Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
When Sally got home from school one Wednesday, she knocked on her mothers' door.
"What is it?" her mother called. Mrs. Thorin was a busy woman; she did not have time for much of Sally's 9-year-old prattle today.
"Mommy," Sally's shrill voice cut through the oak door. "There was a strange man today. A strange man that kept following me. He kept asking me questions."
Mrs. Thorin jerked the door open. "They have stalking laws to prevent that sort of thing! What did he look like?"
"He was old," Sally said, "and he had a big mustache. He said he was my father."
"Alleged father, young lady. I never let him take a paternity test."
"Then what, Mom?" Sally pouted, "Am I adopted? An issue of marriage?"
"Well, That Man and I were married at one point, but we had irreconcilable differences. I had you after we divorced. He tried to go for joint custody, wanted split custody, but got sole custody because he was a cheating, lecherous dirtbag. That means he's a noncustodial parent.
"What kind of differences?" Sally asked.
"Well," her mother hedged, "it was a corporate resolution. It was so serious, they even wrote it out and put the corporate seal on it. The man was not good for my career."
"But MOM," (Sally's brain was not moving too fast, as usual) "Why would the company care who you married to?"
"Well, my father, as you know, was the chairman of the board. he wanted to release more shares on the market, and he made divorcing that sleazy scumpod a condition if I wanted to keep my subscription right. He couldn't have had that sort of control if it was a public corporation, but it was a professional corporation."
The first thing an enterprising observer of the baser issues in life must do –besides locate the proper courthouse – is to decide on the content of the desired case. I, Madam Soon-to-be-Court Reporter took the lead from my fellow college delegates. I took their lead up to the sixth floor. I took their lead back down to the first. Finally, I found it. The menu.
I would like to submit into evidence Exhibit 1: the menu of the day, otherwise known as the court calendar. I scanned the day’s specials. There was certain allure to a homicide case being tried by a one Judge Savage*.
On the elevator, someone overheard our quandary. Two words were all we needed. Those words were “follow me”, and follow we did. We followed to Courtroom 41, a lewd & lascivious case being tried by a Judge Candy. Over the jury box, where the jurors would have to mutate into owls to see it, was a banner proclaiming “Jurors Make the Difference.” I find out through clever deduction that we are sitting in on a child molestation case. I deduced this from the judge and attorneys asking every juror if they’d ever been connected to a molester or molestee. One woman initially stated that she had, but it wouldn’t be a problem. Less than 10 minutes later, she decided it was. Oh well. Would that one more juror had bitten the dust so my favorite juror of the day could have taken the box. In his mid-20s, when asked what he did with his free time, the good-looking young man responded, “Mostly play video games, play my guitar…drink beer.” Life is good.
To lay the case out for any interested parties, I’ll summarize. An 11-year-old wakes in the middle of the night to his mom’s boyfriend getting personal with his “personals” while holding an abnormally large Chihuahua in his other hand (Really. That thing was too big to be a Chihuahua.). Upon the child’s awakening, Mr. Garcia says “Charlie”, aforementioned dog’s name, and deposits the dog on the bed. Then he goes to the wall and hits it, swatting, according to the victim, Jackson, a mosquito. Upon telling his tale to his mother in the morning, it is discovered that the elder brother also allegedly received alleged attentions from Tom Garcia. Panic ensues. Other incidents are now thought to be additional instances of molestation, like when Tom would sit in the bathroom while Jackson studies for a test and quizzes him through the shower curtain, et cetera.
The players are the People, a smartly dressed female attorney who constantly called the defendant “Tom” and stood close to the 11-year-old boy on the stand in a mothering fashion. The attorney for the defense was a man in a tan suit that had difficulty speaking above a whisper. In fact, I have it on good authority that Madam Court Reporter was going to strangle him herself if he didn’t speak up pretty darn soon. Mr. Perez-Tan-Suit refers to the defendant as Mr. Garcia, no doubt to attach respectability to him. Compatriots decide that he is an expensive private attorney. I agree. I also decide to stay for the cross even though I have my hours Just Because it looks Fun. He indeed starts the entertainment off with staying as far away from the boy as possible. I bet he’s afraid to appear threatening.
Let’s learn some testifying tips, shall we?
If you either want to change your testimony or you don’t like the answer that comes to mind, just say you don’t remember. After all, what can they do to you? Example (fictional):
Q. Do you remember telling your daughter that your neighbor’s dog would bite her if she left your property without telling you?
A. I don’t remember.
Q. Yes, you do.
A. No, I don’t. And you can’t make me remember.
Tip two: decide the mental age of your witness. Do not talk down to them. If you do, try not to make it too obvious. Here’s what not to do:
Q. Was Mr. Garcia always the one that initiated the wrestling? I’m sorry. I shouldn't have used such a big word. It’s okay. I didn’t know that word at your age either.
However, once you have decided your witness cannot understand words of more than three syllables, and you have informed him that you don’t expect him to, do not do the following. It makes you look like a four-letter word that means “cad” approximately:
Q. Have you spoken to your father about this situation?
A. The what?
Q. About what happened.
Mr. Perez-tan-suit, why would you use big words when little words will do?
How about this: Do child molesters really think that they can sneak in, molest a child, have the child wake up and then leave? Like, “hmm…maybe he’ll think it was all a dream.” All I can say is wishful thinking, much?
And while we’re on questions, how about some observations?
Judge Candy seemed to be paying little attention to the case. He reminded me of a carnival fortune telling machine. You stick a quarter in, and out comes either “Sustained”, “Overruled”, and “Approach the bench”.
Defense wanted to bring up a time when the kid said that a tornado hit his school, but he had actually dreamed it and thought it was real. Defense wanted to bring it up so bad that he snuck it in there three times. I could have played tornado Yatzee.
Let’s wrap up with testimony snippits:
Q. How did you know Tom was calling?
A. [The phone] said ‘inmate calling’.”
Q. What don’t you like about mosquitos?
A. They can crawl on you while you’re sleeping.
Note: this is not why people don’t like mosquitos. Keep that in mind.
Q. Why didn’t you see his hand?
A. Because I wasn’t looking.
That is all.
*names changed in an effort towards discretion
Monday, October 31, 2011
So. Found this gem on the pavement of my bus stop at 7th and J Street...mentioned it in 120s for you who were there.
As near as I can figure, the author is either a man or a woman (lol), so scenario one is:
Male. Let's call him Bob. Bob knew Helen for some reason. Maybe they were friends or maybe they were lovers, but things didn't stay tight like that. Helen's cousin (from San Jose) comes out for a visit. Maybe she's heard great things about Bob and wants to stake her claim. Bob isn't having any. So....Helen's cousin (from San Jose) goes around the town trash talking him. Bob isn't down with this, so stages a passive-aggressive note on a random sidewalk two blocks from the jailhouse.
Scenario two is more likely, as you've got decent penmenship and the unnecessary use of commas. (Come on...I'm right, aren't I?):
Female. We'll ignore the possibility that she's speaking of herself in the third person and assume this concerns three women. We'll call our main character Robin. Helen's cousin (from San Jose) heard about the rockin' times that Helen and Robin were having down in old Sactown and wanted a piece of that action. She trains on down, but Robin doesn't want anything to do with her. She's good with fast times with her bestie Helen. Helen's cousin (from San Jose) feels her offer of friendship spurned and begins to smear her already somewhat shady reputation around the streets. Robin goes passive-aggressive on her dirty blond head of lies and invective and posts a paragraph of doubtful prose.
In the comments, explain why her puncuation is incorrect lol
Friday, June 10, 2011
Ah, Mark Hill. Everyone's favorite intrepid burglar! And since I *do* love stories, here is a (somewhat) plausible summation of what went down...
Mark Hill was not your average young hoodlum. True, he had attended one year of community college and dropped out due to poor attendance and loitered…if he had time. He slunk rather than walked in order to avoid losing his baggy trousers, and it was true that he kept various colors of store-brand spray paint in the back of his '87 Ford clunker pickup "just in case." What made him special, unique even, was that he had a real talent for picking locks. And that his father was
It was hard being the son of a cop. Mark had sold the last of his Christmas presents to pay for his skunk habit, but he needed his next fix. He could feel his fingers twitching with a nervous jitter as he slunk down the street by Mr. Foster's house. Mr. Foster, a friend of his father's, presented a fine picture of what obese, balding men looked like on a riding lawn mower with no shirt on. Mark winced and tried to unsee what had just been seen.
The roar of the mower cut out. "Mark!" the man yelled, and Mark looked up, trying to focus solely on the face.
"Yes, Mr. Foster?"
"I'm taking the lady out of town for a few days; see the sights in
"Sure," he mumbled, continuing towards home. An idea began to percolate. Gone for a couple of days? He craftily matched this information with his lock-picking skills and came up with a plan. A plan to rob someone who practically deserved to be robbed.
The next night, Mark was ready. He'd laid out his night-walking costume consisting of dark blue jeans, his brown hiking boots, and his mother's old black windbreaker when she had been pregnant with his younger brother (now at Harvard). From his spy tower on the second floor, he had seen the Fosters load up into a dangerously swaying motor home and drive off. The house
was decidedly empty.
Mark was pretty sure his parents were asleep, but he tiptoed past the master bedroom and out the back door. As he crossed the road all careful-like, Mark was feeling pretty proud of himself, felt like a real thief. And it was actually kind of thrilling.
The front door lock was a breeze. He sidled into the den and beheld enough equipment to fill Ali Baba’s treasure den. He headed over to the 73 ½ inch plasma screen monstrosity and began to unplug the wiring. Mark didn’t know how he was going to get it out, but he knew he was going to somehow.
Then it hit him. The jitters. It had been 3 full days since his last hit, and only one thing cured the cravings. He just had to hope the Fosters were his kind of people.
The kitchen was spartan, the item of main importance obviously the extra large refrigerator and freezer (no doubt filled with frozen pizzas and other such delicacies). The fridge, how
ever, yielded the desired items: Kraft American cheese singles.
He plopped that package on the island and got down to work. Unwrapping each slice of cheese was kinda annoying, but what’s a guy to do? When he needs his Kraft, he needs it.
Mark was in the throes of his sixth slice of the evening when he heard a step on the stoop. Why would someone be here? He shoved the rest of the package into his voluminous back pocket and made for the back door. His fledgling burglary attempt was about to turn into a fiasco!
In the hall nightlight, he saw the face of the interloper. Curses! He made for the back door, but felt his knees yanked out from under him. The man yelled “On the ground, Mark!”
Mark gave a mighty kick, hoping to score somewhere above the knee and below the abs, but got the gun belt instead. The gun belt of a Littleton Police Officer. Damn! Mark thought he had recognized that face. It was the face of the first baseman on the police baseball team. He wiggled free and ran…but only until the copper wire of the taser snaked out and zapped his brain silly.
The officer suddenly thought he smelled burning cheese.
Ten minutes later, backup arrived…along with Chief Hill who was still in his robe and slippers. “Mark…” he said, “Oh Mark, what am I going to do with you?”
Wow Mark. Sucks to be you.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
I got to thinking about those games and retreats that highly paid execs go to where they learn to trust each other, fall, and receive multiple awkward backrubs. Even though we’re not very highly paid, MexiGong employees deserve to experience this magic.
And I’ve thought of the perfect way.
If you read the title of this post (I know not all of you do), you probably know what I mean.
There are plenty of interesting places to hide “treasures” around then place here. I’ll let you guess which ones I have actually found items in thus far:
- Inside the trash doors, but not inside the trash CAN
- Inside the cubby under the soft drink area, but to the side
- Behind the seat cushions on a funky black ledge
- Inside the water reservoirs of the toilets
- Jammed up inside the seat cover dispenser in the men’s bathroom
- Taped under a table or chair
- Hidden inside a soap dispenser next to the bag of soap
- Tucked up under the men’s sink in the insulation
Although all of these are good ideas, (and I’m sure I’ll see them in use eventually), the answers for now are E and H.
I think the issue of the men’s bathroom is that it doesn’t have a trashcan. I mean, when it comes down to it, what normal thing needs to be done routinely in a man’s life in a public bathroom that can’t wait an hour? (Hrmmm…don’t answer that) So, when a man needs to take care of a little extra baggage, he’s going to try to find a way to stash it so that the next man (or MexiGong employee going in to clean the bathroom) won’t see, remember who came out last, and JUDGE.
The first set I found was E: Seat cover dispenser. “What?” you ask. And I would say, “An empty 4-pack of AA batteries and the packaging for KY Massage Oil For Him And Her.”
Then we would both collectively say “Eeeeeww….”
I ask you…really? I mean, I’ve got ideas for that batteries, but the other is confusing. In a MexiGong bathroom? REALLY?
As for the other item, this one I really like. I had leaned over to pick something off the floor (with gloved hands of course) and noticed an object in the H hiding place. What could it be?
It was a mostly empty bottle of Southern Comfort, I tell you! It had about a fifth left in it. I proudly bore it to the back, dodged into the break room and took a pic for you all (with my camera phone!) and tossed it in the trash. Then I invited the rest of the workers and my manager to see my prize.
Again I ask. Really? I may be heading into conjecture here, but I’m really trying to figure out the circumstances of this one.
There you are on a Monday, and by golly you need a drink! You go to the liquor store and plunk down $8.99 plus tax for a plastic bottle of Southern Comfort.
Now, you don’t want to go dumping something that’s 100 proof on an empty stomach, so you feel like a little MexiGong to take the edge off of that initial rubbing alcohol buzz.
“2 crunchy tacos to go” you say, and then “a water cup,” because of course, just because that’s what it’s called doesn’t mean that’s what you’re planning on putting in it, right? ‘Cause that would just be dumb.
Plus, you’ve already got a beverage.
You down those crunchy tacos like a crocodile yanking a struggling zebra down to the bottom of the river. Now you REALLY need a drink to dull the crunchy edges of those tacos hitting your stomach lining.
You head into the bathroom—some place private.
Before you realize it, 4/5s of the bottle is gone!
That’s all right. It wasn’t like you were planning on sharing it anyway.
Now’s where we start diverging:
But then people start knocking on the door. After all, it has been an hour. In a drunken stupor, you accidentally ate the paper bag it came in, thinking it was a steak quesadilla with extra jalapeño sauce, and you can’t just carry the bottle out OPENly..sooo…you stuff it up under the sink; lodging it in the pipes and insulation.
Then, because you’re drunk, you forget it was there to retrieve.
You hear cop sirens screech to a halt outside the door. Crap! They know what you did last summer! (finally…) It will be even worse if they catch you will alcohol on your person (never mind the fact that you’re reeking of 100 proof), so you stash it and hightail it out the other door.
You realize that you are hungry again, so you stash the bottle and run out and get 2 more tacos. By the time you go back in, an intrepid MexiGong employee has removed it.
‘Kay, so in the comments, I would love to hear what explanations y’all can come up with for why I found this!