DOING THE DEVIL’S WORK
“The Lord said to Satan, ‘Where have you been?’ Satan answered the Lord and said, ‘Roaming the earth and patrolling it.'”
Mildly amusing adventures, one might say.
At McDonald’s, on St Patrick’s Day, besides the Shamrock Shake (presumably made from pureed shamrocks, and therefore to be avoided), they had some employees wearing little leprechaun hats. A customer was commiserating with one of those employees, and she said, “Oh, I got 3 paid breaks for wearing this hat!” I would wear anything if I could just get a real dinner break and not have to work while I eat.
Speaking of roaming the earth and patrolling it (don’t they pay Nick to do that? Did you know that Old Nick used to be a term for the devil?), Rom’s broken leg is finally fixed, and he doesn’t need to wear that weird boot thing anymore. But he won’t throw it away. In case he breaks his leg again? He is a big weirdo.
All the stink bugs that hid in our house for the winter are now crawling out of the woodwork (literally). Actually, we call them shield bugs. I read that it’s an alternate name for them, and I’m sure they’d prefer to be called that. One of them drowned in the cats’ water bowl, to their annoyance. Maybe I’ll borrow some of Nick’s frogs to deal with this problem.
UPDATE FROM YOUR RESTROOM CRITIC
–$ General on Barker: Now have a sign on their door saying “NO PUBLIC RESTROOMS.” (As does Dispatch–apparently day shift had a plague of people thinking it was their right as taxpayers to use our facilities, although the security cameras and double-locked doors should have alerted them to exactly how public we are.) The restrooms at DolGenCorp, as it likes to call itself, were always mythical anyway–the cashier always claimed the key was in the exclusive possession of the manager, who was always working somewhere in the bowels (pun unintended, as my puns usually are) of the store.
–Phillips 66: Now has a sign saying “No Paper In Toilet, Thanks.” Does that include toilet paper as well as feminine items? It may do no good to ask, since the clerk had to ask me which pieces of chicken were white meat. I answered “breast and wing,” and he asked me to point out which one was the breast. That explains the time he gave me 2 thighs.
–Thornton’s: Still the gold standard for public restrooms. Well, except for the piped-in slick dance pop, although there was a song the other day that sounded like Eminem doing reggae, which you have to admit is quite a concept.
By the way, next time someone at a business tells me “We don’t have a restroom,” I’m going to ask “Then where do the employees go?” I mean it.
–Walgreen’s: Have re-adopted the customer-unfriendly practice of a lock on the restroom door, which you have to ask a pharmacist to unlock for you, since the restroom is next to the pharmacy. I’m sure they’re thrilled. They told me, “We’ve been having some problems these past few weeks,” not knowing that I’m actually in a position to verify that. (It was true.) I tried to see what the combination on the lock is, but they’ve been trained to stand between you and the door. I’m rebellious like that.
MY TINY ACTS OF REBELLION
–When paying my bills, if they say “Please put your 19-digit account number on your check,” I won’t do it. And who really needs a 19-digit account number anyway? They don’t have 19 digits’ worth of customers.
–Bill-paying brings out rebellion in me, apparently. I mark down the check to Vectren in my checkbook as “SIGECO,” although I don’t have the nerve to put that on the check itself, in case they refuse to cash it.
–Putting “Pay Your Bills Online Instead!” all over the envelope is the surest way to get me to not do that. I want them to give a person a job putting my information in their computer, instead of having me do it for them. I won’t bag my own groceries, either. Not that I shop for groceries, and Rom insists on bagging his own. Hmm.
Well, when I sat down I thought I had a lot to write, then I couldn’t remember any of it, then I thought of a bunch of other stuff to write instead. This is called bipolar blogging.
EVENING AT THE PALACE OF ANSWERS
“Do you go to the temple tonight?
Do you not go to the palace of answers with me, Marie?”
–Patti Smith, “Ain’t It Strange” (some less-reverent lines deleted)
Regardless, after I was done roaming and patrolling, I headed to Sacred Heart (or Scared Heart, as Rom called it in his youth–Corpus Christi was Carcass Crispy) for confession, so I could bore Bishop Thompson with my chickenshit sins. Without detailing what transpired there, let me just say that there are few things cooler than a Catholic church at dusk.