What am I, Peter Parker?

Okay, so I pretty much had *such* a bad day today that it warrants an entire blog post. Here we go.

Last night, I realized that I actually had no idea when I worked this morning. No big deal I said, I'll just get up right at ten tomorrow and call them, because I know that I don't open. So I call, and the dude I work with who picks up the phone tells me I come in at 2:00pm. Fantastic, I think. I get to sleep a couple more hours, get up, and have plenty of time to get there ready and refreshed. So I plop my head back on the pillow, safe in the knowledge that the next few hours are all mine.

Here comes 11:30, and the phone rings. Before I even look at it, before I even reach for it, I know what's happened. The same dude who told me I come in at 2:00 goes "Uh, you were supposed to be here at 11:00". Mother*fucker*. So instead of having plenty of time to get everything I need done this morning at my own pace, I'm scrambling to get to work as soon as I can. I tell myself "okay, I'm not skipping breakfast AND waiting for the two people I work with to take their lunch before I can have my first food of the day, I won't be eating until Four Goddamned O' Clock if I do that. I'm already late, fuck it. I'll stop and get some food so I don't have to take a lunch break".

As if someone somewhere was trying his best to drive home the point to me that it is futile for me to ever plan ahead and get my shit together, not even that went right. I order my food, and pull up to the window to see some very confused mexicans. I thought to myself "Wuh oh, I better check to see if I get what I actually ordered when they hand me my food". To give you some idea of how my mind works, between getting my food, buckling back up, and thinking about what I'm going to say to my boss when I actually show up, I drive off with my unchecked food, fries in my mouth regardless of the mental note I made not thirty seconds earlier.

Sure enough, when I get to the parking lot to wolf down my sandwich, it's not only wrong, it's the exact opposite thing of what I ordered. I ordered a large angus bacon fuck you burger, and what I got was a grilled chicken pussy sandwich on a wheat bun. Fantastic.

Had that been the worst part of my day, I would have gotten off light.

Work was largely uneventful, other than getting my much, much needed check early and shoving it into the back pocket of my pants, and a period near the end of my shift where a dad and his brood of like five kids, all under the age of 8, just came in to play or something. To learn about luggage? The dad didn't want anything or wasn't there to look, he was just there to supervise while his kids explored the store or whatever the lesson for the day was.

Now, there are a couple of you guys who read this who actually have kids. A couple more of you are married and will have kids very soon. If you only listen to one thing I have to say in my entire life, listen to this: In public, your kids are not cute and stores are not learning centers and playgrounds. Don't wait and see if they behave themselves, and our places of business do not exist to facilitate your precious moments. Even your most well behaved darling little angels leave a wake of destruction behind them while making noise the entire time. If you simply don't care that you're forcibly exposing everyone around you to what is basically a retarded mutant with poor impulse control, you are a complete tool.

People who have kids say "You don't understand!". You know what? Fuck you. My dog is a little bastard monster. I love him to pieces, but I completely understand why no one else does. He is the most poorly behaved dog in the entire world, a joyful whirlwind of slobber and tongue and jumping and pawing. I would no more take that dog out in public than I could shoot lasers out of my toes. What you self absorbed parents don't understand is that until your kid is about 9 or 10 and can actually start speaking sentences that people can understand and are about actual things, they are no different from my dog. They're not people, they're just incredibly important pets. Actually, they're worse because they have opposable thumbs.

In case being a parent somehow annihilates the part of the brain that thinks about the world around you, I'm going to tell you the correct way to handle your kids when you're out in public, and no, this is not up for debate. You get IN, you get your SHIT, and you get OUT. Do you understand? You treat it like a Black Ops commando mission, all screaming "GO GO GO HUSTLE HUSTLE". When you have a kid, your days of going to a mall and shopping for nine goddamned hours are over for the next *eighteen years*. When kids start whining and complaining and getting fussy, that is your signal to GET THE FUCK OUT. Drop your SHIT, get to the CAR, and get HOME. That means that you have kept the kid at the mall or the store or out or whatever far too long. You have completely forgotten and ignored what it was like to have the attention span and energy fluxes of an 8 year old and that is YOUR fault, not the kid's, and trying to solve the problem with some scolding and stern looks is just going to lead to a scenario where you and everyone around you loses. Did you not get to decide which pair of pumps you wanted? Did you not get to peruse the clearance racks at all your stores? Did you not get to have a leisurely stroll down to the food court and enjoy some ice cream? Tough shit. Get your brood and your shit and get to your car, your mall trip is done.

AAAAAAAAAnyway, so I go home. My roommate has his brother and another chick over, and said chick has made some dessert stuff. Pastries and cake and such. So we put the plate down on this little footstool thing we have and dig in. Halfway through, Zack (the big oaf) is trying to be funny, but manages to actually knock the entire plate of dessert... Directly onto my dick. Smack center on the crotch of my pants. *Absolutely Radical*.

Not really that big a deal, as the pants were already dirty and going into the wash. So I throw the pants and a load of laundry into the washer, and hang out with my guests for a while. After the wash is done, I reach into the back pocket of my pants, and Son Of A Bitch.

I washed my check. It was utterly obliterated. Saying that I needed that check desperately is an understatement. Having it taken away literally destroys my entire life for the next 2 weeks, maybe longer than that. If I have any hope of saving myself, I have to temporarily grab six hundo from the First National Bank of Mom just to make rent.

Now, I want to leave you with this little bit of helpfulness: This post is a formal test of the Fucking Douchebag Early Alert System. If you read this post and at any point said "Well, if you had just done this or that, that wouldn't have happened", congratulations. Call your parents, because you have just been awarded the Nobel Prize for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of DickSuckery. On your way to the award ceremony, please see the Queen of England to get Knighted into the Royal Order of Missing The Goddamned Point On Account Of Being An Asshole.

Every single one of my problems today arose from someone fucking up directly at me, as if fucking up was a weapon you could aim. If you said "well if you just planned ahead", you're fucking retarded because you missed how I DID plan ahead and it didn't goddamned matter. Really, what people mean when they say shit like that is "Don't make mistakes", in which case eat ten cases of dicks. I hope the mistake YOU make gets your mom killed. I can plan ahead in order to lessen my own screwups, but I can't plan ahead to fix other people's screwups. If you said "Haha, sucks for you asshole", then non-sarcastic congratulations, you're still an actual human being who realizes that when life and people decides to fuck you in the browneye, there's very little you can do about it.