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T-File_15____November_26_2005
- Greasy Turds of Spite -
By Emoticon
_______________________________________________________________________________________
\ HATS: HATS Are Totally Sweet ________________________________________/
\___________________________________________/ "Because tastelessness is a virtue."
_______________________________________________________________________________________
Fucking shit man, the cable's been out for three days. I called Cartel \
Communications on Sunday morning, pissed off, and finally, three days later, this |
greasy little turd shows up in the Company Van. |
He comes in and takes a look at my sad blinking modem and tells me to reboot my |
computer. What the fuck is with these "technicians" and their fetishistic passion for |
rebooting? Maybe it's some Windows thing. Whatever. I didn't do it. (Linux 2.6 on a |
Pentium III takes a while to boot up and I don't shut down any of my systems without |
good reason - especially not at the whim of some ugly little turd.) |
He looked through a very official looking spiral bound book, probably trying to |
find out what the protocol was for handling such a hostile customer, and after some |
uneasiness went outside to check the lines - but not before dropping a festering shit |
bomb in my bathroom. <
He asked to use the crapper where he gave birth to what must have been a shit the |
size of bowling ball, purely out of spite. Reluctantly the little turd waddled out, |
ten pounds lighter and got to work on the lines. I pulled on the HAZMAT suit and went |
to work cleaning up the bathroom. <
A couple hours later and the ugly little turd had fixed the problem, at least |
temporarily. He was sitting in my room, lackadaisically shuffling through some |
paperwork for me to sign. He mentioned that when he ran some new temp cables, he went |
around my driveway instead of across it because he didn't want it to "look retarded-" a |
comment for which he immediately apologized, as emphatically as if he thought perhaps I |
had an extra chromosome. <
"So you go to West College?" he asked, eying some paper on my desk; I nodded. "Good |
stuff!" The turd prattled on about the fraternities, which ones had the best parties, |
but said he never went to college, in a somewhat satisfied tone. He nostalgically |
reminisced about missing his chance to go to school, and confided in me that when he |
worked in New York as a contractor he had 20 buildings "under his name," whatever that |
means, but now his job was much less stressful. <
Then the conversation got really interesting when he saw my X-Box, which had been |
dormant for a couple of years, and started telling me about how great "360" is, and |
that it was well worth the 16 hours he had spent in line just a day before. <
"Give me the fucking paperwork, you disgusting little turd! Let me sign it and get |
the fuck out of my house. Go play your fucking video game in the solitude of your |
parents' basement and let the world exist without you, you greasy little cretin!" <
That's what I should have said. Instead I sat, dumbfounded, listening to his |
pathetic rambling, signing the forms as they came. Sometime later he shook my hand, |
before I could avoid his disgusting appendage, and left. I felt as if I had been stink-|
palmed - times a million. <
I nearly scalded my hand exorcising it of the certainly demonic foulness with which |
that vessel of putridness of a cable-guy had been cursed. While scrubbing relentlessly |
I noticed the stench of the spiteful turd had returned to fill the room, and was now |
becoming increasingly bold. The smell was denser and more tangible than the counter, |
than the faucet, than my very own hand. I could reach out and touch the stink which |
was now far beyond the realm of earthly potency. <
I left and returned with my cleaning gear, to begin scrubbing. When I lifted the |
lid of my once innocent toilet, the horrific imagery inside that bowl was almost |
unspeakable, and certainly unbelievable. Inside the old American Standard was a bloody |
fetus made entirely out of shit, but unmistakable nonetheless. Its umbilical chord |
extended into the infinity of my plumbing as it bobbed, lifeless in the ceramic womb. |
_______________________________________________________________________________________/
