While metten continues his annual walkabout/bender/suicide attempt, please enjoy this excellent offering from Chuck in Belpre.

Being self-employed is a wonderful thing. I set my own hours and if I feel like having a slob day and sleep until the crack of noon I can. On the other hand I have a strict set of rules I hold myself to. One of those rules pertains to appointments. If I make an appointment with a client for 10:45 a.m. I am there at that time, or maybe even a few minutes early. Apparently showing up on time and ready to work is something that has gone the way of the steamship. Clients seem to be impressed with punctuality.

I have been feeling my age recently and that just will not do. Oh, I know that after more than five decades of living and abuse the body will start to break down a little. And not giving it the utmost in care doesn’t help much either. There was that period that passed in a George Dickel and Black Beauty haze. But it was fortunately short-lived. But, I am carrying more poundage than I should. Think large Chrismas goose. And the Winstons are not exactly contributing to my general well being. Most mornings find me horking up a gelatinous mass in colors of caramel or desert khaki.

So I bit the bullet and made an appointment with my doctor…better known as the Angel of Death.

My appointment was for 2:10 p.m. and I showed up at two o’clock on the dot. As I approached the receptionists desk I was once again amazed at how much she resembled Bernadette Peters in The Longest Yard, right down to the beehive hair-do. Well, if Peters was carrying an extra fifty pounds or so. I have had the same doctor for over a decade and yet she can never remember my name. I told her who I was and that I had a 2:10 appointment. She looked at her appointment calendar for way too long and then told me that the doctor was running a little late and I would have to wait. No big deal, that happens sometimes and it’s usually not a long wait. But I had to ask how long and she informed me that the doctor was behind on his rounds at the hospital and it would be an hour wait…or possibly longer. I am not easliy excitable and usually keep calm in most situations but I could hear the sound of rushing wind building inside my head as I thought of sitting in the waiting room for an hour or more. I mean how many times can you watch that educational tape that all doctors seem to have on a loop telling you in that condescending voice which cruciferous vegetables are the most healthy or how to lift heavy objects without throwing your lower back into spasms?

I figured if I had that much time I could put it to good use and get some errands done while the doctor made his way across town. I told Bernadette I would be back in about an hour and this is where Rod Serling entered the office.

She told me that if I left I would be charged for a missed appointment and would have to re-schedule. I said, ‘But the doctor isn’t here.’ She said, ‘Yes, but you have a 2:10 appointment and if you leave then you will have missed your appointment. That’s office policy’. The wind in my head became tornadic.

I said, ‘So if I leave while the doctor isn’t here and come back when he is here I will still be charged and not get to see him even then? That makes no sense.’

‘It’s office policy.’ she said. ‘And you are holding up the line.’

I turned around and tried not to flinch but I think I made a noise like someone had stepped on a baby chick. Standing there was the largest human being I had ever seen. It was if someone had stretched a t-shirt down over a small haystack. I had no idea you could get Billy Idol shirts in that size. It had a mop of greasy hair and a beard that would have made Jerry Garcia weep. And it was wearing red sweat pants and flip-flops made from recycled tires. It spoke. ‘I have a 2:15.’

I told him the doctor wasn’t here and he said that was ok with him. ‘I seen a new People magazine over there I haven’t read yet.’

I guess there are plenty of pictures in People. I would have bet anything that he moved his lips as he read.

So I sighed heavily and did what any red blooded tough guy would do. I sat down and waited.

Remember…bend your knees and eat your Brussels sprouts.

First of all, because my lazy ass isn’t writing all that well lately, we’re running low on guest mocks.  We need more, so like those greedy bastards at the Red Cross – we’re gonna badger you until you write something… Elle? BlondeGoddess? ShinyRod? Chu’s Hot Sister? Skully? DTO? Chuck? Big Mike? Zazu? Big Bear in Ohio? Bueller?  Bueller? Bueller?

This week features another excellent offering from Taiwan On.  Read it, then go to his site and read that and then come over here and give me a hug…ya big oaf.

I like to read. A good book makes you feel that you are not alone. There are other human beans that have thoughts other than “Me eat now” or “What’s on TV?”.

Recently, a friend of mine had the chance to visit Taiwan for a few weeks. He was stuck in a hotel, so I loaned him a few books so that he could have something to do other than masturbate or watch the idiot tube (or both simultaneously – fun!).

When he left Taiwan, he thoughtfully returned the books and, I guess as a “thank you”, he included a book that he had purchased. I will not cite the book title or author because, well, the book that my friend gave me is possibly the worst book ever published. And I don’t want to make James Patterson feel bad about writing “Cross Country”.

I made it through the first 42 pages and, after throwing up a bit in mouth, I had to stop. It was already Chapter 12! Note to fellow readers – if a book has chapters that are two pages long then burn that book immediately. Screw the greenhouse affect. The book must be burned.

I am sure that this “book” was purchased in an airport convenience store. It has a professional book cover with an embossed title and everything. And, get this, the book cover has the phrase “#1 New York Times Bestseller”. That has to be impossible. It’s like saying that the St. Louis Rams are the “#1 Football Team”. Or that Uzbekistan is the “#1 Tourist Destination”.

From my brief stomach-turning read of the “book”, this guy named Alex Cross is a down-to-earth guy that won’t let the “man” get in his way. Here are some quotes from the “book” – just incredibly bad. How does this shit get published?

- “I wasn’t soft. If anything, I was still too hard, too unyielding, too uncompromising.”

- “They wanted to scare somebody, I was thinking as I entered a brightly lit, warmly decorated alcove.

- “Or maybe one very smart killer, trying to keep us guessing”.

I could go on but it would just get worse. It is surprising that the author even knows what an alcove is. Apparently this “book” is the 14th installment of the Alex Cross series. I have just one thing to say (which I have said before in other mocks): Stop. Please stop.

If you’d like to contribute a Friday Guest Mock please send it to mockable[at]gmail.com  If it’s funny and won’t get us sued, we’ll most likely feature it at the site.   And don’t forget to include the address to your blog or website, so we can link back at ya.  Thanks

Caveat: I can’t do footnotes here so I have substituted parentheses. Sue me.

I just finished reading Bill The Sports Guy Simmons’ “The Book of Basketball” and I have two things to say:

1) I absolutley devoured it, loved it, and will probably read it again so I can pick up the parts that I missed when I was a bit sloshed.

2) I am wicked pissed.

I grew up in the Boston area but I was never really a basketball fan, so I never became a Celtics fan. I was a one sport dude – the NFL.

In 1984, at the tender age of 25, I moved to LA (LA in the mid-80′s, 25, and single. Let’s just say that fun was had and brain cells were killed). A good buddy of mine from college had also moved there and he was a basketball junkie. So I started paying attention to the NBA while we were out for after-work beers, and I just simply got hooked on the Lakers (Showtime), and by association (no pun intended) the NBA in general.

Those were the days. For a sporting event, you just could not beat the Lakers vs. the Celtics (or, really, the Lakers vs. anyone and the Celtics vs. anyone). And here’s the thing. At the time, the true Lakers fans did not hate the Celtics (except for Danny Ainge). We wanted to beat the crap out of them, but only because we respected them. Beating the Celtics was validation that you truly had a good team.

But the Pistons? We H-A-T-E-D them. Everyone did. Including people who did not even follow the NBA. I think there were extraterrestrials that hated them.

So anyway, Bill The Sports Guy Simmons writes this seven thousand page book and never once gives credit to the ’89 Lakers and the Magic/Byron backcourt. By 1989, Magic and Byron were in the ESP zone (get it?). They could pretty much do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. That does not make Byron Scott a Pyramid guy, but it does make him the perfect complementary guard for the Magic/Lakers backcourt.

To irritate Bill The Sports Guy Simmons, I will now give statistics to prove my point.

Regular season? Whoops, not so good here. But you gotta give Magic and Byron credit for dragging Kareem around for his final year. And the Lakers were cruising off of two championships, so they knew what it takes to get the championship. Cruise in the regular season, go full out for the playoffs. (They did just this, but I have to mention that one of the few things that irritate me about Magic is his “Winnin’ Time” slogan attempt. I mean, he tried, but it just didn’t work.)

Playoffs? Since 1984, there are only two teams that have gone undefeated in the Conference First Round, the Conference Semis, and the Conference Finals. The 2001 Lakers and the 1989 Lakers. The 2001 Lakers got props in Bill The Sports Guy’s book. The 1989 Lakers? No mention. Here are the pre-Finals records for Bill The Sports Guy Simmon’s Elite Ten (post-1983):

The ’91 Bulls: 11-1

The ’97 Bulls: 11-2

The ’01 Lakers: see above

The ’89 Pistons: 11-2 (Lost two games to the Bulls before MJ knew how to win. Two games. Yeah, what a juggernaut.)

The ’87 Lakers: 11-1

The ’96 Bulls: 11-1

The ’86 Celtics: 11-1 (Oh, the vaunted ’86 Celtics lost a game? To the Hawks? In the Conference Semis? Gimme a break.)

It just goes to show how hard it is to win 11 games in a row during the NBA playoffs. But the 1989 Lakers did it. And then, just before the ’89 Finals, Magic and Byron got hamstring injuries and could not play. Guess what happened after that. No Three-Peat. (By the way, I threw in the Three-Peat reference just to irritate Bill The Sports Guy Simmons.)

Outside of the stats, you just had to be there. We knew the Lakers were going to win. It was a given. A lock. Like knowing that the latest episode of “24″ is going to end in a cliffhanger.

And then our backcourt got a hammy. Fuck the ’89 Pistons. Fuck Isiah and Rodman. And and extra-double-Fuck Bill Laimbeer.

Bill Simmons, you are the Bill Walton of NBA writing. Truly gifted (style, substance) but fatally flawed (Laker hatred). And stop sucking up to Isiah. With Magic and Byron healthy, the ’89 Pistons would have gone down in 4.

This weekly installment of our Guest Mock series is being handled by our pal DTO.  Who continues to crack my shit up.  You can catch him over here for more. I highly suggest you check it out.

And now for the cruel, cruel mockery….

About a year or so ago, I was passed on some words of wisdom. I guess it was wisdom because words of wisdom can sometimes make no sense whatsoever. The words have been stuck in my head and eating away at my every sense of rationale, looking for the true meaning of the seemingly sage advice. I have played it over and over in my mind, taking it apart word for word and even going so far as to write it down and change the words around to perhaps chance upon the true cryptic message begging to be heard by all of mankind. At times it would lead me into the deep funk of depression, feeling alone and abandoned. Could I be the only one who just doesn’t get it.? Are people laughing at me, knowing all the time the meaning is obvious?

I have always taken pride in myself of being able to grasp words of wisdom and find the meaning in philosophical quips. Things like…”It is the calm soul who hears the breaking wind”. And, “To go there, you must start here”. And, “He who travels to learn, learns to travel”. And…”Face away from the wind when you seek relief”.

So you can see and imagine my surprise and frustration in not being able to decipher and bring into my daily life, another piece of the puzzle in life’s mystery. It is only now for the first time ever I will admit to all who read my words, I am at a loss and ask for advice. I can no longer torture myself and those around me who take me for a fool. I must surrender to the wiser and calm my soul so that I too can once again hear the breaking wind.

Please help me in my goal to learn the meaning of… “It takes a village to write a good dick joke”.

If you’d like to contribute a Friday Guest Mock please send it to mockable[at]gmail.com  If it’s funny and won’t get us sued, we’ll most likely feature it at the site.  And don’t forget to include the address to your blog or website, so we can link back at ya.  Thanks!

This special Monday installment of our Guest Mock series is being handled by our pal bigbearinOH.  Check it out, go down to the comments and say something nice for a change, would ya?  Your mother would be proud.  On with the mockin’:

You are insane. I cannot stand you. A list of reasons why is below.

1. Your insane lack of personal space awareness

1. If you are sick, especially with the flu, either stay home, or stay 4+ feet from me at all times.

2. If you tell me your kids are sick with something that sound strangely like the Ebola virus, stay 5+ feet from me at all times. I don’t need that.

i. If your kids have been up all night and are sick, I do not want to hear details about texture, color or quantity. I don’t have kids, and even if I did, I still wouldn’t care about yours.

ii. If you can’t get them into the doctor, do not bring them into work. I do not want your little snot-nosed minions of death bringing their virulent walking corpses into contact with myself or any of the surfaces in our workspace.

2. You have no idea what you are doing here.

1. If you do not know the most basic details of your job, please find another job. We work with the public on a daily basis, and are expected to know most details of our job. You obviously do not, and make no effort to learn them.

i. Learn to Google. It is a valuable skill, and will even help with your atrocious spelling and grammar habits.

ii. There are various job aids that are available to us, and even paid training seminars. Please look up/attend these. I don’t have all day to answer your questions, it’s just not fair to my customers.

iii. If you are going to leave for lunch, let your coworkers know in advance. I have a 1:15 lunch date, and you walk up to me at 1:10 and say that you’re taking a 45 minute lunch to smoke in your car—I don’t think so.

3. You refuse to show up.

1. I don’t have a problem with you being here, just show up when you’re supposed to.

i. If the schedule says 9:45, show up before 10:15. That’s all I’m saying on that one.

ii. Do not complain when your check is short because you didn’t work any hours. It’s not my fault that you’re poor due to a lack of hours.

iii. Do not blame your kids or your parents. You are an adult. Take responsibility for your own situation.

iv. It is not your landlord’s fault that you can’t get out of the driveway. You rent a house, shovel the snow off the driveway or get a snow blower. Plan ahead. The roads will be plowed, I promise. This is Ohio.

v. If you find it necessary to leave early, make sure it’s a valid excuse. If I see you one more time out in public on a day when you were supposed to be sick, I’m going to hit you with a weed eater.

vi. Don’t complain because you already used your FMLA up. It’s not my fault you faked an illness for 6 months.

4. There is a dress code here for a reason.

1. The company provides you with a set number of business casual shirts. If you could wear these, and only these, we’d really appreciate it.

i. They’re supposed to be tucked in, and worn with khakis. Not brown colored jeans, khakis.

ii. If you’re going to wear gaudy earrings, at least make sure they’re not annoying in any way. I’m talking about jingling, spinning or otherwise novelty earrings.

iii. Nobody wants to see your lower back tattoo.

5. Separate your personal life and your business life.

1. If you took 2 phone calls a day, and made them quick, it’d be fine, but 12+ phone calls during an 8 hour shift, averaging 20 minutes a piece, means that you only worked for 4 hours, two more of which were probably taken up by smoke breaks or your husband stopping in.

i. If he’s going to stop in, make it quick.

ii. If you’re going to smoke, at least have the common courtesy to shut the back door, and don’t do it while I’m having lunch.

iii. If you’re making a phone call, do it off the business floor.

iv. If it’s something pressing or business related, fine. If you’re gossiping about your neighbor, do it at home.

6. Don’t ask me to borrow money, find your cousin a job, or use my connections to help you out.

1. My connections, both professional and business, are mine. Do not ask me to “hook you up”.

i. I will not help you find deals. See point 2Ai—learn to google.

ii. I will not let you have my customers because your sales are down.

iii. Do not expect me to lend you money, because I know you won’t pay me back.

This weekly installment of our Guest Mock series is being handled by longtime surf reporter Big Mike.

It has happened to all of us. You are walking down the aisle shopping and you walk into a fart cloud that someone left hanging there. Well that someone might have been me.

I love to go in a store and rip a big stinking fart and then run off. It is even more fun to run over the next aisle and listen to the reaction of the person that walks through it. I’ve heard nothing and I have also heard cussing, laughing and even a few compliments on what a good one that was.

I’ve even got my wife doing it now. If we are somewhere in public and she farts, I always say something like “Good one honey” or “Wow that was a good one dear”. I usually say it really loud too. She will sometimes let a silent one and wait until I smell it before we move down the aisle. We usually move very quickly.

You have to be a little bit careful in your hometown so your neighbor, minister, mailman, etc is not the one that walks up on the gift you left in aisle 3. When you are out of town, you can just let them rip. We were in a Wal Mart in a different town recently and I ripped a fart walking through the front of the store. A little girl beside me grabbed her Mother’s sweater and said, “Mama, that fat man over there just walked by me and farted!” I just threw my hand up in the air like a courtesy wave you give when someone lets you in traffic and kept walking. That was my gift to them.

Another way you can have fun with farting in public is a game I call “Elevator Roulette”.

Here is how you play:

You are in an elevator alone. You fart.

You win if the elevator stops at your floor and nobody gets on.

You lose if the elevator stops at or before your floor and someone gets on.

Losing can be a pretty uncomfortable situation.

If you get on an empty elevator and there is a fart smell already on there, you know someone else just won that round of “Elevator Roulette”. It is now your turn to play.

If you’d like to contribute a Friday Guest Mock please send it to mockable[at]gmail.com  If it’s funny and won’t get us sued, we’ll most likely feature it at the site.  And don’t forget to include the address to your blog or website, so we can link back at ya.  Thanks!

A few posts ago a guy from Iowa (me) talked about his recent trip through the south. I had no idea, but according to Caveboy it appears that there are assholes in Iowa too. Of course I’m kidding the place is filthy with them – I’m almost sure that he’s talking about the license station on Sixth Avenue in Des Moines. But still, I kinda miss the place…Anyway, here’s Caveboy:

Growing up in the South, especially the rural South, you take a lot of things for granted. Like snow that melts in less than a day. No deposit on beer cans. The lady at the place where you buy your license plates knows you, your mama and daddy and she never gives you any grief when you don’t exactly have all the correct paperwork. She just leans over her desk, pats you on the back of the hand, and says “Honey don’t worry about this, we’ll get it figured out”. This is not the case all over this great land of ours.

Some years ago when I lived in Iowa I traded vehicles. That transaction in of itself was relatively painless (if you don’t count the severe ass reaming I took on the price, but my wife wanted to trade, so whata ya do). At the time of purchase we traded our existing vehicle, a minivan, on the newer vehicle, also a minivan. As is custom with most automobile purchases the cost of transferring tags, sales taxes and all the gubbmitt stuff is handled by the dealer and our transaction was no different. We took the plates from the traded vehicle signed the paperwork and off we went.

We owed a few hundred dollars on the trade in, so we made the necessary payments to the bank holding the note and forgot about it. Well the car dealer where we traded started calling about the title for the traded vehicle. After much hassle and numerous phone calls we obtained the original title for the traded vehicle. Many of you may know, I damn sure didn’t, that you can’t trade vehicles in the state of Iowa with an out of state title. You must transfer the title to the state of Iowa for a nominal fee of $15.00. They type up a new title right there on the spot and hand it to you.

So I proceeded to the clerk’s office to transfer the title from Tennessee to Iowa and informed the lady behind the counter of my intentions. She asked for the Tennessee title, which I produced. She then typed up the Iowa title, handed me the Iowa title and asked me for $15.00 transfer fee. I said “I already paid this fee when I bought the car, plus I ain’t got $15.00. I didn’t really, but I wouldn’t have paid it even if I had had it, I don’t like to pay for things twice. Well she got a really pissed look on her face tore the Iowa title up and said “Come back when you get this straightened out!” So I left.

Luckily the car dealer where I had made the trade that was just across the street from the courthouse and by the time I had explained the situation to them and they had offered to give the $15.00 the courthouse was closed. So I agreed to return the next day, a little earlier at that to allow for any additional governmental, and I stress the mental, scenarios.

Day two of operation Title Change began as any other. I got up and went to work and made arrangements with a friend of mine to get to the courthouse. So at about 3 p.m. I goes into the clerks office again. Knowing that I had left the previous day on less than cordial terms I thought the best approach on this day would be the old “hat in the hand” tactic, wrong. I approached the counter and began to apologize profusely for the misunderstanding of the previous day. It was a different government employee than the original foray into this ordeal. A middle aged woman that I guessed to be about five feet tall, as her rather large breasticles rested precisely on the counter that I estimated to be about 40 inches high. I’m sorry for the wandering, but large boobs always get my attention no matter what they’re attached to. Any way, once I had made my apologies and professed my ignorance in all things pertaining to buying a license plate in Iowa, and I did pour it on. The lady turned around and yelled toward the back of the office “That guy from Tennessee is back, what should I do?” and from somewhere out of the maze of cubicles came “He got a damn break yesterday, he ain’t getting one today!” “This is not going to end well” I thinks to me self. So she pulls out this list of things that I need to complete this mission. First, the old Tennessee title, check. Now the $15.00, gotcha. Ok Mr.“I ain’t got $15.00 where’s the registration from the old vehicle, why right here ma’am. I’m being as polite as I possibly can, as it appears that I might just pull this off. Now the next request just stripped the hair right off my scrotum. “I need $40.00” the large chested paper jockey demands. “For what?” I reply trying to keep my emotions in check. “The tags on the old vehicle have been expired for a month, and you have to bring the tags current before you can transfer the title, the $40.00 is for the one month” She comes back. Now I think most of you out there in Munchkin land have already guessed my snappy comeback, but I’ll give it to you anyway, “I ain’t got $40.00!” “Well then we have a problem” says ole Big Boobs. Hoping to ease the tension and get out of paying the extra forty dollars I banter back “No I’m the one with the problem” and laugh. Man them Iowa dames is tough, damn tough. She didn’t even crack a smile when she said “You’re right you’re the one with the problem”. So out the door I goes, back to the car dealer. I really didn’t have $40.00 and would have to wait till payday to come up with it. The good folks at the car lot inform me that it was the last day of the month and if I didn’t take care of it today that I would have to pay a fine of something like $175.00, something that the Nazi Hag at the courthouse forgot to mention. I thought about calling my wife to see if she had any money squirreled away, but is was less than 20 minutes till the clerks office closed. So I asked the folks at the car lot if I could borrow the 40 bucks, and I promised I would pay it back (yeah right). The 40 bucks was secured and I was off to the courthouse yet again.

Luckily when I returned there was no one at the desk so I could pick up where I left off. Having the 40 bucks and feeling not much else could go wrong I decided to obtain a little clarification of this whole ordeal. I asked the lady “I gotta buy plates for a vehicle I haven’t owned in over three months?’ Her compassionate response “That’s right”. Still not having the title in my paws I dialed it back a notch and handed over the forty dollars and to this day what happened next absolutely floored me. This gal walks over to rack where the new license plates were stored picked up a matching pair (another thing why does Iowa make you use two license plates, when most cars don’t have holder on the front, I got a story about that too, but it’ll have to wait) opens the plastic wrapper, takes out one of the plates, puts the little sticker in one corner, puts it back into the plastic bag, then walks over to another table pulls out this big honkin manila envelope, puts the license plates into the big honkin envelope, puts on some sort of mailing label, walks back to counter where I’m waiting, and hands me, what had taken me two days and $55.00 to get, the golden title. Then she picks up the big honkin envelope, slides the plates out, picks up some kind of form and writes the number from the plate on the form, puts the plates back in the envelope, seals the envelope, turns around, hands me the form and says “Finish filling out this form, and mail it to the address in the upper right hand corner, and you’ll get your forty dollars back’. I lost it. “You’re kiddin me, right?” “I made two trips in here put up with all this guff and I get the forty dollars back!” “I had to buy license plates for a vehicle I haven’t owned in over three months, just so you could put some plates in an envelope?” “Why not just give me the $40.00 back tear up all this paper work and save the state about $200.00 that’ll it cost to process all this crap!” “That’s not how it works” was all she could muster.

And as I exited the twilight zone I thought to myself “Self what the hell just happened?” Then it came to me, a line from one of favorite movies “Field of Dreams”, “Is this heaven?”, “No it’s Iowa.”

One of these days I’ll tell you about the time I sat out more than my allowed limit of garbage for pick up.

Remember nuthins free, so send money. Caveboy out

We’ve got a few mocks in the bank (including a couple from Zazu) but we could always use more…especially if you haven’t written one in a while.  You know the drill – no manifestos or racial slurs – otherwise fire them off the mockable (at) gmail and we’ll throw it up here on Friday morning or some other day when metten drank too much the night before (which is most nights).  Thanks! We really appreciate it.

In what’s quickly becoming the rule rather than the exception, I am relying on the guest mock to get me through another Monday. This one is from “Enraged” and it’s pretty good.  Unfortunately, Enraged didn’t give me a site to plug or anything.  And as we all know, it’s difficult to find someone who’s enraged on the internet, so we may never know their true identity.  I guess it will always be a mystery, at least we’ve got the kickass mock.  And each other, of course:

Will somebody go deal with that lady at the window? We're busy back here!

Every once in a while, I decide to go through a drive thru, mostly because I would rather not deal with the crowds and the obesity that often comes with going inside a fast food establishment. When going through a drive thru, often times my experience is always a bad one.

I’ve come to realize that it must take a college education to take orders and make sure everything that is supposed to be in the bag is actually in the bag. In retrospect you, yes you the employee, must have a tremendous amount of stupidity crushed into that minuscule brain of yours. Does it take a lot of brain power to fake politeness or even a scrap of intelligence? I fake politeness at my job, and I am a lowly cashier as well as you are. Perhaps my job is a step up from serving heart attack burgers or artery clogging death fries, but I do believe the concept of faking politeness is the same here as it is anywhere.

Being a gangsta or a snappy no nonsense female is out of the question. I want smiles, and fake cheerfulness, and I want you to be able to read what I have ordered and be able to apply it. What say you this; you come to my store and I “forget” to put something in your bag. Would you be angry with me? Would you complain? Of course you would. So don’t give me that exasperated sigh when I pull around again and point out that you forgot my fries. It isn’t my fault, it is yours you stupid woman.

If I acted the way you always seem to act to me, the employees of your dining establishment would call me all manner of things and do god knows what to my food; so while you sigh that exasperated sigh, and talk to me like a “gangsta” I am forced to take it with gritted teeth and the thought, “Never again.” Of course, I don’t mean it, and you’ll be seeing my face through your window next week.

What disturbs me the most is that you handle my food. I don’t even know if you wear gloves, or for that matter, actually wash those nasty nose picking hands. If I do ever get the courage to say something (Like the brave Jeff Kay), I know I can never return, and there is the risk of you “accidentally” dropping my food on the ground.

That is something I cannot risk, and perhaps that is why you think you can be so rude. You can get away with acting that way to the customers. Yes, you idiotic excuse for a human, you have the power over me.

Anyway, I know your job sucks, and I understand that it is tiring, but if it is the only job that does not require a drug test for you to work there, I would expect that you would put a little bit more effort into making sure customers are happy.

Today’s Guest Mock is provided by Chuck in Belpre, and it made me want a cigarette.  I was able to resist, but if you want to come over and smoke several cigarettes in my general vicinity…well, I wouldn’t be opposed to that. You can see more from Chuck at cwahart.com. On with the mock:

I enjoy smoking. There, I said it. I enjoy that first hit of nicotine in the morning, that rush of well-being that greets me as I pour the day’s first cup of coffee. And after a good meal there is nothing that can compare to leaning back in satisfaction and lighting up. The smell of fine Turkish tobacco lit with a wooden match is like the finest perfume. A cigarette held lightly between the fingers looks somehow cool and elegant. The slow curl of smoke under the bedside lamp is a dramatic way to end the day, the cares and worries of the day blown away in a fragrant, gauzy cloud. Yes, I enjoy it.

Oh, I know that my lungs probably look like the inside of a truck tire. I look at it as a toughening process. I am able to stroll through forest fires and Indian restaurants without so much as a choke or wheeze. Weekend BBQ or brisket smoking contest? Let me in there, a little dense mesquite smoke is nothing to me.

Smoking was once a socially acceptable form of slow motion suicide. Now those of us who still maintain the habit have been branded as social lepers and the Health Nazis are closing in on us. It’s only a matter of time before they finally get us. I can only imagine that smokers will find themselves meeting outside of towns across America under cover of darkness to share in the joys of our evil habit, trading brands as if they were collectibles. It will be a dark time and I fear it’s not far off.

First it was only dire warnings on cigarette packs and snotty looks. Then they lobbied to ban smoking in public places and the politicians went blindly along. From there it was a small step to ban smoking in the workplace. Then it was restaurants and finally bars. We were herded outside to huddle together in all sorts of weather and made to suffer the stares and jeers of non-smokers. I maintain that the collapse of the economy is due, at least in part, to the actions of these health nuts. Productivity dropped as more and more workers were forced away from their desks and work stations to grab a quick smoke.

Never mind that these same Health Nazis allow their own children to gorge themselves on fast-food, deep fried pastries and sugar laden colas. Oh, some of these health nuts insist on eating things like tofu and sprouts but, by and large, vegans are still looked upon as strange and sinister so meat-eaters are safe. For now. But, don’t get smug. Make no mistake you are next. Be afraid, be very afraid.

So, there you have it. If, like me, you still enjoy a good smoke then be warned. Our time is short so enjoy that smoke while you can. I know I will. In fact, I have a Winston burning in the tray even as I write this. It smells wonderful…like Freedom on a warm Spring morning.

If you’d like to contribute a Friday Guest Mock please send it to mockable[at]gmail.com  If it’s funny and won’t get us sued, we’ll most likely feature it at the site.  And don’t forget to include the address to your blog or website, so we can link back at ya.  Thanks!

He doesn’t write here regularly, so it’s kind of a guest mock – but he’s been a Surf Reporter for at least 20 years longer than me so who the hell am I to call him a “guest”?  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls – I give you the Angry White Guy:

Dear people who dress up their pets:

What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have deep need for a child so badly that you need to put your dog or cat in a dress….or a cloak….or a bonnet …for your own twisted satisfaction and photo-op needs. Yes, take a picture, plaster it all over the ‘net. We will all look at it, snicker for a few seconds and then think what a fantastic loser you must be in order to purchase this outfit with your pet in mind, go through the ritual of braving the razor sharp claws to dress Fluffy, and get that snapshot before said animal runs under the bed and plots ways to get at your jugular vein while you are sleeping.

My son made friends one time with a kid from a fairly well-to-do family. They often invited us over to dinner for shit like snails (with a cucumber based dipping sauce) and quail eggs…things I would never eat if my life depended upon it. However, that was not the worst eccentricity they possessed. They had two poodles, Ricky and Lucy (why should I disguise their names, Ricky and Lucy will never read this) that were brother and sister. Upon the first visit with the Trumps (OK, not their real name…I always referred to them as gay Dad and lesbian Mom to my wife, who hated my characterization of them), they politely introduced us to Ricky and Lucy. (“AngryWhiteGuy and Child Bride, meet Ricky and Lucy…Ricky and Lucy, this is AngryWhiteGuy and Child Bride”). Yes, the introduction went EXACTLY that way. I looked down and saw two poodles the size of sheep with fucking berets on their heads. So I laughed, thinking that the Trumps might just have a sense of humor and dressed the Ricardos in berets to break the ice. Lesbian Mom looked at me as if I had worn brown shoes with blue pants (which I had) and seemed to think I had no fashion sense (which I don’t) regarding my choice of shoes and her effeminate dogs’ choice of headgear.

So the evening uncomfortably lingered until snail and quail appetizers were picked over. Dinner was served. I had this fear…yes! I was correct, it was lamb. How could I pretend to eat lamb at the white linen adorned table? I couldn’t. I had passed on the snail and quail and stuck with the ass flavored cheese assortments. I noticed a smaller table next to the big table. I figured it was for the smaller children, my daughter and their adopted Sudanese child (trendy!). Then, I noticed eight place settings at the table. No way! Yes, it was true, the Ricardos were joining us for dinner. Gay Dad lisped “Ricky! Lucy!” and they had been dressed to the nines for dinner. They trotted out in red vests and kilts. Ricky also had a bow tie and a top hat, while Lucy had a sleek looking tiara meshed into her fur. They took their places at the little table and the well-to-do couples’ maid, Rose, brought them each a freshly cooked piece of liver, and placed it in their nicely labeled (with their names) china bowls on the small table.

The evening dragged on and after dessert, (French Silk pie and phlegm, or maybe it was flan, of course) Ricky and Lucy were put into nightgowns and caps for bedtime. This was the first of many dinners, and costume changes, with these psychopaths that I had to endure, until my son decided that their kid (no doubt created out of pressure from the grandparents) was just a spoiled little punk, and he wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

If you are the guy that photographs those big brown hounds for a living, or the woman that dresses up the babies and makes calendars for a living, I have nothing against you. That’s your niche and you found a way to capitalize on the system to become rich. Good for you. If you dress your pets because you think the animals actually like it, you are a delusional basket case and I believe you need therapy. I know you’re out there. The pets don’t like to be dressed up. Just ask them. I’m sure you will hear them answer you.

By the way, have I shown you the Christmas photo of our cat dressed as Mrs. Santa Claws? It’s priceless.

Sincerly,

AWG