Eastbound Sandwich
BT Beauties,
There's a nice feeling when I open this stupid goddamn Blogger page to see that no one has left a comment for quite some time. Christ, I'm usually surprised that anyone even stops by here anymore. It's not like I've got anything important to say.
Seriously. There's got to be a better way for you and I to spend what little time we have left. I'm amazed that I even bother logging into this piece of shit. What's the point, really? Is this what I've been reduced to? An old vet trying his hardest to keep up with the times? Truth be told, the times have left me behind like a redheaded child with violent explosive diarrhea...
...and no pants.
Last night, Jack (the bar back) and I were shooting the shit. I told him how much I hated my fucking job serving the same shitheads the same beers and drinks night after night after goddamned night.
This probably isn't what he wanted to hear, epecially since he's hoping to someday become a bartender like his old buddy Bill.
It didn't phase the young bastard one iota.
Instead, we started talking about shit jobs we've had. I told him about how I was in the Korean War for crissakes and he said he knew that, that everyone knew that. He also reminded me of the plaque he bought for me as the Secret Santa.
"Oh, right," I mumbled.
I talked about working at the hardware store (and the break-in Murray the Jew and I staged), I mentioned when I used to sell shoes to fat women, and how I was also a security guard for a hotel back in the 70's. All shit jobs.
Wouldn't you know it? Jack had an ace in the hole. The young prick had me beat.
Apparently, a couple years ago he was really desperate for dough. So much so that he worked at a new sandwich place out here in Jersey. They were just getting up and running and since East Coasters are such pricks about their sandwiches, no one would give the place the time of day. So, Jack's boss got the idea to rent a fucking sandwich costume and have his employees dress up in it, stand out by the interstate and wave people in, dressed like a goddamn club sandwich.
They all took turns, but one morning Jack came in for work late. He'd blown his fucking mind on booze and the marijuana so he wasn't feeling so hot. He was what he called 'feeling greasy.' He had the trots, the dry heaves, etc.
Well, his boss wasn't having any of it. In fact, he was so pissed about Jack being late (to his third shift on the job) that he made Jack wear the fucking sandwich get up all day. Now, normally this would be a gift. If you're feeling like a loaded diaper and retching, being away from food is the best plan. Especially if you can be outside and breath some moderately fresh air.
Jack said it was a fate worse than death. Stuck inside the sandwich, breathing his own stink and dry heaving as he flagged cars down to come on in and have a fucking sandwich for Christ's sake.
I nearly pissed the pants I had on listening to his story.
"It gets worse," Jack warned me.
"Then keep fucking going, son," I said, sipping the rest of my warm beer.
About an hour and a half of dancing around like an asshole, his own asshole started doing the shuck n' jive. He turned and his stomach sounded like a goddamn thunderstorm was rolling in. Only it wasn't going to be a thunderstorm. Shitstorm was more like it.
Jack didn't know what to do. If he ran back to the store (which was forbidden) his manager was going to can his ass. If he didn't, he was going to make the inside of the sandwich suit stink something fierce.
So, he did what any hung-over male outside a busy interstate with the trots dressed in a sandwich suit would do. He dropped his pants and squatted.
He said he didn't care. No one could see his face, but almost everyone that was heading eastbound saw an unforgettable sight. A giant sandwich with legs was shitting his guts out on the side of the road.
Halfway through the ordeal, the stink wafted up to his nose and he began to vomit. He positioned his head down to puke down and out through the opening where his legs were. He said he threw up all over his own cock and legs.
It must've looked like the sandwich was literally dying on the side of the road.
I'd have given my shriveled left testicle to see that.
Jack let me know that once he was done, he removed the suit as best he could, left it on the side of the road and after pulling up his pants, hitchhiked his way home.
In retrospect, he'd never felt better.
I've never laughed so goddamn hard in my life. Proof positive that I'm a sick son of a bitch. Other people's misery puts a smile on my stupid face.
There's a nice feeling when I open this stupid goddamn Blogger page to see that no one has left a comment for quite some time. Christ, I'm usually surprised that anyone even stops by here anymore. It's not like I've got anything important to say.
Seriously. There's got to be a better way for you and I to spend what little time we have left. I'm amazed that I even bother logging into this piece of shit. What's the point, really? Is this what I've been reduced to? An old vet trying his hardest to keep up with the times? Truth be told, the times have left me behind like a redheaded child with violent explosive diarrhea...
...and no pants.
Last night, Jack (the bar back) and I were shooting the shit. I told him how much I hated my fucking job serving the same shitheads the same beers and drinks night after night after goddamned night.
This probably isn't what he wanted to hear, epecially since he's hoping to someday become a bartender like his old buddy Bill.
It didn't phase the young bastard one iota.
Instead, we started talking about shit jobs we've had. I told him about how I was in the Korean War for crissakes and he said he knew that, that everyone knew that. He also reminded me of the plaque he bought for me as the Secret Santa.
"Oh, right," I mumbled.
I talked about working at the hardware store (and the break-in Murray the Jew and I staged), I mentioned when I used to sell shoes to fat women, and how I was also a security guard for a hotel back in the 70's. All shit jobs.
Wouldn't you know it? Jack had an ace in the hole. The young prick had me beat.
Apparently, a couple years ago he was really desperate for dough. So much so that he worked at a new sandwich place out here in Jersey. They were just getting up and running and since East Coasters are such pricks about their sandwiches, no one would give the place the time of day. So, Jack's boss got the idea to rent a fucking sandwich costume and have his employees dress up in it, stand out by the interstate and wave people in, dressed like a goddamn club sandwich.
They all took turns, but one morning Jack came in for work late. He'd blown his fucking mind on booze and the marijuana so he wasn't feeling so hot. He was what he called 'feeling greasy.' He had the trots, the dry heaves, etc.
Well, his boss wasn't having any of it. In fact, he was so pissed about Jack being late (to his third shift on the job) that he made Jack wear the fucking sandwich get up all day. Now, normally this would be a gift. If you're feeling like a loaded diaper and retching, being away from food is the best plan. Especially if you can be outside and breath some moderately fresh air.
Jack said it was a fate worse than death. Stuck inside the sandwich, breathing his own stink and dry heaving as he flagged cars down to come on in and have a fucking sandwich for Christ's sake.
I nearly pissed the pants I had on listening to his story.
"It gets worse," Jack warned me.
"Then keep fucking going, son," I said, sipping the rest of my warm beer.
About an hour and a half of dancing around like an asshole, his own asshole started doing the shuck n' jive. He turned and his stomach sounded like a goddamn thunderstorm was rolling in. Only it wasn't going to be a thunderstorm. Shitstorm was more like it.
Jack didn't know what to do. If he ran back to the store (which was forbidden) his manager was going to can his ass. If he didn't, he was going to make the inside of the sandwich suit stink something fierce.
So, he did what any hung-over male outside a busy interstate with the trots dressed in a sandwich suit would do. He dropped his pants and squatted.
He said he didn't care. No one could see his face, but almost everyone that was heading eastbound saw an unforgettable sight. A giant sandwich with legs was shitting his guts out on the side of the road.
Halfway through the ordeal, the stink wafted up to his nose and he began to vomit. He positioned his head down to puke down and out through the opening where his legs were. He said he threw up all over his own cock and legs.
It must've looked like the sandwich was literally dying on the side of the road.
I'd have given my shriveled left testicle to see that.
Jack let me know that once he was done, he removed the suit as best he could, left it on the side of the road and after pulling up his pants, hitchhiked his way home.
In retrospect, he'd never felt better.
I've never laughed so goddamn hard in my life. Proof positive that I'm a sick son of a bitch. Other people's misery puts a smile on my stupid face.
posted by Bill Tabernacle at 3:24 PM
6 Comments:
Hi Bill
sorry to spoil that 'nice feeling' by leaving a comment, but I just wanted you to know that there's at least one person who stops by (from the UK) on a regular basis. What you have to say might not be important (your word, not mine) but it sure is entertaining.
here here, I second that.
entertaining for sure.
I third that second. Thanks Bill.
I have a crush on you.
Do you have a Valentine?
Long past Valentine's Day,
and no posting yet?
Great story - but hope there is another one soon.
This tabbie is definitely getting restless and in need of a tabernacle update.
Katie
Oh, my word. I think I just peed a little in my pants while I was reading that.
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