Miraculous Man Journal Entry: 4/18/2013

Today was a horrible day for justice.  I, Miraculous Man, made an inexcusable mistake.  I suppose there is a first time for everything, but there should never have been a first time for this.

I was making my rounds at Wal-Mart, looking for any injustices being committed against my customer service brethren.  I had almost finished my way around the track, as it’s referred to, and had yet to see any mischief afoot.

As I passed by the Garden Center, an animated discussion ensnared my attention. There seemed to be a heated exchange between a customer and an employee.  The customer seemed quite agitated and was flailing his arms about while he spoke cacophonously.  I made my way towards the duo so I could ascertain the situation.

Top 10 Magic Eraser Moments

Day 6.  I’m losing control of my faculties.  Light continues to fade.  It keeps growing darker in this hole.  I’m losing hope.  No one will ever find me in here.

Oh, wrong day 6.  It’s actually my sixth consecutive day of participating in the Daily Prompt. We are in uncharted territory here.  The final frontier.  We’ve gone we no man, no one, has gone before.

By now you’ve surely deduced that my coffee is in full effect.  I’m rambling already and we haven’t even gotten to today’s prompt.  How fun is this going to be?

And really, stop calling me Shirley.

Ready, set, go!  Prompt me!

You have the choice to erase one incident from your past, as though it never happened. What would you erase and why?

Moving Fails

[Update:  I just realized that this is my 700th post.  Yay?]

Greetings, Stuph Maphia™, I’m blogging from my new home at the convenience of my much-missed 24″ monitor.  Oh how I missed thee.

Anyhow, Operation: Move My Shit From Two Different Places Into One Single Place has been completed.  There were many bumps in the road however.

Customer Service Fails: Something Just Hit Me!

Once upon a time (as opposed to once upon no time), I was born.  But that’s not what this story is about.  Mostly because I don’t remember it.  No, this story happened roughly 18 years afterward.  

Daily Prompt: Sweet Sixteen

When you were 16, what did you think your life would look like? Does it look like that? Is that a good thing?

When I was 16 I had no idea what my life would eventually look like.  I didn’t have time to ponder it and, quite honestly, didn’t care.  I was as concerned about the future as the 1% is about the poor.

Miraculous Man and the Stressed Out Simpleton

IT HAD BEEN A HORRIBLE day for Ralph up to this point. His 10-year old son had woken him up just after midnight retching and vomiting all over the house. First his bed, then the bathroom.

It was 1:30 before he had gotten all of the vomit cleaned up and he was back in bed, so he decided to turn off his alarm and go into work whenever he woke up in the morning.

Big mistake.

It was Christmas break and there had been a winter storm the day prior. When he dropped his child off at the sitter he found the roads in the sitter’s subdivision had not been treated and were covered with a solid sheet of ice. To make matters worse, there was an uphill climb to get into the subdivision and another to get out. It took Ralph over an hour to traverse this wonderful winter wonderland.

So Ralph ended up arriving to work three hours late. Perfect.

Even with a 5-hour work day his day still sucked. As is typical, Ralph’s boss did nothing and left all of the work for Ralph to do. Things that were supposed to be done by 10 o’clock were still left undone by the time Ralph arrived at 11.  And so he had to do them in addition to getting 8 hours of work completed in 5 hours.

Five hours of nonsense and agony later, Ralph left work for the day.

With a crummy night, a crummy morning, and a stressful day of work behind him, Ralph headed to his local Wal-Mart to return a shirt he had received for Christmas that was one size too small.

He arrived to find that line for returns stretched all the way to the store’s entrance.  Ralph waited patiently in line to be led to a register where he could return his shirt. Well, he exuded patience, but inside he was starting to seethe. He’d had a terrible day and this was doing nothing to improve his mood.

It was roughly an hour before he arrived at a register where he could return his shirt.

“Good evening, sir. What can I do for you?” the kindly cashier asked him. She was extremely young and her demeanor perky. Probably a college student, Ralph thought to himself, irritated.

He threw the shirt atop the register. “I need to return this shirt,” he said, making no attempt to hide his frustration.

The perky cashier, whose name tag read Cynthia, was unfazed by Ralph’s scowl and surly disposition, and maintained the cheerful smile she wore upon her unblemished face. “Do you have a receipt?” she asked jauntily.

Ralph irritably shook his head no. “It was a gift,” he snapped.

“That’s no problem,” she explained. “The UPC is normally on the tag in the back. I won’t be able to give you cash back, though. I can only give you store credit without the receipt.”

Ralph waved a dismissive hand towards no one in particular. “Whatever. I just want to get out of here.”

“Sure thing!” Cynthia said happily.

Cynthia dutifully picked up the shirt and examined the tag on the back of the shirt. She then began busily keying numbers into the register. A moment later the register beeped angrily and the display facing Ralph read “Item not found.”  A look of dismay fell upon Cynthia’s face and she began keying numbers into the register again. The register again beeped angrily and notified them both that the item could not be found.

Cynthia looked to Ralph and asked, “Are you certain this shirt was purchased at Wal-Mart?”

That was the last straw for Ralph. He had reached the end of his rope and the fuse had been lit. “It’s a Wrangler shirt, for fuck’s sake!” Ralph exploded.

Cynthia was taken aback. “I, I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered, “but the register does not recognize the UPC code. Kmart sells Wrangler, t-”

“It came from fucking Wal-Mart!” Ralph roared. “Not from Kmart. Wal-Mart!”

Despite Ralph’s hysterics, Cynthia was able to maintain her calm. “Okay, sir, I’m going to need you to calm down please. I am not required to assist you if you insist on speaking to me like that.”

“The fuck you won’t!” Ralph continued to rage, “All I want is to return this fucking shirt and to get the f-”

Ralph was suddenly lifted bodily from the ground. Two arms had snaked around him from behind and plucked him from the floor. His momentum quickly changed as he abruptly started headed rapidly toward the floor.

Ralph was thrown down forcefully onto his left side. He attempted to brace his fall with his left hand, but was not able to raise it fast enough. Instead, Ralph slammed into the concrete floor shoulder first, snapping his clavicle. His head then struck the ground violently. Ralph lost consciousness momentarily.

When he looked up towards his attacker through dizzy eyes, what he saw befuddled him even in his semi-conscious state. Amid the clouds in his vision, he saw a man standing over him dressed in a blue jumpsuit with a black terry towel tied around his neck. The man wore a dirty hockey mask, concealing his face.

Confused beyond comprehension, Ralph just laid there, writhing in pain.

CYNTHIA GASPED AUDIBLY WHEN SHE as she witnessed the ill-dressed man hoist her irate customer easily and heave him brutally to the floor. She overcame her shock quickly, though, and demanded the man, if he could be referred to as such, explain himself.

“What did you do that for?” she queried, aghast.

“For you, madam,” the perpetrator responded in a regal tone. “I could no longer sit idly by and watch this contemptible buffoon affront you any longer.” He then lifted both hands up and held them out in a noncommittal gesture. “Your thanks are not required, m’lady. I was merely doing my duty,” he announced while bowing deeply.

“This is not okay!” Cynthia exclaimed loudly, suddenly infuriated. “You can’t just assault people because they’re meanies!” Cynthia could not recall being so angry before.

“But, but,” the ill-dressed sputtered, confusion evident in his voice.

“No!” Cynthia screamed while simultaneously pulling her cell phone from her pocket. “I’m calling the police!”

By now, a massive crowd had gathered around the scene while Ralph lay on the ground groaning and holding his head with his uninjured arm as if he were combating a migraine.

“You ignorant fool!” the man in the blue jumpsuit spat through his grimy hockey mask, “I am Miraculous Man! Protector of my customer service brethren everywhere! If you report me to the police you will be branded a traitor to the cause!”

By the time Miraculous Man had finished his rant, a 911 dispatcher had answered Cynthia’s call.

“911. What’s your emergency?” the operator droned.

Cynthia had barely begun to report Miraculous Man’s assault of Ralph before Miraculous Man unleashed a fiery verbal barrage.

“Idiot! Imbeciles like you perpetuate the abuse our customer service brethren endure! Judas! Heretic!” Miraculous Man paused to catch his breath before continuing. “Shall I assist this fool to his feet so he can continue to berate you?” Miraculous Man inquired whilst gesturing to Ralph, who was still laying on the floor dazed and confused.

“Uh..” was all that could escape from Cynthia’s mouth before Miraculous Man’s verbal onslaught resumed.

“If you wish to continue to be walked upon and mistreated that is your choice. Dunce! There are plenty of others who would love to be rescued in such a fashion. I take my leave of you! Traif!”

His tirade complete, Miraculous Man spun and strode away with his head held high. Cynthia, and most everyone else in her peripheral vision, simply stared as he walked away, not sure what else to do.

Eventually, Cynthia turned her attention back to her phone, when the cries of the 911 operator finally penetrated her stupor.”Ma’am? Ma’am? Ma’am?!?!”

“I’m here, “Cynthia answered. “He just left.”

Cynthia finished describing Miraculous Man’s ridiculous attire, and recounted everything that had happened. Eventually, the police and paramedics would show up to take statements and to tend to Ralph. Ralph would apologize to Cynthia before he left, explaining that he simply had a bad day and had taken it out on her. He even spoke to Cynthia’s manager and commended Cynthia for the way she handled the situation.

Cynthia couldn’t escape the feeling that her entire day had been a dream. It wasn’t of course, but she had at least gained an idea for her upcoming English project!

Relatable Song: (10) and Counting

I ask you, dear reader, is there a song which, every time you hear it, it reminds you of a certain period of your life?  A time full of happy (or sad) memories?  Do you get nostalgic every time you hear this certain song?  A song you can relate to?  When you hear the lyrics you can readily identify with them?

I do.  And I do.  And I do.

There are actually a handful of songs that instigate this nostalgia, but I’ll talk about one in particular today.  The song is called (10) and Counting, performed by Boy Sets Fire.

This song describes a time when you’re so downtrodden, so destitute, that you’re literally scraping to make ends meet.  In this song they dealt with the pain by escaping in alcohol, which is something I have never done, but nevertheless this song still reminds me of my senior year in high school.

My mother, my brother, and I all shared an apartment in Jeffersontown, Kentucky.  My step-dad (who is a ginormous douche-canoe who married my mother even though he was in the closet) was an over-the-r0ad truck driver.  He decided, for reasons I don’t know, to stop sending money home to help pay the rent.  My mother worked 3rd shift at Wal-Mart.  She barely brought home enough money to make her car payment and pay the rent.

So my brother and I got part-time jobs.  Well, mine was supposed to be part-time and it ended up being full-time which almost caused me to flunk out of school, but that’s another post for another time.  I got a job working for Mr. Gatti’s pizza and my brother worked for KFC.

The Colonel says, “It’s finger-lickin’ good, bitches!”

Because we both worked for restaurants, and we both closed every night, we were able to bring food home every night.  Since there was hardly any money for groceries this food was our salvation.

Each night my brother and I would get home at roughly the same time and we’d eagerly exchange our food as I was tired of pizza and he was tired of chicken.

“Give me the hot wings!” I’d yell.

“Give me the pizza, bitch!” he’d retort.

All of this was said endearingly, of course.

So we would trade food and leave the leftovers in the fridge for mom and for breakfast in the morning.  We literally subsisted on pizza and chicken for most of the school year.  I’d often get called in on my days off to work.  Being that I was working full-time, in addition to being a full-time student, I was frequently fatigued and indifferent when I received these calls.  But they knew all they had to do was say, “I’ll let you have a couple free pizza’s,” and I’d say yes.  Lord only knows what they thought of me for being so easy to bribe with free food, but that food fed my family so I really didn’t care what they thought.

Evidently it’s just Gatti’s Pizza now.  They appear to have dropped the formal name.  How gauche. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

On the nights I closed, I was able to make my own pizzas.  Mr. Gatti’s made their dough fresh daily and pitched whatever was left over at the end of the day.  So instead of pitching it all, those of us who closed were allowed to make our own pizza after everything was finished for the night.  My specialty was affectionately dubbed, “the mo’ cheese pizza.”  My brother and I loved this.  Each night I’d pile pepperoni and sausage onto the crust and then pile loads of cheese on the pizza – hence the name mo’ cheese - and, wa la, we had our pizza.  Once, cooked, this pizza looked like a lake full of melted, gooey cheese that you could just swim in.  And it was fantastic.

It was this cheesy, only more so.  I heart cheese.

In addition to going to school and working, my nights were spent caring for a one-year old girl.  See, one of my mom’s co-workers had been beaten by her boyfriend.  The boyfriend was convicted and sent to jail, but the coworker couldn’t afford to live on her own.  So mom let her move in with us.  She worked 3rd shift as well, so it was left to me to care for the daughter while they were at work.  Luckily the little girl was very easy to care for.  She was well-behaved and always slept through the night.

Some might say or think that these are sad, or even grim, memories.  The fact that we had no money for food didn’t matter to us as we were able to get food via other avenues.  We didn’t need gas money because both KFC and Mr. Gatti’s were within walking distance of our apartment.  I look back fondly on these days.  Even though we didn’t have much, we had each other and that was all we needed.  We had many a great time every night trading our food and telling each other about our respective days.  Plus, it felt a little rewarding to be able to help mom out in whatever small ways we could.  We both brought enough food home every night that the only thing we really ever needed to get from the grocery store were a few odd and end things such as napkins, paper plates, and stuph to drink.  Even though most of my money was going into a savings account so I could get my own car, I pitched in a couple of times to pay the utility bills.  This time in my life taught me a lot of lessons, the most important of which is this:  money doesn’t equal happiness.  You can be dirt-poor and still be happy.

Is there a song that makes you nostalgic?  What memories does that song evoke?

You might also enjoy…

• Daily Prompt: Mix Tape
• The Daily Prompt – An Audience of One
• Daily Prompt: Flawed
• Holiday in Lights

The Legend of Bobby Mackey’s

This past Friday a good friend of mine enjoyed (I hope) her umpteenth birthday (actual age redacted to protect me the innocent).  She decided to celebrate the occasion at Bobby Mackey’s Night Club.

For those of you not familiar, Bobby Mackey’s is a honky-tonk country club that features live music, line dancing, a mechanical bull, and is allegedly the most haunted night club in the country.  Per Wikipedia:

According to urban legends and modern folklore, the location allegedly houses a “gateway to hell” and is haunted by spirits including Pearl Bryan, whose corpse was found in a field several miles from the site in Fort Thomas, Kentucky. Unsubstantiated stories include Bryan’s murderers being Satanists who, according to fanciful tales, cursed the location and vowed to haunt everyone involved in prosecuting the case.^[4] Also according to urban legend, sometime in the 1930s a pregnant dancer named “Johanna” committed suicide by hanging in a dressing room at the Latin Quarter club, which then operated inside the building currently housing Bobby Mackey’s. Rumor has it that this deed was carried out after her father murdered her lover, a singer at the club, though investigations have failed to find police reports of this event ever having taken place. Furthermore, scholarly research into property music records, newspapers, and court files has failed to substantiate most of the fanciful claims made regarding the sanguine history of the location, and no connection between the site of Bobby Mackey’s and the Pearl Bryan murder has ever been established. Most who have studied the Bryan slaying have concluded any claims to either Bryan’s death or dismemberment at the Wilder, Kentucky structure are unsupported by a foundation of hard fact, and place these popular accounts into the realm of the tall tale.

According to Bobby Mackey, the site was originally used as a slaughterhouse in the early 19th century and later torn down for construction of a roadhouse that took on various names, such as The Brisbane, until he purchased it in 1978.

Sounds fun, yes?

No.

On the off-chance that one of the ghosts rapes you, they’re covered.

The part of the club that is allegedly haunted is its basement where the ghost of Johanna, the subject of Bobby’s hit record by the same title, allegedly resides.  You’ll notice I keep using the word allegedly.  That’s because in order to see this “haunted basement” (or Hells Gate as referred to by the locals) you must pay an additional $10 to take the tour on top of the cover charge to get into the place.

Well, fuck that, I thought.  I’m using the rest of my money for the alcohol I’ll so desperately need to make it through this night.

So, I passed on the haunted tour.  But what I saw instead was far more chilling and terrifying.  Rednecks.  Everywhere.  Folks, I saw more flannel shirts that night than I had ever seen before in my life.  Even more than any time I had ever visited a Wal-Mart store.  Even more than a state fair.  More than a Blue Collar Comedy show.  It was an obscene amount of flannel.

It was an tidal wave of flannel. And the tide was high. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then there were the cowboy hats.  They were not as prevalent as the flannel shirts, but they were plentiful.  I had never seen anyone wearing a cowboy hat outside of a country music video or the CMA Awards show.  It was a bit disconcerting.

The men’s room was the most frightening part of this establishment.  The bathroom consists of two urinal troughs and one stall that, even at a meager 5’7″, I can look over the top of the walls.  I hate urinal troughs.  Even though I fully support gay rights I’m still slightly homophobic.  I’m incredibly uncomfortable standing next to another dude while we both have our junk out with nothing in between us.  The copious amount of vodka I had consumed that night did nothing to ease that discomfort.

The line dancing was downright  horrifying.  Imagine, if you can, multiple people in a straight line dressed in jeans and flannel shirts doing the same dance with uncanny precision and timing.  It was like a hillbilly flash mob.

Lastly, there was the mechanical bull.  A few guys tried it, but it was mostly drunk chicks riding the bull.  What I noticed when the girls rode the bull was slightly humorous.  To me, anyhow.  Every once in a while, while a chick was riding it the bull would stop bucking and vibrate.  Intensely.  I can’t say for sure, but I have a feeling a lot of women who rode the bull that night got off (get it?) with wet panties.

IT WON’T COME OFF!! (Photo credit: Sonnett)

I felt all kinds of out-of-place there.  I was surrounded by denim and flannel while wearing a Michigan Wolverines shirt and khaki pants.  I don’t even have any attire in my closet that is appropriate for that place.  And even though I spent most of the 90′s listening to country music I may have recognized only one song that was played all night.  I’ve still yet to get rid of the stamp they marked me with after I paid the cover charge.

In all honesty, I didn’t have a horrible time.  The only thing that really bothered me was that I didn’t know any of the music being played and all the fucking smoke in there.  I’m a non-smoker, but I’m not a non-smoker that thinks that just because I don’t smoke that no one else should get to smoke either.  If you go to a bar you should expect to be inhaling second-hand smoke all night.  That’s just the way it is.  It was just horrible there, though.  I had a horrible headache by the time I left that night which lasted all the way through Sunday afternoon.  Two of the other people that went with me had the same troubles.  So at least I know it wasn’t just me.

All things considered, I don’t know that I would go back.  It’s just not my kind of place.

When did the holidays cease to mean anything?

When I was growing up, nothing happened on major holidays such as Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.  Every place of business was closed and you spent the day with family and friends.  If you needed anything on those days you had better have gotten it the day before or you were doing without.

Nowadays it seems like more and more places are open on holidays.  Especially major department stores such as Target and Wal-Mart.  Some restaurants are open, too, such as Golden Corral and Waffle House.  Christmas seems to be the only holiday left that most places still stay closed.  While I’m sure that this is great and convenient for those who don’t work for the aforementioned companies, for the people who work there it sucks ass.

I have two family members that work for one of the major retailers.  In recent years they’ve had to work on Easter and Thanksgiving.  Easter isn’t quite as big a holiday as Thanksgiving so it wasn’t a big deal.  On Thanksgiving they would have to work about 4 hours, which isn’t so awful.  They still had time to visit family and eat Thanksgiving dinner.

This year, Target has fucked that all up.  They decided, based on alleged customer polls, to start their Black Friday sale on Thanksgiving night at 10PM.  Not to be outdone, Wal-Mart has also decided to follow suit.  Because of this ridiculousness, my two family members not only have to work on Thanksgiving, but have to work 12 fucking hour shifts.  One has to work from noon to midnight and the other has to work from 2:30PM to 2:30AM.

What. The. Fuck.

So thanks to this idiocy, I won’t get to see two very close family members on Thanksgiving.  Don’t the people running these companies give a shit about the people working in their stores?  People are going to spend their money whether you have your sale on Thanksgiving or the day after.  Give your employees a damn break.  They work shitty hours, for shitty pay, doing a shitty, thankless job.  The least you greedy fucks could do is let them enjoy a holiday with their families.

It’s extremely pathetic how commercialized this country has become.  Every event has a sponsor.  Every holiday is used by retailers of every type.  Advertisements are everywhere.  Somewhere along the way corporations took over this country and fucked everything up.  Somehow, someway, things need to go back to the way they were.  When people valued family.  When values meant something.  When everything wasn’t trumped by the almighty dollar.

Busy week

I haven’t posted in a few days as I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off the last few days.

Saturday started with the twins’ first fall soccer game, at 9 in the fucking morning, and they got pounded.  They unfortunately are on a team with a coach who not only doesn’t know what he’s doing, but actually thinks he knows what he’s doing while not knowing what he’s doing.  And THAT is the most dangerous combination ever.  I feel sorry for my kids.  Well, quite frankly, I feel sorry for all of the kids on that team.  I could hear the other parents questioning what the coach had their kids doing. After two seasons of being coached by a guy who knew what he was doing, my kids are stuck with this loser because their normal coach moved up an age group with his son.  I’d have to write a completely separate article to describe all the ways their coach sucks, but I’m not going to because by the time I’m finished I’ll just be pissed.  I imagine I might reach that point tomorrow regardless and end up writing about it anyway.

Anyhow, after the game myself, Baby A, Baby B (that’s the twins for those having trouble following), and Baby C (my 7month old) all went to Great Clips and got haircuts.  Then we went (gulp) shopping.  God, I hate shopping.

Anyhow, Sunday’s already been spoken for, and Monday may as well not have existed.  I got home 6am after my nephew was born and slept until 3 in the afternoon.  I went and picked up the twins and Baby C then went to get an oil change at Wal-Mart.  The boys were supposed to have soccer practice but didn’t get to go because I was at Wal-Mart for almost an hour and a half for the oil change because apparently some heffer named Tiffany wouldn’t get off her ass to “audit” the oil change my car had received after the computer had randomly selected my car for “quality assurance.”

Tuesday I spent most of the evening after work visiting my brother, future sister-in-law, and nephew at the hospital.

Wednesday the family and I went out to eat at Cheddar’s.  If you’ve never tried it…what’s wrong with you?  That place rocks.

Thursday, RevisEdgewater and I went to see the Panthers vs Bengals preseason game at Paul Brown Stadium, where a bottle of water is $5, bucket of popcorn is $4.75, and a beer is $7.75.  And since I’m thinking about it, what the fuck is wrong with people?  The fans there were going nuts.  Now grant it, I know the Bengals haven’t given their fans much to cheer about in the last year, but these guys were acting like we owned the league.  I get the Who Dey chant, I really do.  It is to Bengals fans what the Terrible Towel (which is the most retarded-ass thing ever) to Steelers fans.  But lets be real.  This team sucks so no chant saying that “Nobody’s gonna beat dem Bengals” should be chanted.

Sure, the Bengals looked good Thursday, but so has both of the other teams the played the Panthers so far.  The Panthers, unfortunately, are an extremely horrible team right now, but the fans there were eating it up like it was a fucking playoff game.

RevisEdgewater and I left at the two-minute warning and as we were walking out of the stadium some drunk fucktard was high-fiving everyone as they walked out screaming, “Who dey!” every time he high-fived someone.  Dude, it was a fucking pre-season game.  Calm down.

Then out in the middle of the street was a lone boot folded over with an upright beer bottle on top of it.  Sadly, I could only conclude that there was some drunk out on the streets of downtown Cincinnati with only one boot wondering where the fuck his/her beer was.  Pathetic.  Even more appalling was the lady with a pink monkey puppet.  The monkey’s appendages were long enough to wrap around her body and attached at the ends with velcro.  At first I figured it was one of those things that carries a baby, but after a closer inspection I realized it was a puppet she was manipulating with her right hand while walking down the street.  Freak!

Anyhow, tonight was the first night I’ve had since last Friday to sit down and relax, which I did.  I ordered Pizza Hutt, watched Blade Trinity, and then the new Arthur movie (kind of disappointing, by the way).  And now I’m going to bed.  Good night, fair people!