9 years agoDWCjackal
9 years agoDWCjackal
9 years agoDWCjackal
As promised some more from "Whisker the Mad"
The Art of Doing Something Stupid to Cover Up Something Else Stupid You Did
In the past, I've done things which were stupid. I know it's shocking, but sit down, put your hand back in your pants, and I'll relate the story to you.
Up until recently, I cut my own hair. Don't get confused; I wasn't any good at it. My fashion deficiencies have been enumerated so thoroughly and so often that I can now recite most of them from memory without even looking in a mirror. Although my most glaring problem is my missing left ass cheek, which I lost in a near-fatal gopher explosion, my hair has always run a close second. As a child, I was regularly taken to the only barber in the tiny town in which I lived. This barber operated out of a miniature portable building and apparently had some kind of degenerative nerve disorder, since he was the only barber I've ever known who could fuck up a bowl haircut. Once I began taking responsibility for my own fashion mistakes, I decided to just let it grow out, becoming long and hippie-like, which was so popular with my conservative family that I now have three weekly electroshock therapy sessions instead of two.
A few years ago, unfortunately, my hairline began prematurely recede at the corners. I can only guess that it is because my hair FEARS MY MIGHTY EYEBROWS, and I cannot blame it for retreating. Nonetheless, a receding hairline coupled with long hair is something that offends even my breathtakingly misguided fashion sense. So, I did the only logical thing I could do, which was to give myself a buzzcut. This has the benefits of being A) quick, and 2) cheap. The downsides are all invisible to someone with no taste, so this has predictably become my primary hairstyle for the last few years, alternating occasionally with a slightly longer style when I was too lazy to attend to it.
The only part of the whole self-buzzing process that is slightly twitchy is evening up the back, because you have to take the plastic guard off of the trimmer. With two mirrors and a little careful work, however, this can be accomplished with few problems.
I think I can sum up why I chose to adopt a "hair-free" lifestyle with a simple warning to anybody considering implementing this approach to hair care: If you feel a sneeze coming on, STOP TRIMMING IMMEDIATELY.
The result of my inattentiveness could charitably be described as a "gouge." Less charitably, it could be described as a "hideous fucking assreaming mistake," but that gets into metaphorical imagery I don't care to pursue here. It is difficult to relate the horrible, horrible sinking feeling that overwhelms you when you have done stupid that is going to be impossible to hide, but I will try: Imagine being sucked into the bowels of a huge vacuum cleaner made of human flesh and gumdrops populated by evil naked sock monkeys while holding a neon green garden utensil. It's like that, except not as much fun.
So I am staring at this horrendous mistake and wondering how to fix it so that I don't trumpet to everyone that sees me from behind what a complete and utter dumbass I am. It's far too big for hats, and besides, I don't own any hats that should be worn in public. I briefly consider hair-in-a-can spray, then kick my own ass for even thinking of it. Finally a solution dawns upon me that is simple, elegant, and only the second-stupidest thing I've ever done.
I'll shave my head!
Sure, why not? I mean, that's what all those artsy-type guys are doing nowadays, right? I mean, I'll be tres artiste programmer when I roll in to work the next day, right? Okay, so I'll look like a neo-nazi in wingtips, whatever. I'll buy some little round sunglasses to go with it.
Yes. That's it then. Damn the torpedos, full speed ahead! Take the plastic doohickey of the trimmer and whack the hair off! After a surprisingly long time, I reduced my hair to mere stubble, and it's time for the razor.
9 years agoDWCjackal
I've shaved before. I'm familiar with the process, although it was another one of those things I stopped doing in college, preferring instead to take the "wild-n-woolly" approach to style. However, having worn a beard for the better part of 8 years, I'm a bit rusty. Another note for those of you considering alternate hairstyles: Before shaving your head, practice on your face for a while. All things considered, I don't think I did too bad a job, although for some strange reason, my head was completely numb after I was done.
The first thing you notice when you are suddenly more bald than you have ever been before in your entire life is how cold everything that your head touches is. You don't ordinarily think of a pillow as being a very cold object, but I kept checking to make sure that I hadn't spilled ice water in my bed and then forgotten it. Also, light bulbs overhead are surprisingly warm and feel very nice in a cold room, although it can lead to embarrassing questions when you are discovered standing in the middle of a room in an apparent trance with a rapturous expression on your face. It also does not help your case if you are naked in a public restroom, even though they tend to have those terrific reflective 50-watt jobbies that can really crank out the heat.
The second thing you notice, once you have applied the chromis domatis, is that your hair grows really, really fast. In fact, it seems almost to leap out of your head like a fucking speed demon. By the end of the day I had a rough stubble, and the next morning I woke up with my head velcro'ed to the pillow, which is not as much fun as it sounds.
Reactions at work the next day were predictably mixed, ranging from "What the hell happened to you?" to "You really are a fucking idiot, you know that?" They're all just jealous though. With my SUPER SEXY BALD HEAD I managed to score twice as much as I had the previous month, which is to say, none. Also, small children tended to avoid me more, which was a bonus.
I only kept it shaved for a few weeks before I got tired of keeping up with it and decided to let it grow back out. Eventually, I'm sure I'll get bald enough to warrant shaving it again, but for now, I see no compelling reason to regularly peel my scalp. It's now a relatively respectable length, although it is interesting to note that the same society that ostracized me for having hair that was too long also ostracized me for having hair that was too short, which I'm sure that says something about us as Americans, but I'm not profound enough to care what it is.
10 years agoDWCjackal
JUNE: I get the new job, and an apartment. Every weekend, I make the 250 mile round trip to bring stuff from the old place in my car. I flatly refuse to use boxes, ("NO BOXES! THAT'S JUST WHAT THE FILTHY SCHEMING BASTARDS WANT!") which slows things down even more. My neighbor kindly tells the electric company to cut off my power since I don't live there any more, so all my packing is done in 110-degree heat. Without lights.
JULY: Weekend trips continue. A friend loans me his truck, the one time I am able to borrow a vehicle. At least now I have my bed. Sleeping on the floor sucks. My sanity begins to slip. Heat continues.
SEPTEMBER: I finally give in and rent a U-Haul truck to get the rest of my furniture. I find out, on the day I pick it up, that it has no air-conditioning. It is still hot. I learn that pianos are very heavy, and prone to give the unwary amateur mover traumatic foot injuries. Life in general sucks. I find myself constantly amazed at the amount of crap I have managed to accumulate over four short years. I can feel the evil bunnies laughing inside my head.
OCTOBER: My friend Bob is helping me as I am finally clearing away the last of my crap and packing it into my car when, for the first time in five months I notice the refrigerator. It looms in the corner of the kitchen. Small lights start flashing in my brain as several unpleasant facts begin to come together. One, The electricity was shut off in June. Two, the area has been undergoing a record-breaking heat wave, with average daily highs reaching one hundred degrees. Three, I never got around to cleaning the thing out before I left...
"S-word," I mutter. "Mother-f-wording sonuvab-word."
"Why don't you just say 'shit' and 'fuck' like normal people?" asks my friend Bob.
"F-word off," I tell him.
I walk over and timidly tug on the handle of the fridge. When it remains stuck shut, I seriously consider burning the trailer down for the insurance money. Then I remember that I let the insurance lapse in August.
My dear God in heaven, what have I gotten myself into now?
I pull on the handle again, a little harder this time, holding my breath in anticipation of the inevitable stench that will come rolling out. It doesn't budge. I can see the mold gluing the door shut, growing all the way around the edge of the fridge.
Giving up on the fridge for a moment, I try the freezer door. Same story. Irritated, I yank on the thing, putting a good bit of muscle behind it...
And out fly the maggots.
Not the tiny little white maggots, like you find in cowpiles, but big honkin' fat bastards at least an inch long, bloated and white. They fly through the air, fall to the floor, sounding like a plateful of wet spaghetti sliding off the table.
Something in my mind snaps. Reality wobbles about me, and begins crashing down around my ears. Sanity takes a sudden leave of absence. I scream.
"What's wrong?" Bob yells, rushing in. "Mother of God!" he shrieks.
Imagine the scene: Me, standing there with one hand still on the handle of the freezer, quivering and twitching, a pile of large, squishy maggots squirming on the floor around me, and inside... Inside the freezer is a scene that would have made Dante step outside to take a breather. There is no white left visible in here. Thick, black foulness covers the entire interior, a glistening, oozing mass of putrescence.
"Bob," I say, very quietly. "Bob, go get the spray."
"The Lysol?" he asks, stunned.
I love Bob. Truly, he is one of my dearest friends. But sometimes I just want to chew his face off.
"No, Bob. Get the Bengal." Bengal spray, the most powerful bug-killer known to man! I have seen the effects of this robust insecticide numerous times. I have watched it clear a roach-infested hellhole in under a half an hour. I have watched hornets kick weakly and die under it's influence. Now it is time for this compound's greatest challenge.
I turn quietly back to the fridge, Bengal in hand. Bob bolts. He knows what's coming. Later reports indicate that the screams can be heard for nearly a quarter of a mile...
"DIE YOU FILTHY FUCKING SHIT-SUCKING FREAKS OF NATURE!!!! EAT FUCKING PHENOXYBENZYL DEATH!!! DIE DIE DIE!!!! DIE AND ROT IN HELL!!!!!" I dance a mad jig on the writhing bodies of the maggots. In my mind, I can hear their weak cries for mercy.
Mercy? Mercy is for losers.
"BOB!" I scream. "BRING ME THE BLEACH!" He carefully hands me a gallon jug. I spin off the top, and with an unhealthy gleam in my eye, proceed to douse the fridge, shrieking obscenities and imprecations. The filthy worms twitch in agony as I cackle with mad glee.
"BOB!" I scream. "FETCH ME THE GASOLINE!!! AAHAHAHHAAHHAHAHAHAAHAA!!!!!!!!"
My memory fades a bit at this point. The next thing I remember, I am sitting on the floor, staring at the pretty canvas jacket I am wearing. I vaguely recall the injection of numerous drugs. The men in white have helped me move! How kind of them! The walls and the floor are so soft, here. There are soothing pictures of flowers and rainbows visible. I like it here. In one corner, a teddy bear gives me an evil, glassy stare. I wonder if he will be my friend?
Yes, I've finally moved, and it's nice here. Very nice...
There is no fridge here.
10 years agoDWCjackal
If you have been trawling around this interweb thingy for as long as I have , then you do meet the oddest people. But none as twisted , warped , perverse and down right hilarious as this manÃ¢â‚¬Â¦Ã¢â‚¬ÂWhisker's the mad Ã¢â‚¬Å“ . Although it have been many years since he has left us (No heÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s not dead , something much worseÃ¢â‚¬Â¦.Married) His work sill lives on. Here are just a few of his , what I like to call Ã¢â‚¬Å“ The feeble ranting of a mad man Ã¢â‚¬Å“ from his own site (Now shutdown) that was Whisker's" Corner. Enjoy
(WARNING: You should probably not read this if you have a weak stomach or a strong aversion to profanity)
Okay, so if you cared, I recently got a new job and moved to a new city. Well, city may be a bit of an overstatement. "Town" might be more accurate. Actually, "small collection of barely literate people from whom taxes are extorted" might be even more accurate, but that's not my point. My point here (assuming I have one, which I'm not entirely convinced of) is that moving is BAD. Moving is HORRIBLE, and I offer recent events as proof.
I had been seeking alternate employment for some time, since I was finding it more difficult every morning to convince myself that shooting my boss would be a bad career move. I had passed out resumes to several companies, and maintained a hopeful optimism that with my "|2337 5K1LL5" I would have no problem finding another job.
Four months later, my optimism had faded somewhat, and I knew that I couldn't hold out much longer when I found myself setting booby traps in the company toilet in the hopes that my boss would be liberally sprayed with fecal material.
Finally, something happened! I came home one Friday to my much-used trailer (yes, I lived in a mobile home) and found the place cleaned out. A note lay on the sofa, in my live-in girlfriend's elegant handwriting that said, and I quote, "Gone to California. Bye." Needless to day, this was not the "something" I had been hoping for.
"Devastated" would be a good word to describe my state of mind as I shuffled aimlessly around the house, noting absently what sorts of things she had taken with her (the TV, the stereo) and what sorts of things she had left (dust bunnies). "Where did I go wrong?" I wailed to the sink-full of dirty dishes. "Why did she leave me?" I moaned to my glow-in-the-dark poster of the Bambi twins. "What could I have done differently?" I cried as I collapsed on a pile of laundry large enough and old enough to have gained a dim sort of sentience. The laundry, unmoved by my plight, grunted and rudely shoved me away.
I moped around the house for the better part of an hour, moaning and pissing. Suddenly, the phone rang! Yes! It could be her!! I dashed to the phone, tripping over a set of golf clubs, and yanked the receiver to the side of my head.
I was understandably disappointed when the voice of a fat man greeted me (no, my girlfriend was NOT a fat man).
"How would you like a job?" he asked.
Enjoy the smell of burning rubber as my mind slams on the brakes and slews the wheel in another direction.
"Huh?" I replied, rather wittily, I thought.
"Can you start Monday?" he asked.
"Erk," I said.
"Great! See you then!" And he hung up.
Feeling a bit as if I had blindsided with a rubber chicken, I hung up and began making plans. Step one, of course, was to quit my current job. I picked up the phone and dialed my ex-boss.
"Dave? Guess what! HAHAHAHAHAH YOU CAN TAKE YOUR FILTHY PUTRID PIECE OF EXCREMENT JOB AND SHOVE IT FIRMLY INTO YOUR ANAL ORIFICE!!! YOU KNOW THE WEASEL INCIDENT? I DID THAT! AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT NOW! AHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I QUIT, YOU IGNORANT, OVERBLOWN, PILE OF MAGGOT-INFESTED BUTT SPEW!!!"
Then I snapped out of my daydream sequence. I called, and meekly requested release from my current employment. When Dave balked, I made vague, unspecified references to my extensive gun collection. Never let it be said that I burn bridges behind me.
So, with step one completed, I moved on to step two: Find temporary lodgings near the new job. The town where my new job was located was over a hundred miles away, so commuting was not my first choice, and I knew there was no way that I could find a place to live in two days.
I made several calls to friends in that area, with predictable results. Terry and Skeeter were too whacked out on whatever drugs they were doing to be any help ("New job? That's great man! I'm stuck on the ceiling!"), and Frank, well, he's always made me kind of nervous ("I'd love to help, but the spare bedroom is full of dead bodies right now.") Finally I called Beeb, who, being the kind, caring friend that he is, said "I told you she was a psycho bitch" before agreeing to let me crash on his sofa.
I packed up a bag full of belongings and headed out. I spent two weeks searching for an apartment, a long and arduous process that was educational, to say the least. I won't drag you, dear reader, through a description of the whole mess, except to mention one potential apartment that was so bad it would have to be cleaned up before it could be condemned. After battling my way past the roaches guarding the front door and navigating through rooms that were so narrow that I felt claustrophobic panic climbing up my throat like stale vomit, I elected not to take that one. I finally found a suitable apartment (thereby completing step three) and prepared for step four: The Move.
I now had all the minimum requirements necessary to move: a place to move from, a place to move to, and about twelve truckloads of crap to move. It was at this point that I realized one of the disadvantages of owning a tiny foreign car. While it's great on the gas mileage, it has very little room inside, say, enough to bring along a shirt and a package of breath mints. "No problem," I told myself. "I have friends with trucks. They'll help me."
As time rolled by, I realized another disadvantage that was going to slow things down: having unreliable friends. Here then, is a rough timeline of the unfortunate events that accompanied my move.
JUNE: I get the new job,
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