… and helped change a nation for the better.

Rosa Parks, dead at 92.

I just got out of the shower and got dressed. It is now 1:21. I’m writing this post instead of feeding the cats — Tippy is meowling at me from atop the dresser. She only meowls when I need to feed her or change the litter. (Or when I lock her in the front room by accident). Guy is stretching and trying to look nonchalant.

I’m the laziest person ever.

I need to not try to make myself shots, because the day after (i.e., today?) my throat is owwwwww!!!! I think I may have overdone it on the Butterschnaps in my poor attempt at making Buttery Nipples. Can Butterschnaps go bad? Truth - I’ve had this bottle for like three years. Either that or making a Buttery Nipple in a non-shot format (i.e., filling 1/3rd of a glass) is bad for my throat.

But they’re sooooooo good.

I do love me some Buttery Nipples.

(Yaeger’s not that bad either, but I was already pretty toasted so that probably softened the blow … thanks Eric, that was ze good).

Dreifus Bane haunts the spacelanes of the future. He’s the bane of the interstellar shipping community (ha-ha!). And, frankly, his pirate ship is pretty bad ass.

From the Brickshelf Gallery of Danny Rice:

There’s also a write up at Classic-Space Forums

Upon his resurrection, Dreifus Bane started off small, killing of and pillaging small astroid outposts and moon vacation homes. Eventually, after summoning enough undead minions and aquiring a large escort frigate for remodeling, he recreated the ship with which he had dominated the Pacific in the 1500s: the Scourge. This ship is known across the galaxy as the evil that leaves its victim settlements in clouds of toxic gas.

Undead Pirates. I think ACW’s gonna orgasm.

So I pulled into the Enroy Station up at Hess & Jarrettsville Pike today after a delivery. My tank was not quite dry, but getting there. I do the routine - swipe the card, select “Cheap Ass Gas” and start pumping. Except, I couldn’t get the fucking nozzel into the fucking tank — the tank’s opening was too small. And I was like, “…the fuck?”

Then the dude in the adjoining lane said, “I didn’t know they made Dodge Neons with a diesel engine!”

Whoooooops. I was at one of the dual regular gas/diesel gas pumps. I’d grabbed the wrong hose. I’m very glad they make them in different sizes, or I’d have some ’splaining to do to the rental company. “Uh…”

Silly Snay.

A lot of Gary’s buddies live or work in or around the area of the Indy shop. A few of the not-so-close friends expect free or discounted food. At least once a day, I’m forced to talk to one of these people, and the conversation usually goes something like this: “Thirteen bucks for a large pepperonni? Hey, I’m a buddy of Gary’s - he never charges me that much.”

Sometimes it might be Zinkhan or Noz or He-Man on the phone, but Gary’s close buddies are well known to the store crew because they have a habit of showing up and bullshitting with Gary about guns, life, football, booze, women, etcetra. When Gary’s not working and they show up, they bring their wallets — often, I’ll discount the price if I’m working the counter and if they don’t ask for a break. (If they slip me a five-spot, well, they’ve pretty much got free run of the kitchen.)

So when some bozo is on the phone trying to tell me that he’s Gary’s bestest-buddy-of-all-time, my general response is to tell him that if he’s such the bestest-buddy-of-all-time, he should call Gary on Gary’s cell phone and ask Gary to tell me to alter the price of the order. Otherwise, yeah, you’re paying thirteen bucks for a sixteen-inch pepperonni and you’d better be expectin’ to tip, too, or believe me — Gary will hear that his “bestest buddy ever” is a stiffer.

And that’s a good way for Gary’s “bestest buddys” to lose any discount privileges they may have deluded themselves into thinking they had.

**

Saturday night was the first night since spring that I worked the night shift at the Indy. It was pretty slow — I took eight runs and was out after three and a half hours. Mark was managing, and Jamal the big scary Rastafarian was the closing driver. Midget Porn Girl’s (who quit last week) friend Jo was the “phone bitch” (technically, “phone/sub-line bitch”) for the evening.

As the night drew to a close, some random dude called in an order for a few subs. Jo made the order, and Jamal took it out the door. About five minutes after Jamal left, the customer called back wanting to change the address for delivery.

Jo took the phone call and okayed it. I wouldn’t have done that, but that’s me. I mean, I’m sorry, but when you place an order, what possible motivation could you possibly have to deliver it somewhere else? Robbery? There’s something suspicious about the whole matter. That, of course, and Jamal was already out the door — Jamal can be a bit of a phone whore, and of course, he was when Jo was trying to call him. Long story shot, Jamal returned to the store and mentioned that he’d gotten to the original address just as the customer was about to leave for his sister’s house (the address he’d tried to switch the delivery to).

A few minutes after Jamal got back, the phone rang. This time Mark answered it. Guess who? It was the customer on the phone again, screaming and ranting. Seriously, I was back by the microwave organizing my tip money (waiting for Mark to check me out) and I could hear the guy over the phone across the kitchen. Apparently someone had put jalapeano peppers on his sub and he was furious. Mark apologized and offered to replace the sub and send it out ASAP.

The customer refused. He cussed, screamed, name-dropped Gary, and demanded that his bestest-buddy Gary’s employees stop “smoking weed, drinking on the clock, or what the fuck ever” and get our “shit straightened the fuck out before I have to come down there and kick your mother fucking retarded asses into place.”

(In fairness, this guy might have known Neal — ah, Neal, the dude had a beer bong hooked up in his Four Runner’s engine block somewhere. He had a breathing tube-thingy run into the truck’s ashtray. He’d be driving along and take a totally covert hit. He routinely made empty 2-liters into bongs. I’m not a fan of the weed myself, but it marijuana ever becomes legal, Neal’s “Awesome and Cool Car Bongs” will be a fuckin’ billionaire. Neal’s been gone for a year and a half, but he’s a legend. A fuckin’ legend.)

Mark, as you might expect, wasn’t all that happy with this bozo. Nevermind the name dropping, “He doesn’t even know what address he wants his food at, and I’ve got to get my shit together?”

Look, the Indy isn’t a fancy corporate place with a computer system. Those places, aw man, you’ve got order histories, directions, notes on complaints and so on and so forth. If we had one of those, we’d probably put a note in his file, something like, “Asshole. Name dropped Gary. Extra topping on everything: spit.” But, really, what are we going to do? We could always write, “[So and So] at [Address] complete douche-bag. Deliver last, always.” and tack it to the wall above the counter, but there are hundreds of notes about store policys and procedures, customer credits, and so on and so forth. Information gets lost on that wall. Long story short, shit like this happens, we just burn the fucker’s place down. There’s always a supply of rags and bottles of flamable substances in the back, and really, it’s just simpler for all involved.

Can I hear it for justice by molotov cocktail?

Actually, Gary’ll come in tomorrow to find a note in his office detailing the situation with his buddy’s name and phone number. If that guy really is Gary’s friend, he’s most likely going to get the, “If you ever talk to my employees like that again, you will forever be incapable of doing anything with your penis. Capiche?”

(Kidding. We never spit in anyone’s food. Even the asstards’ food. Mineral oil … different story).