professionalism - episode #2
been forced to ride to work with the doktor for the past week and a half…in the future, i will take the bus or ride a bike…maybe hitchhike.
friday morning, he arrives extra early and lays on the horn while i tie my tie, grab my coat, and walk down the stairs. an old lady throws a pot full of hot water from her balcony in my general direction…it melts the snow and splashes on my pants…this napoleon-like, biker wanna-be gives me evil scowls and throws the fuck-word around a few times while i smile politely and get in the car…don’t forget to wave…the doktor continues to lay on the horn as we drive slowly through the parking lot and out of the complex.
fighting crosstown traffic…rush hour in a second-class city…people on the sidewalks walking fast…cell phones and leather pouches slung over shoulders…briefcases attached to the wrist…an umbilical cord to currency…dour faces…this world is white-washed…birth to school to work to death…all with a beseeming purpose and direction…i am curious and confused…wow…i am sickened with doubt…fuck work…there must be a million other more important things to do.
…near the bus terminal…
“yo…”
“hmm?”
“look at her…right there…” sunshine is walking in the opposite direction.
the doktor lays on the horn…i catch her eye, think she smiles…watch her as she walks on down the road.
“back the car up…”
he does and doesn’t look…bumps into a car full of old ladies…gets out to inspect the damage.
i look around for that girl, but she is crossing the street…down the block…the doktor is gesticulating wildly behind his car…the cigarette moves in time to the curse words…he approaches the driver’s window of the old lady’s impala…she rolls it down…he throws his hands up and is almost instantly hit with a blast of some kind of spray…probably pepper, but maybe – with any luck – it’s mace.
the doktor turns and buckles over, rubbing his eyes with clenched fists and curse words…i leave the still-running car…two old ladies jump out of the passenger side of the impala to greet me…one from the front seat, one from the back…the lady from the front points an umbrella ominously in my direction…the one from the back holds a king james version of the bible above her head with both hands…they are ready to strike…i retreat, call for the doktor, don’t forget to wave…he feels his way into the car…i hear “i rebuke thee, satan,” and “we’ve got your license plate number,” and “lousy sons-a-bitches,” from behind me…the doktor cannot see…i offer to drive but am refused…he asks for a beer from the back seat.
“what do you want a beer for?”
“i need something to wash this shit out of my eyes.”
“you can’t do that with…”
“I’VE GOT NO TIME TO SPLIT SEMANTICAL HAIRS WITH YOU…GET ME A BEER,” he yells.
i pause, wonder about that girl, grab a beer from the backseat…the horns behind us are blaring…people starring…he pours a handful of beer and splashes it in his face, takes a sip from the can, passes it to me.
we arrive at work on time shortly thereafter…because we are, after all, professionals.
friday morning, he arrives extra early and lays on the horn while i tie my tie, grab my coat, and walk down the stairs. an old lady throws a pot full of hot water from her balcony in my general direction…it melts the snow and splashes on my pants…this napoleon-like, biker wanna-be gives me evil scowls and throws the fuck-word around a few times while i smile politely and get in the car…don’t forget to wave…the doktor continues to lay on the horn as we drive slowly through the parking lot and out of the complex.
fighting crosstown traffic…rush hour in a second-class city…people on the sidewalks walking fast…cell phones and leather pouches slung over shoulders…briefcases attached to the wrist…an umbilical cord to currency…dour faces…this world is white-washed…birth to school to work to death…all with a beseeming purpose and direction…i am curious and confused…wow…i am sickened with doubt…fuck work…there must be a million other more important things to do.
…near the bus terminal…
“yo…”
“hmm?”
“look at her…right there…” sunshine is walking in the opposite direction.
the doktor lays on the horn…i catch her eye, think she smiles…watch her as she walks on down the road.
“back the car up…”
he does and doesn’t look…bumps into a car full of old ladies…gets out to inspect the damage.
i look around for that girl, but she is crossing the street…down the block…the doktor is gesticulating wildly behind his car…the cigarette moves in time to the curse words…he approaches the driver’s window of the old lady’s impala…she rolls it down…he throws his hands up and is almost instantly hit with a blast of some kind of spray…probably pepper, but maybe – with any luck – it’s mace.
the doktor turns and buckles over, rubbing his eyes with clenched fists and curse words…i leave the still-running car…two old ladies jump out of the passenger side of the impala to greet me…one from the front seat, one from the back…the lady from the front points an umbrella ominously in my direction…the one from the back holds a king james version of the bible above her head with both hands…they are ready to strike…i retreat, call for the doktor, don’t forget to wave…he feels his way into the car…i hear “i rebuke thee, satan,” and “we’ve got your license plate number,” and “lousy sons-a-bitches,” from behind me…the doktor cannot see…i offer to drive but am refused…he asks for a beer from the back seat.
“what do you want a beer for?”
“i need something to wash this shit out of my eyes.”
“you can’t do that with…”
“I’VE GOT NO TIME TO SPLIT SEMANTICAL HAIRS WITH YOU…GET ME A BEER,” he yells.
i pause, wonder about that girl, grab a beer from the backseat…the horns behind us are blaring…people starring…he pours a handful of beer and splashes it in his face, takes a sip from the can, passes it to me.
we arrive at work on time shortly thereafter…because we are, after all, professionals.
Johnny St. Clair wuz here at 11:58 PM
7 Comments:
Yes, well, I must agree with Scooter in saying that you are the shiznit. I really want your butt darts...even though I am a complete loser with the $7.99 mega pack, I think I need a tutor. I need adaptations and elimination of choices. I would like an outline and my shit highlighted yo....those crayolas tend to get confusing at times. Johnny, when you get back from your road trip rendez-vous', will you help me keep my flights pointed in the right direction. [the dok says i should get flight protectors, what do you think?]
mmmm, love ya,
Dirty Dego
Keep on "Steppin", "step on", keep on "steppin on"
fuckin step o'meter, who the fuck does that but the dok. rawk on dok, you fuckin cunt twister
tootles!!!!
DDDC
[well, i used to be]
you people are much, much too kind...
really...
uhhh...i don't owe you money or something, do i?
~ honky johnny
After the latest debacle, you are now dddS. As in SUCKA! "I think I need a tutor" is an interesting way of saying I want to gargle your balls...
As for axing Johnny-whats-his-fuck, why you axing him for? I beat him like I owned him (too) until he was crying,"stop the bleeding. PLEASE! For the love of all thats holy, STOP THE BLEEDING!" in his Zima...
Suckas. Thelotaya.
PS:nobody has seen the dreaded cunt twister. Nobody alive that is.
PSS:Tootle this
PPSSS:One week does not a DDDC make. And it has been months...
Johnny,
I can only hope that I owe you money.
JimBobImnottheonlyonethatknowsthenameofarmoredsaintsbassplayerjimmi
Hey! DDDC. I got something you can outline.
>Wampa1<
I'm new to the site here and i never write in. but i am compelled to write cuz i got something really important to say. i got an adaptation for you and and you can highlight it if it turns you on. just as long as you clean it all off. Gargelling balls is a real hoot. Good one dawg.
magnoliafan
I like jelly
front a tha line nigga!
its black history month!
~ j-roc
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