Skrip - tyur' - i - ent: adj. Possessing the violent desire to write.


#036 In which our hero sings to his wife.


I want somebody to share
Share the rest of my life
Share my innermost thoughts
Know my intimate details
Someone who'll stand by my side
And give me support
And in return
She'll get my support
She will listen to me
When I want to speak
About the world we live in
And life in general
Though my views may be wrong
They may even be perverted
She'll hear me out
And won't easily be converted
To my way of thinking
In fact she'll often disagree
But at the end of it all
She will understand me

I want somebody who cares
For me passionately
With every thought and
With every breath
Someone who'll help me see things
In a different light
All the things I detest
I will almost like
I don't want to be tied
To anyone's strings
I'm carefully trying to steer clear of
Those things
But when I'm asleep
I want somebody
Who will put their arms around me
And kiss me tenderly
Though things like this
Make me sick
In a case like this
I'll get away with it
This is for the Scientist; thanks for letting me go on vacation for an entire week by myself, leaving you to deal with both the stupid dog and the teething child. You're the best.

Oh, also, I borrowed your Depeche Mode tape.


#035 In which our hero reveals his criminal genius.

I've been thinking of robbing a bank.

This is nothing new, of course; every time I've ever read about a bank robbery in which the thief wasn't immediately apprehended, I've though: "I could rob a bank." It really doesn't seem that hard. I mean, banks get robbed all the time. Often with the robber getting away. And these aren't rocket scientists doing the deed, just dumb and/or desperate men with only the flimsiest of plans.

Here's the thing, I would rob a bank and be done. Not rob a series of banks or anything like that. And I wouldn't waste time in trying to empty all of the tellers of all their cash, I'd just take whatever I could, then get out. I have no idea what your average bank teller has in their drawer at any time... a couple hundred dollars? I thousand? I really don't know. But whatever it is, it's all found money, isn't it? Even if I walk out with only a hundred bunks, well, that's a hundred bucks I didn't have before. And if it takes about ten minutes (including time waiting in line) then that's $600/hour - not a bad wage.

Here's the steps I'd take to pull it off:
  • Wear a disguise. I can't believe the number of would-be bank robbers that don't wear a disguise. Every bank I've ever been to is absolutely filthy with cameras. You could wear a hat or sunglasses, but come on, make an effort! I'd invest a couple bucks and buy a fake beard or wear make-up or something like that. The key wouldn't be to look unusual or strange (no rainbow wigs, please) but rather to look extremely average. You want the APB to be "average looking guy of average height and average weight, wearing pretty non-descript clothing and pretty run-of-the-mill shoes... ah hell, it could be anyone, really." And as a special regional touch, I'd wear a Cleveland Browns jacket and make sure it's a home game day. Good luck then, coppers!
  • Ditch the disguise, ASAP. I mean, as soon as I'm out of line of sight I'll be changing into my red satin jogging pants and matching jacket.
  • Ditch the money. This seems like sin #1 for bank robbers: getting caught with the loot. Here's my plan: I will have a large FedEx shipping box all ready to go. All I need to do is stick the cash in the box, seal it up, and mail it to the anonymous out of state PO Box I'd set up weeks ago.
  • Go home, relax and keep my mouth shut. These morons are always getting caught because they bragged to someone. Well, not me. I won't tell a soul, just smile knowingly when I see the news reports about the police (fruitlessly) searching for a bank robber.
  • Pace myself. I'll wait a couple of months before getting the money from the PO Box, then I'll turn it all into money orders (professional criminals such as myself call this "laundering" the money). But I'll get small money orders in odd amounts, like $21.57, so it will seem like I'm paying bills or buying crap off eBay or whatnot. I'll eventually cash all of these money orders at 7-11's and laugh, laugh, laugh.
And that's it. Seems pretty fool-proof, right? See, I could easily rob a bank and get away with it. And I better get away with it, because if I went to prison I'd totally be some con's bitch.


#034 In which our hero recovers.

Well, I'm not dead.

Matter of fact, here I am five days after my last post and I'm feeling much, much better. The Hand, Foot and Mouth disease has finally been beaten back. It's that kind of feeling where it becomes difficult to remember just how miserable you were just a few days ago; leading to things such as saying to yourself, "oh, come now, was it really that bad?"

Yes. Yes it was. Even after the fever was gone and the red bumps where fading, my mouth was still full of sores or, as the online literature I read called them, ulcers. Ulcer is a much better word, a hundredfold more fitting to describe the burning, aching, and oh-so-painful wounds in my mouth. These wounds are all but healed, now just a not-so-much-angry-as-just-miffed red swelling to show where they used to be.

You don't really fully appreciate eating until you can't do it any more. It feels so good to eat now! I can even eat salty crackers, or chips with pointy edges, or spicy foods and not howl in pain! I can LIVE again!

I'll tell you, I think I've stumbled across the best diet in the world; one guaranteed to work. There's nothing like excruciating pain in your mouth to curb your appetite. All you need is a mouth full of ulcers and you can eat anything you want! Pasta! Potatoes! Chocolate! Crisco right out of the can! Knock yourself out! Of course, with all that mouth pain you could eat anything you want, but you won't want to. I'll call it the Hand-Foot-and-Stuff your Mouth disease diet.

I can taste the millions now.

Okay, I promise I'm now done talking about sores in my mouth. Thank you for your patience.


#033 In which our hero becomes extremely ill.

As I write this, my hands are covered with tiny red bumps. Each looks and feels like a bug bite, tender to the touch and sore. They seem strategically placed to cause me pain: a cluster on the tip of each finger; and patch on my right hand right where I rest my palm on the gearshift; a circle around my left ring finger to be irritated by my wedding ring. My feet are also covered by these bumps, making it not so much painful to walk, as very uncomfortable. Like I'm wearing sweat-soaked wool socks that itch.

And right now, I'm feeling better than I have in days.

It started last Sunday. Well, let me back up and do a little finger-pointing. These idiots brought their kids to daycare sick (I've written about these idiots here. They are referred to as "bitch" and "Smarmy Radio Salesman," just so there's no, y'know, confusion). And as anyone who's ever had their kids in daycare knows, this is Rule #1: "Thou Shall Not Bringth Sick Children to Daycare." Even worse, they knew their kids were sick, dosed 'em up on Children's Tylenol to hide the fever, and didn't tell the day care provider. Assholes. And! And! Apparently refused to come get them when called and told them were running fevers! This, of course, is Rule #2: "Thou Shall Dropth Thy Shite and Come Fetch Yon Children Post-Haste When Called." So, naturally, my precious little girl got sick.

And, oh my, how sick she was! By nature, Lily is a very, very pleasant child, really never cries unless she's hungry or tired. Or sick. And this wasn't just a little flu, this was...

Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease!

If I could put the above font into a creepy, blood-dripping font, I would... just to help express the horror of this disease. But if, like me, you've never had occasion to hear of this before (and though it sounded like something only cattle get), let me tell you: it sucks. You child develops a rash, runs a fever, and develops little ulcers in her mouth that make it painful to eat. That was the worst bit. She was at her most miserable on Saturday last, when, as luck would have it, I was out of town for most of the day. I checked in with my increasingly haggard wife throughout the day, each time to hear a screaming child in the background. Well, let me tell you, I paid - and paid dearly - for missing the worst of it.

Because the next day I got sick myself.

If you do a quick Internet search on Hand, Foot, and Mouth you'll find several sources that tell you that adults rarely get this disease, even when their children do. Well, I don't know if was because I've skipped a lot of church lately or what, but I was punished in Biblical proportions.

A fever of 103. Rash on hands and feet. Chills, sweats, nausea, headaches, and my mouth practically erupted with ulcers. After two days, my fever went mostly away. And now, five days out, I'm left with rash on hands and feet and a mouth that's so tender I can't eat anything other than overcooked pasta and ice cream. It hurts to drink cold water.

Sources also say that a patient should be fully recovered in five to seven days. I guess it's possible that everything will disappear over the next two days... but I doubt it.

This virus has well and truly kicked my ass. And I mean in a High School bully fashion; y'know, he'll kick you while you're down, then stop and say "Get up, y'baby! I won't kick you any more!" Then as soon as you get up to one knee he plants a steel-toe square in your gut one more time.

Which brings us to Rule #3: "If Thou Bringth Sick Children to the Place of Daycare, Thou Deserves Whatever Happens to Thy Dumb Ass, Even If It is a Swift and Sudden Punch to the Balls."

Oh yeah. I'm just following the rules.

UPDATE! I just learned that the idiots are taking their kids out of daycare and moving to Wisconsin. Good riddance. But don't think I've forgotten I own you a cock-knock, jackass! I'll be waiting!


#032 In which our hero looks to the future.

So, I didn't get fired. But many others did.

My boss has a bad habit of rambling on, and during one of our conversations he mentioned that the agency was going to "see some big changes." I pressed him a bit and he hinted that I might be called upon to handle some different tasks (okay) or work fewer hours (NOT okay). Being that The Scientist and I have a nine-month-old, are preparing our house to sell, looking for a new house, and the fact that I'm going to need a new car here sooner than later the idea that I would be making less money didn't sit well. I was pissed that I had to face the same situation I dealt with just a year ago.

Later that day - this is Thursday last - the president called me into his office. I told him that the last time I got called into a closed door meeting I received my walking papers. He told me that I wasn't getting fired and that I should "fucking relax." But he did say that he was going to fire some people - just not me. And that all would be revealed later that day or the next.

This made for a very surreal time for me. I had the assurance of the president of the company that I wasn't going to get fired, but that others where. I spent the time scrutinizing my coworkers... is he going to get fired? What does she do, exactly? Are her eyes red? Is she crying because she got fired?

Ends up four people got fired, and one left voluntarily. Doesn't sound like a big number, but that's 1/5 of our staff. Sadly, this included the only guy at the agency that I really liked.

Friday the president called the remaining staff together in the conference room. Everyone was long-faced and gloomy, so I tried to lighten the atmosphere.
ME: "Do we have enough chairs, or do we need to fire a few more people?"
(Horrified looks from everyone)
ME: "Maybe that was inappropriate."
The president said a few rousing words, said how each of us would have to give "150% percent." I've always hated that bullshit.

So now it's almost a week later (after I missed three days trying to die, more on that later) and I'm at a crossroads. For quite I while I have been aware that the agency is in dire shape, I've been standing aside thinking "Man, that mutherfucker is going down!" But with recent staff reductions we can all pull together and get the agency back in the black, or so the theory goes.

Problem is, I mentally checked out weeks ago, I'm just a chair-warmer now. But I've been given the opportunity to jump back in with both feet, stir things up, make a difference. Work hard, gain respect.

But I don't know if I wanna.

I just don't know if any rewards I might earn at the agency would justify the work that will be needed. I have bigger dreams that this place. After years of hard work I could probably become a big fish in this small pond. But frankly, I'd rather be a medium-sized fish in a big pond.

New paradigms or status quo.

Fresh directions or beaten path.

Stay or go.

Ugh. Right now I'm achy and tired and can't think past my vacation in a week. After that I'll have to make some decisions.

Then I'll decide if I start swimming or start bailing.