left with silence in the room. "Are they coming to Denver?" I ask the contact. She nods with a small grin. She motions to the window of the loft. Craig T and I get to our feet. Donny stays seated, looking at a circus program. We walk quietly to the window and look out at the city. We scan the skyline from left to right. Everything seems normal. Nothing unusual to speak of, anyway. We return to our seats.
The contact raises an eyebrow. "They're already here." That's when I hear the first gunshot downstairs.
[To be continued...]
Hmm... That was exciting! Hey, guess what? I forgot to get a Guest Blogger this week. Terribly sorry. If you want to be next week's Guest Blogger, feel free to let me know.
The Shoutout of the Week this week goes to whoever got me sick. Great job. You gave me something to blog about. Oh, and here's a Shoutout to Sister Picture Lady in North Carolina. Happy birthday to you.
Well, that's about it for this week, kiddos. I think I'm out of stuff to say. Let me double-check. Um... Yeah, that's it. Nothing else. Ok. Well... See ya.
Until next Time,
Move It! Sell It! And Leave the Door Open!
Aaron
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