Category Everything is Terrible

I Know Where the Caged Bird Shits

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and the answer is ALL OVER EVERYTHING IN THE WAREHOUSE. I’ve posted before about the scourge of crows (or rather, a murder of crows, which seems shiveringly appropriate, in an Alfred Hitchcock sort of way) that is visited upon our office building every winter. On Friday, three giant crows flew into our warehouse and we could not get them to leave. My boss made several attempts with some creative football-throwing, but the fact of the matter is that with a ceiling over 30 feet high, nothing you toss will have much effect on them. Eventually, everyone involved gave up and resolved to let them stay in through the weekend.

When I arrived at the office on Monday, I learned that not only had they set off the alarm three times over the course of the weekend, but that for their relatively small body size, they contain OVERWHELMING amounts of matter in their bowels. Even though there was no food or water for them to consume back there, they managed to shit on nearly everything. This, to me, was unacceptable. So I carefully walked to the back, remembering my unpleasant encounter in April involving a bird, my hair, and Pike Place Market, hoisted open the warehouse door and encouraged them to leave by calling out such things as “Fly away little birdies! You’re free! Free! FREEEEEE!”

Instead of leaving as I’d hoped, another, smaller variety of bird flew in.

I shut the door in frustration and decided to wait until the sun came up to make another attempt.

An hour passed. Always ensuring there was never a bird directly overhead, I again made my way to the warehouse door, and hoisted it up. The small bird flew out immediately. Score!

..and then a passing seagull made a banking turn, heading straight for the open warehouse door.

“OH NO YOU DON’T, YOU SON OF A BITCH!” I cried, jumping up and down and waving my short, stubby arms in the most threatening manner I could muster. Apparently it was quite threatening indeed, as the seagull immediately changed course, looking for less shouty pastures.

It was then that I noticed the neighbors behind us laughing at me.

I am awesome.

Freakity Freakity Freak Magnet

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Yesterday, I drove to Seattle in the hopes of getting some of the free gasoline they were giving away in Queen Anne. As it turns out, doing a promotion which causes an even greater traffic frenzy during the already normally-frenzied rush hour is a STUPID IDEA. It lasted all of half an hour before getting shut down, well before I even found my way into the general vicinity. No free gas for Mellzah. At that time of the day, all southbound highways are essentially parking lots, and none of this part of the story matters except that it means I travelled EAST into Kirkland to pass time until I could go home.

And lo, time passed. Then came the self-reasoning: Since I’m already here, I might as well stay for karaoke. And stay for karaoke I did.

Well into the evening, an elderly Japanese man (80 if he was a day) approached the table I was sitting at, and started making small talk with Scott. He said he’d be singing some Elvis, and over the course of the conversation, he reached out and touched my cheek twice. A little strange, yes, but the bar is loud and perhaps he was just trying to get my attention. Even though it wasn’t a conversation that I was participating in. Nothing unusual there. Nosir.

Later on, as I was walking past him, he asked me if I’d ever slow-danced before.

“ummmm…well…”

“You….uh…can…uh…do now with me.”

So, I decided to humor the elderly Japanese man. Ne’er ye mind that I don’t particularly like being touched by strangers. He’s OLD. I cannot possibly say no.

All of ten seconds later, he’s slow-dancing with me. And not a respectful distance sort of slow-dance, oh no. As I am growing increasingly uncomfortable, he begins singing a song about the month of September to me. I wanted to call out the universal safe word (banana!) but no one in the vicinity seemed likely to rescue me, PLUS he’s OLD and I should humor him because he’s OLD and maybe I am being silly and he’s just trying to be a gentleman with zero creepy overtures whatsoever plus he’s OLD and it should almost be over SOON and THAT is when he whispers in my ear “oh you are-a so cute, baby, what are we gonna do about it?” and GRINDS HIS HIPS INTO ME.

He then asks for my phone number. Oh yes, old Japanese man. That is a lovely idea! Perhaps I could introduce you to my grandfather. You might recognize him from when you fought him in World War II.

I’d been meaning to write here about other recent Freak Magnet incidents–a stranger telling me that I had nice teeth and, by the way, would I like to suck his dick? and also the guy who kept rubbing my hand because he was trying to teach me about ‘Chaos Theory’. Unless the chaos caused is that of my other hand punching you RIGHT IN THE FACE, I’m not buying it, buddy. But I digress. BOTH of these stories have been trumped by the 80-year-old Japanese man grinding his hips into me and trying to smooth-talk me in broken English. I may never have a story that beats THIS story, ever.

Freak Magnet willing, however, I will.

9/11, Mellzah style

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Life has been good and busy and slow and awful and icky and awesome over the last week. I have laughed, cried, and laughed some more, and walked out with a strong resolve to do whatever it is that needs to be done by any means necessary so I can just get all of it over with and stop worrying and start LIVING.

Monday I went to the Mariners game with Carrie, John, and Ginnie, as John had gotten free tickets from some mysterious source. Nothing seemed more appropriate on a day when all we could hear about was ‘America, America, America’ than to go watch our national pastime. Unfortuately, we lost to CANADA, which sucked pretty hard. This was made up for by unleashing my Shouty Monster, who resides not-so-deep inside me, and who sneaks out after a few beers or so. The horrifying things proceeding from my mouth were all punctuated by stabby motions with the hand holding the tiny american flag they gave to me at the door. Some, but not nearly all, of the things I shouted went as follows: “ABORTIONS FOR SOME! MINIATURE AMERICAN FLAGS FOR OTHERS!” “IF YOU’RE GOING TO WALK HIM, AT LEAST HIT HIM IN THE FACE!” (I was awfully proud to have started a chorus of nearby ‘In the face! In the face, motherfuckers!’) “SEND HIM BACK CRYING TO HIS POUTINE-EATING BROTHERS!” “IF YOU LOSE, THAT MEANS THE TERRORISTS WON!” “SHOW THOSE FLAPPY-HEADS WHO’S BOSS!”

I also called the ump a dicklicker, and started chanting ‘satan’ at some group of dillholes nearby who spent many minutes cheering for Jesus. Pft. Jesus doesn’t play for the Mariners. Last I heard, he got kicked off the team for running around with an unsavory group of people, including known whores, and for drinking water-wine in the dugout.

9 innings later, I was tired, my Shouty Monster was appeased, and we all went home, miniature American flags in tow.

I still need to write about the camping trip and the mini-road trip that Jez and I took–since the neighbor with the internet I’d been leeching has either moved or wised up and locked their network, I’ve been hard-pressed to update. So just so you know–I’m not dead, just mostly internetless!