Hypermetropic Slutmonkey

I work in an optical shop where we not only sale eye glasses but produce them on site as well.  Usually our customers walk out with said glasses on that same day.  Of course sometimes it takes as many as ten days, and sometimes, our patients actually walk out being able to discern the pushy neighborhood Jehovah Witnesses that live at the corner house.  At this point, it's out of my hands whether they choose to use their vehicles as weapons of mass destruction.

It all sounds like it should be of the utmost professional environment, huh?  That I have an important job, making sure people leave our store not only able to see properly but aren't  cross eyed and falling down elevator shafts (in my defense it was only once, and it was only one floor).

So yeah, it is important, what I do, or so I think it is, but the problem is I'm of the thinking that people shouldn't have to see on Saturday, or at least bother me with their visual complaints on Saturdays.  Jesus, people, can't it wait til Monday?  Plus Saturdays, in my opinion are always the best day of the week to do something more productive, like....well shit, most anything would be better than squabbling with hypermetropic individuals with little white "sperm" swimming around in their eye sockets, who, overzealously  go on and on and on about having  macular dengeneration.

Whawhawha!  Quit your whining, you Nancy boys!

My disdain for working on Saturdays always has me wondering how I can  get through the day a lot easier, having more fun, and without having to hide out in the bathroom with a Rolling Stone magazine, pretending that I have a stomach ailment. 

So, on this last Saturday, I woke up and got into a deep, intellectual conversation with my lovely girlfriend about the magnitude of the word I may or may not have made up, that being  'slutmonkey'.  Don't ask, this blog carries an R rating. (But if you pervs need to know, there wasn't a swing and grand piano involved.  Alright?  It was a $73 Casio keyboard;)~ 

The gist of the conversation is neither here nor over there, the point is, the word is just plain fuckin' awesome!

I was still mulling over and laughing about the word when I arrived at work and proceed to discuss this (the word, not the Casio) with my buddy, Jimmy the Greek.  You might remember the original Jimmy the Greek.  He was a NFL commentator back in the day when linebackers wore leather helmets and made predictions on the games, at an astonishing success rate of about 19.4%.  While my buddy, Jimmy the Greek, who doesn't have ounce of Mediterranean blood in him, predicts I'll be fired within six months.  He actually has money riding on it.  Jimmy can be dick, but he's probably right, thus the stolen nickname.

Anyway, Jimmy the Greek and I, while discussing my word 'slutmonkey', thought it would be incredibly funny to insert the word into a sentence, quietly, discreetly, somewhat in passing, and directed at Jovial Lab Manager Guy.

Jovial Lab Manager Guy is an older gentleman and just that, jovial, smiling non-stop.  I personally think he spends eight hours a day hidden behind closed door letting off old man fart bombs.  Other adjectives to describe Jovial Lab Manager Guy would be Republican, hard of hearing, church goer, ex-military, has all sorts of pills for all sorts of pain relief, a Pittsburg Steeler fan (reason enough for harassment) and has a sense of humor dryer than my frigid ex-wife's vagina.  Likable guy, but an easy target.

Okay, so half way through the day Jovial Lab Manager Guy, thinking it would be hysterical to model a pair of very old glasses normally worn by even older women, I found the time right and jumped into action.

"Har....funny stuff Jovial Lab Manager Guy," I said.  "I bet your wife loves when you slip her the 'slutmonkey'!"

At the time I said this, not only was the Jovial Lab Manager Guy standing there, but also Jimmy the Greek who chortled like a man that was pushing to win $5 due to my force, early retirement and Overtly Gay Chris who didn't get it but continued talking to himself about how the glasses he had just sold were "overtly tasty...with a hint of cinnamon."  Huh?

SIDE NOTE - If you don't understand, you can learn all about Overtly Gay Chris from a previous blog post, more specifically at   http://scuzzymoney.blogspot.com/2010/07/overtly-gay-chris.html.

Finally, lab manager guy said, "Slutmonkey?"

I cocked my head looking confused.  "Whaa...?  Slut...what?  Sheesh Jovial Lab Manager Guy, I was just wondering if you had some Pepto?"

After a moment of deep thought Jovial Lab Manager Guy who is borderline deaf, bobbed his head, smiled and said "You betcha!"

With nary a grin, knowing 'slutmonkey' had been used on the unsuspecting, with my job still intact, I grabbed the bottle of pink, stomach easing medicine, my latest edition of Rolling Stone and went off to spend the last hour of my day in the bathroom. A pretty productive Saturday after all.

Defibrillating at Denny's - Bring Your Appetite

Check out this monstrosity of heart failure.  Denny's calls it their new Fried Cheese Melt sandwich.

I call it fuckin' awesome!

Inside this heavenly delight is deep fried mozzarella cheese sticks, smothered in cheese, probably deep fried, then covered in some sort of bread, toasted in lipo-fat, then finally deep fried in a vat of more fat.  And don't forget the dip, that seems to be a marinara sauce, but more than likely the contents of a sow's spleen, finely puree'd in a bowl.

Mmmmmmm....

Just looking at the picture doesn't give enough information to understand the magnitude of its Thorism, its gargantuanistic flavorings or its ability to withstand a direct hit from a Bible belt tornado.  This shit is huge!

Not wanting to sit around with a hunger burning in my belly, and certainly not wanting to  be the last on the block to run out and smother my nakedness order up one of these bad boys, I made a beelline for Denny's.

But then as I entered the local Denny's I was taken back by the color and I'm not talking about the art deco stylings that is Denny's.  Nor the trademarked recognizable, familiar and absolutely filthy hue that could only be a Denny's, but the color of mad.  Reason...the line of obese and senior citizen types, angry that the humongous meal, aka, the lead weight, and better known as the Fried Cheese sandwich, wasn't being offered for another couple of weeks.  If you've never seen a riot of super large people, pissed that the newest cardiac arrest, congealed together to look like food, wasn't available yet...well, just think Rodney King times six hundred pounds, minus police brutality.  Ugly!!!

No fears though...I will get my grubby little fingers on this desirable coronary artery disease some day.  I'll keep you posted.  Maybe I'll invite you all along to experience it with me.  We can get a table at the back, shmooze up old Flo, smoke us a cigarette and eat us some heart disease.

Hell, you bring the defibrillator and I'll pick up the bill.