...not that there's anything wrong with that...

do you know what a chazzer is?
that's a pig that don't fly straight

but you don't hear me though

porchlight blues

alright

fuck all that

...that long-winded explanation...

let's get to the nut of it all

i needed a new light. so i go to the Home Depot that's near me. i get my light and i'm walking to the spot where they sell the bulbs. i couldn't find a recommended wattage on the side of the box, so i figured i would get something safe. 60 watts.

now i've got the box in my hand, and i'm strolling along the bulbs looking for what i need, when an employee darts out of, like, the fuckin' garden hoses, and asks if i need help.

"yeah...you know, i can't find the wattage on the side of the box." i'd looked a few times and didn't see anything. but what do i know? maybe this guy's got some voodoo.

"let me see that there," he says, turning the box over in his hands. "hmmm. they got so many goddamm different languages on here."

"i see that," i said. the box was labeled in English, French, and Spanish, one to a side or something.

he turns the box again and starts picking at the tape that's holding it shut. and i'm like fuck...he's opening it...that shit's mine...but that's all right...i can go get a new one...ahhh, i guess i really don't need to do that though, do i? what can i say? anyway, Mr. Depot, he can't get that tape off. his fat fingers are scraping at the tape. i almost pulled my keys out to give it a quick zip, but thought better of it. let him have at it.

he manages to get the box open, and he's pulling the packing materials out - the cardboard wraps and dividers, the plastic bag of screws, the plate cover. tossing things on the floor. he don't care, he's after the book. when he finally gets it, he opens to the first page - and i'm all over his shoulder, right - and right there it reads '120W.' i see it almost immediately. he goes to turn the page, but i point it out and thank him.

"yeah...that's the voltage. what you need is the watts."

"naw...it says 120 watts."

"120 watts is what you need," he says, and i thank him again.

but as he's putting the packing back together, i say something about it being foolish not to have that on the outside of the box.

"yeah. they got too many goddamm languages on there. this is America, last i checked."

"they probably ran out of room," i say, sensing trouble. he doesn't like the looks of my Marvin Gaye t-shirt, i think. HE'S GOING TO TURN ME IN TO THE SUEDE-DENIM SECRET POLICE!!!

"yeah well, you know," he says, "nowadays, you have to be politically correct."

what? nowadays? 'politically correct?' that was the buzzword back in 1987. where the fuck has he been? under his sister? i was going to say something about how i thought that maybe those three languages were on there to save the company time, money, since they're probably selling in Canada and Mexico, too. maybe make a comment about NAFTA, Gore, maybe pull out a Clinton compliment and make him shit his eyeballs out.

"you know, you gotta be politcally correct. but you don't see anything for Irish, for Germans," he was going off. i was drifting. thoughts of juvenile deliquency. mischief. malicious mayhem. starting a riot.

but then i just laughed and walked on towards the door.

as the Doktor would be quick to point out, this guy "didn't know shit about fuck," and equated political correctness with politeness. and goddammit, he wasn't gonna take it no more. these days, there cannot be many like him. can there?

he should be glad i only launched one 48" flourescent bulb at his ass on my way out.