I ate a pork-chop once. She cooked it, I ate it on the kitchen table. I don’t know as there was any sex involved, but it was a good pork chop.

     In fact, there might have been some sex, but I don’t really remember.

     Today was a good day. There were cats, children, dogs, coffee and, most definitely, there were entertaining bathroom breaks-one of which proved suitable for my anal annals.
     There was a triumph of a sort too technical to detail, followed by a revealed truth that will lead to my ability to create multiple reports where there was only one. In my little world, I’m Jesus and I’ve just birthed a communal fish-fry of reports. I just hope my story doesn’t have the same level of pathos in the end. I don’t think I’d have the energy to drag my corpse out of bed in only three days. Likewise, I don’t plan on generating riots at a money-lender’s office. The local Rock Financial loan center wouldn’t be the most appropriate source of angry shekel bearing dudes and dudettes. These days the riots happen at the product, not the source.

     Say what you will about your basic race riot, but at least there’s a debatable justification. Sports riots, now, THOSE are hilarious merely for their complete and total senselessness.

     You may remember I partake of nasal exploration whilst commuting. I’m not alone; when I cast my gaze at my fellow prisoners of the cultural machinery I see others diggin’ for gold.
     Combining this knowledge with the fact that a relatively recent study indicated that frequent ejaculation contributed to good prostate health and a reduced likelihood of prostate cancer led me to design a bumper sticker that would read,
     “Clean Your Prostate: Have an Orgasm!”
     You just can’t do it in traffic, though. Unless the aforementioned nose picking is an addiction, a gateway drug so to speak; soon I resort to cleaning my prostate to achieve the same high. Then I would end up hollow-eyed and quivering. By the time I’m picking my urethra I’d have transcended time and space, which leads me to Saturday morning. Good Saturday, folks.
     That is, after Sam was put to bed by yours truly, and after reading her three(!) Strawberry Shortcake(?!?) storybooks, I kissed her goodnight and drove cross-town to the home of Derek and Steph, socialized and played videogames. I started on Friday and I end it now, on Saturday. Work awaits, and more twin destinies.
     To narrowly avoid dying in my sleep while driving and to hush a barking dog upon my arrival are MY twin destinies. What are YOUR twin destinies?

     Intermission: It isn’t the friendly Phillipinos dressed as paiges for to pimp myriad princessly gizmos, foodstuffs and official programs redundantly labeled ‘Special Collector’s Edition.’

     It wasn’t the oddly muscular rumps of the hot skater girls (Heather appreciates the well-packed dancing bells of the dude skaters) or the gigantic skating elephant prop which I grudgingly admit was amazing….

     It was the simple fact of Sam enjoying a live show. I watched her face more than I watched the ice, and marvelled at her ability to identify characters, spot where the skaters diverged from the stories I’ve read her, and at how she didn’t bug me for the stupid toys the junk mongers peddled ‘tween the aisles.

     She enjoyed it, and I enjoyed her enjoying it. Besides which, I bought and drank a metric ton of diet cola!

     You see before you the excellent tile floor of the Integrated Data Solutions shop. You may not be able to tell from the appearance here, but it is clean enough to eat off of, provided you carefully select your eating area ahead of time and use an over-the-counter disinfectant prior to laying your foodstuffs down.
     Let’s make a picnic out of it!

     You know, no one ever has a picnic in the office. We have some moving blankets in Van #6, and if you don’t mind the U-Haul print, I won’t say anything either. Pass the pickles!–a request my friends are sick of honoring, really.

     ON the television, I have been offered the opportunity to eat a new “Chocolatey Drizzle” rice crispy bar. According to the advertisement, extremely attractive young women become nearly lighter-than-air after consuming even one bite, allowing their officemates to blow them across the room with a small desk-mounted oscillating fan. I kid you not.
     I have a large box-fan. I’m going to hook it up outside the office, feed Janell and entire “Chocolatey Drizzle” bar, and then ambush her during one of her frequent smoking breaks to see if I can blow her up onto the roof to look for my keys. That’s right, my keys. They are actually in my pocket right now, but in order to provide myself with the justification necessary to feel good about lofting Miss Janell atop the IDSI compound I’m planning on planting it. Planning on planting….almost a poem.

     To get coffee and to go to work are my twin destinies. I go to meet them. What are your destinies?

Say what you will about urban blight, but I really think this is quite pretty. Check out the wildflowers, and some small trees. I wish I had a better camera with which to illustrate this at the time I was there. This field is behind a small factory, with burnt houses down the block and the back of a scrap yard across the street.

     Sam the Fish is loosely based on a rememberance of an experience my step-father Tom had with a friend of his. They worked at the Ford Rouge plant and caught a large fish with their bare hands…
     If you read the scene you’ll see that’s about the extent of the similarities between it and any brand of reality you would like to subscribe to.
     Click HERE for “Sam the Fish”

The Rhino Winch of World Friendship. -A sentence you never thought you would ever read.

     I left the power supply to my laptop at the office.
But that was only the beginning.

     I tried to drive the company van back to the office, because I knew there were those who believed and I didn’t want to disabuse them of their misplaced belief.

     All wet-tired and bouncy shocked I careened my career borne illness through the otherwise busy streets of the Detroit megalopolis.
     Helicopters dropped literature on me, men with bags of cream cheese dreams and rock hard bagels offered me coffee, and by ‘offered’ I mean they screamed at the top of their lungs as I passed.

     A stereotype dodged out of the way at the last minute. From his beret, striped shirt, cigarette and shopping bag filled with wine, cheese and bagettes, I assume he was a French stereotype.
     ”Wuh, huh huh huh!” I said in apology through the passenger window of
     THE VAN which I couldn’t get to park but was nevertheless successful at stopping by judicious use of a painted brick wall.

     It was then that I realized I didn’t have my keys. Keys which are necessary to gain admittance to the single building corporate campus of Integrated Data Solutions, the safe hiding place of my fugitive 24-volt DC power supply.
     Well, not MY power supply, more or less my LAPTOP’S power supply.

     I consider Italian food to be my power supply.

     I drove the van back
to my home.
Where it didn’t feel welcome, but survived despite the condemnation of its Saturn peer.
     ”It’s not so bad,” I told the van. “The Saturn really doesn’t have anything against you, it just misses my Escape. Just think how lonely it is, parked in the rain, in the parkinglot, in Madison Heights instead of Utica, which is where we are.
     ”We’re in You-tick-a, Joe?” he was so careful to pronounce Utica right, and I somehow found that endearing.
     I replied with a warm smile, “That’s right, van.”
     ”I don’t understand. I thought we were here.”
     ”That’s right. And ‘here’ is Utica, Michigan.”
     ”But the Saturn doesn’t like me!” I tried to ignore the exclamation point.
     ”I just explained about that,” I patted his sliding door affectionately, admiring the nice round thump. “Don’t worry. I like you. And we’ll probably be driving together again on Monday. OK?”
     He seemed unsure, but ultimately had no choice, since his transmission was in park.
     I slept fitfully, and drove to work this morning trying my best to ignore his barely controlled sobs and resigned sighs.

     So I parked him next to the dumpster. Whiney little shit.

Click HERE to see.