celebrated suffered through a so-called milestone birthday. There was, of course, the obligatory birthday card with all the standard jokes about walkers, eyesight, driving, Geritol and Viagra, as required by law in all states (except Florida). As I desperately scrabbled at the card searching for currency a poem fell to the floor. (See below.) I threw out my back bending over to pick it up.
On the plus side, my wife took me to a strip club. Whoa! She cleverly got me wasted on tequila shots and pints of beer before revealing the destination so I wouldn’t enjoy and/or remember the experience. Still, it was quite a surprise and she treated me to the first “lap dance” of my entire life (I don’t get out much) which consisted of three-minutes of quasi-hugging a naked woman in a semi-private room for $40. (Which, by the way, came out of my wallet.)
Although drunk, I still possessed my math wits. I pulled my iPad out of my pants and used it to calculate the hourly rate of “lap dance” at $800 per hour. That is so not worth it.
To add insult to injury the
stripper adult entertainment professional was way more into my wife than she was with me. Downright handsy if you know what I mean. That hurt. There’s nothing quite like a birthday to reinforce your position on the food chain.
She says I can have my next lap dance in another 50 years.
Happy birthday to me!
Ode to My Husband
by Mrs. Abyss
Continue reading →
At my old job I used to refer to myself as a “whore.” The loose translation of the word, in my opinion, was: “Someone who does something they hate in exchange for money.” Perhaps not the best definition of the word ever, but it worked for me in that circumstance.
Just recently, though, I realized that I’m another kind of whore. I’m a breakfast whore.
It turns out that I’m still kinda sorta friends with my boss from two jobs ago. In my 10-year ecommerce career he’s the guy with company #1. (There have been two others. My previous job AKA The Shithole and my latest gig.)
My sorta-friend is a pretty decent guy. He tries to be nice. And he doesn’t know jack shit about computers. That’s where I come in. We’ve maintained a relationship all these years. I help him and his wife with their computers on weekends and they pay me embarrassing little scrilla under the table. I don’t get much out it but they are so pathetic and needy I just can’t say no. I’m too nice to cut them loose.
Somewhere along the way it worked out that we’d meet for breakfast on Saturday mornings before heading to his office to knock out his task list. It was mostly business but he’d occasionally chat about his wife. He clearly needed time away from her. When the job was done, somehow I felt a little dirty, like I had not only been used for my technical expertise, but also, in some strange way, for companionship.
Their tale is a bit of a sad one. They had a nest egg and were getting older. They decided to buy a business, run it for a few years, then retire. Long story short, they bought the company where I used to work and got totally ripped off. (That in itself is quite an interesting story.) They didn’t know anyone in this town but moved here to take over the company. They thought it would be “passive income.” They were wrong. It turned out to be full-time jobs for the both of them just for the company to show a profit. They were in it up to their eyeballs.
Fast forward about six years: Their business is dwindling and the company is worth a fraction of what they paid. Their nest egg is gone. So yeah, I take pity on them, and still give them my services dirt cheap because I’m too damn nice. Dammit.
So the Saturday breakfast become routine. And then, today, it all shifted again somehow. Today he invited me to breakfast and offered to pay, even though he had no work for me.
The thought wasn’t a fun one. “I’m some damn kind of companionship whore!” Wow. Is there any aspect of whoredom that I’m not willing to plumb?
It’s not a homosexual thing, so the chub nomenclature doesn’t really apply, even though he kinda looks like an older version of the guy pictured above. He just needs someone to hang with and chit chat about life stuff and get away from his wife in a town where he doesn’t really know anyone. It’s kind of sad, really.
Luckily the universe was kind enough to provide me to fit his needs.
I was looking for a quote from the movie The Breakfast Club to go with my cute little subject line. I didn’t find one that I liked, but I did find this tasty bit of negativity. I enjoyed it so much I had to share.
Richard Vernon: That’s the last time, Bender. That the last time you ever make me look bad in front of those kids, you hear me? I make $31,000 a year and I have a home and I’m not about to throw it all away on some punk like you. But someday when you’re outta here and you’ve forgotten all about this place and they’ve forgotten all about you, and you’re wrapped up in your own pathetic life, I’m gonna be there. That’s right. And I’m gonna kick the living shit out of you. I’m gonna knock your dick in the dirt.
Bender: You threatening me?
Richard Vernon: What are you gonna do about it? You think anyone’s gonna believe you? You think anyone is gonna take your word over mine? I’m a man of respect around here. They love me around here. I’m a swell guy. You’re a lying sack of shit and everybody knows it. Oh, you’re a tough guy. Hey c’mon. Get on your feet pal. Let’s find out how tough you are. I wanna know right now how tough you are.
[offers Bender his chin]
Richard Vernon: Just take the first shot. I’m begging you, take a shot. Just one hit. Come on, that’s all I need, just one swing…
[Bender pauses, staring]
Richard Vernon: That’s what I thought. You’re a gutless turd.
Bingo! This post just qualified for the “poop” tag. And that’s how we wrap up another quality post here in the Abyss.
My fellow employees (aka compatriots or victims or cohorts or The Cabal) and I have, quite by accident, I assure you, formed an informal association of which we are all now members. Management is, of course, by definition, excluded and not even allowed to know that our little group exists.
We’re calling our little ragtag band of rebels Fight Back Club.
Like any effective club, we have a few simple rules.
- The first rule of Fight Back Club is never share personal information with management.
- The second rule of Fight Back Club is never share personal information with management. Seriously. If you do they will save it up and use it against you. Someday. It will happen. That’s the way management is.
- Club members will alert each other when management is near, usually within hearing distance. Our code for this is “tippy toe.” (A tip of the hat to our honorary member, George Costanza.)
- Our dead brothers and sisters shall be made into bars of soap.
- When a manager does something dumbass the incident must be shared with all other club members.
- Fight Back Club will exist as long as it has to.
- If this is your first time being employed at the Shit Hole, you have to fight back.
- Club motto: “This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time.”
- Secondary motto: “Only after disaster can we be resurrected.”
- Club mission statement: “Fuck off with your sofa units and string green stripe patterns, I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let… lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”
- Club pledge of allegiance: “Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else.”
- Club Charter (in entirety): “You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.”
- Club Aliases: We also informally use the club names “Island of Misfit Toys” and “The Wretched Refuse.”
Membership has its privileges.