Surrounded By Psychopaths

This past Saturday I went to a Philadelphia Soul game. For your personal information, the Philadelphia Soul is the arena football team here in, where else, Philadelphia. Why they are called the Soul is beyond me, although I have my suspicions that the name comes from one of the owners of the team, none other than Jon Bon Jovi. Regardless of where the name comes from, if John Goodman is ever an out of work, starving (is that possible at his weight?) actor, he could get a job as the teams mascot, Soulman. But anyway, back to the story...

Everywhere I looked, at least everywhere in my immediate vicinity, were weirdos, creeps, goons, and the disturbed. In front of me were a duo I have labeled "Tons of Twins," although they werent themselves twins. They are two grotesquely fat brothers who ate just about everything they could get their hands on. I saw nachos, hot dogs, fries, pizza, you name it, but only briefly because shortly after blinking all the food was gone. Thankfully, before the 4th quarter started so were they, moving down for better seats, although I am not sure how they would fit in better seats if these better seats had people sitting next to them.

Naturally there were the two Bon Jovi ladies sitting in front of me, still stuck in the 80s, and drinking beer like they were planning on getting lucky later that night. Thankfully all they did was drink beer, not a noise was made by either, even to each other. Whenever they ran out of their dearly delicious suds they just pointed to their cups, went away for a few minutes only to come back with more beer. It's too bad they werent providing others with beer for I am sure that beer goggles were the only way that their plans would have been fulfilled.

A section over consisted of an Irish Catholic family of cheer stick sycophants celebrating one member of the brood's birthday. How do I know they were Irish Catholic? Well, there were about 45 of them, and all of them had red hair, except the elderly, they were all gray haired. Plus they were throwing beers back as if they were cheap and running out. One of the younger members of the family screamed, at the top of his lungs, for the duration of the game, prompting me to emit snide remark after snide remark only to find out that they couldnt possibly hear what I was saying because of the constant barrage of banging coming from the cheer sticks which each member of the family had a pair of. While I am sometimes easily set off, it takes a lot to really irritate me, unless a pair of cheer sticks is involved. 90 cheer sticks all banging at the same time naturally turned on my irritation switch instantly, but alas, the only food I had to throw was a severely burned hot dog, probably left over from the sixers game the night before and reheated, and that cost $4, so I wasnt about to launch that. Plus with my luck I would have hit a cheer stick, only adding to the booming noise.

Although, the cheer sticks did serve a useful purpose, they drowned out the cursing provided by the crippled man who also suffered from tourrets. One truly hasnt heard the national anthem until one hears it laced with obscenities. Apparently he had some kind of bladder problem because he kept standing himself up with his crutches and hobbling off only to come back a few minutes later. Or maybe he was just going out into the hallway to let out a cleansing scream: "Dirty nut muncher, fuck fuck ass shit, grab my tits GZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ, AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH, scrotum."

While all of these people are psychopaths to some extent, no one in the arena was more psychotic than the man sitting to my right. This older gentleman, although I am sure he is not one, has the complexion of an albino, complete with the uber white hair, shoulder length, and a scruffy white beard. His eyes werent red, but then again I didnt make eye contact for the fear of my life. He was wearing a tattered light gray T-shirt, dark grey corduroy pants, a black fleece vest and a black eagles cap. He could have easily been an extra in Deliverance, or just as easily could have been a member of any white power organization. Each time any hip-hop music began to play this fella would bob back and forth in his chair, almost seizure like, and nowhere near the beat. Then, when he would recognize a word or two he would spit them out a few seconds after they were sung. But what really made this ol' chap psychotic was what he was doing during the game: He held a tape recorder up to his mouth and did the play by play, horribly I might add. He kept mentioning call letters, WADD, of a fictional radio station. Fictional you say? Yes, fictional, as soon as I got home I went on the internet to find out if this radio station actually existed, and thankfully it did not. What kind of radio station would hire someone like this? I can only imagine what he was really recording the play by play for, perhaps for a friend in the slammer? Or maybe he is trying to get a job as an announcer, who knows! What was perfectly clear though was his third grade education and his matching mentality. Each time a cheerleader was insight he was using his binoculars to spot the ones he liked. And once he found one of his favorites the verbal molestation would begin. I am sure that if I looked over he would have had a chubby in his pants, but I resisted my urge to know. After a while I began doing a play by play myself, which he began to mimic. Unfortunately for him, and his listeners, the play by play that I was doing was completely wrong, but Sling Blade didnt notice. At one point he turned to me and asked me if I listened to Howard Stern. I told him I did, occasionally, to which he responded, "Then you know Robin Quivers? What color do you think she is?" When I told him that I knew she was black he responded, "She sure doesnt sound colored, she sounds like a white woman." That was the extent of our conversations as I tried not to gain his attention again. The highlight of the show, however, was when he loudly yelled, "YOU STINK," directed at the opposing team. He then slide to the bottom of his seat, placed the tape recorder next to his ass hole and farted, followed by this commentary, "I just farted into the tape recorder, hehehehehehehehe. That was a good one."

I must say that I really enjoyed my time at Bellevue Hospital, I mean the Wachovia Center. The Soul won, the company was excellent, and I have never felt so normal in my life. If you are ever feeling down in the dumps about your life, or perhaps you are contemplating suicide, I suggest going to a Philadelphia Soul game so that you can come to the realization that while life may be tough, at least you have it better than this amalgamation of characters.

Credit? What's that?

I know I certainly dont know mine, although I do know that it used to be a lot better than it is now, but that is besides the point. Oh yeah, what is my point? How about the fact that it is nearly impossible to find out your true credit rating without getting a complete run around and then you have to pay for it. PAY FOR IT!!!!!

Why is something so crucial to your spending future so inaccessible to each individual? When we were in school each teacher or professor never had a problem telling you how you were doing. Hell, recently I even received a letter from the government telling me my social security situation - how much I have put into it, and how much I can expect to get - and I am decades away from being able to use that (that is, if it even exists when I am that age...). Yet if I want to find out my credit rating I have to go through any number of agencies, each that calculate your rating in a different way!

Honestly, as it stands now, my credit rating isnt as important to me as it should be, but I figure that I have time to improve it so that when I really need it, it wont be an issue. But in the meantime, have a report send to me annually would really help out, not only in knowing how I currently stand, but also in understanding the system and finding ways to improve my score more quickly.

I guess I just dont understand why a number that is used in countless different ways to reflect on each persons individuality is so hard to come by for each individual. Would it really be that hard to standardize the system and allow it to be more accessible to each person? Shouldnt it almost be like your bank account where you can go online and see each transaction and where that transaction has left you?

I know, this post has more questions then answers, but this topic really needs to be discussed because more and more people are coming into bad credit and nothing is being done to rectify the situation. On the contrary, credit card companies are giving out more credit to younger people who arent fiscally responsible enough to handle credit they are given and are thus tossed down the seemingly endless well of credit card debt (which I am sure the credit card company’s dont actually mind, in fact, they probably favor it).

I am sure the answer will come in some form of legislation; I just wonder how much time will go by before it is made a major issue. Anyway, enough of this bullshit rant. I have nothing else good to say, so I might as well say nothing at all.

Humble Pie or The Theory That I Could Be Completely Wrong or The Gospel According to Josh

If you personally know me, or even if you dont know me at all and your entire connection to me is through this blog, then you should know that I totally and completely believe that there is no god. While I offer no solution to the puzzling question of where and how life began I do, fully, believe in the theory of evolution. My path towards these beliefs, however, has been cloudy, to say the least.

I was raised in a Jewish home, if you can call it that. We were more like "Two Times a Year" Jews, meaning that we went to services twice a year, for Rosh Hoshanna and Yom Kippur, which fall within ten days of each other. The rest of the year we did not go to Temple, yet we toiled with the ideas of Judaism when it was convenient - during Passover while we ate un-leaven bread, and during Chanukah so that my sister and I could feel just as good as those heathen Christian children getting toys for Christmas. Every once in a while we would celebrate Purim by eating those delicious Jewish pastries known as hamentashen which are basically triangular shaped cookies with some soft of fruit filling in the middle (note that I did not say the center, because the cookie is flat, not filled). The extent of my knowledge of Jewish history was gained during my years at Hebrew School which I attended every Thursday and Sunday, religiously (wink, wink), from the 3rd grade until the end of 7th grade. Now I must add that I did not, on any level, believe in any of the Jewish lore that I was being taught. I went to Hebrew School solely because I was forced into going. My parents were footing the bill and feeding my growing body, I didnt see any way out of the torture. Instead, I made Hebrew School fun in other ways, but those stories are best served at another time.

Now as I said, I didnt believe in a single thing that was being taught to me. Ok, that isnt entirely valid. I did believe in the history of the Jewish people and the trials and tribulations that they went through, I just had a problem believing in the whole god angle, plus one fat cow of a teacher tried to tell me that Moses did not part the Red Sea, but rather the Reed Sea. That's an extra e for all of you who didnt notice. Later that year she got fired for stealing all the sedaca money (the unisef of the Jewish world).

During my thirteenth year of life I was forced into having a Bar Mitzvah, which all the good lil Jew boys have (girls can have them too, but not if you follow the real Jewish rules...). Of course I still did not believe in the Jewish ways, but I certainly did believe in the money that people I didnt even know where throwing my way, so who was I to turn that down?

As my teenage years went on, so did my dis-belief in the almighty. In fact, I came to believe that everyone who believe in a god were only weak people who were unable to deal with their own stresses, so instead they talked to god who made everything alright for them. This belief, which I now attribute to ignorance on my part, lasted until I was halfway through college. What changed my mind? Well, my ever increasing intelligence of course. While I had, for years, believed in free will for all people, I never, for any reason at all, attributed those thoughts to religion. It was at that point that I realized that, just as in life, people can choose what they want to believe, and if that works best for them, more power to them.

Some eight years have since passed since my quasi-epiphany and I still feel the same way. But I have recently added something to help further define my beliefs while also recognize everyone else's at the same time: The idea and acceptance that I could be completely wrong!

I base my sole thought process on the idea that there is no god whatsoever. Science and evolution, in essence, is all that I believe in, but I cannot shun and totally disregard the thoughts of the majority of this world. I therefore offer up this new belief, a new way of thinking if you will, which I will call Recognostic. I define it thusly:

Recognostic - The complete and utter disbelief of any supreme being, god or otherwise noted, with the recognition of the possibility that there is a god.

Confusing? I hope not. It basically states that I dont believe in god at all, but I am willing to recognize the possibility that everything I believe and stand for is completely wrong. There are so many people in this world who believe in god, or gods, etc, that I feel it would be criminal to not include those ideas into my beliefs, plus I am willing to accept the fate that what I think to be truth might be completely wrong.

Dont worry folks, I am not jumping on the god bandwagon, ever. And I am certainly not covering my back should I die and find out that there is an afterlife only to be condemned to hell because I didnt believe (hell suits me anyway, who am I to complain;)). I am merely letting you in on my infinite wisdom in the hopes that you will understand what I am saying, come to believe my words as the gospel, and join my commune so that I can have followers and impregnate mad bitches.

Obviously that last part was just a joke, unless you want to be one of my followers (who am I to stop you, except the omnipotent one!)? I do believe that my religious journey has ended, at least for now. I think Recognostic is the way to go for me and I further believe that the idea behind it - being able to accept that what one believes might be wrong - is something that all religious, and non-religious people should get behind, because when it comes down to it, not a single person on this earth knows the truth behind religion. Then again, I could be wrong.

DaDunk DaDunk: That's the Sound of Me Running Over your Kid

Near where I work is a major Pennsylvania Highway which is currently under construction for improvements. Part of my job is to publicize the project and help get information to the public, but that has no bearing on this story. A few months ago, as part of the project, two bridges that cross the highway were torn down to be lengthened, allowing for the underlying highway to be widened. These two bridge closings left one sole bridge open to get across the highway. The problem with this bridge is that the road it is attached to goes through a residential neighborhood at 25 MPH. Now this isnt a problem for me because I have had my share of speeding tickets (in fact I am still burning off points one year at a time) so I follow the prescribed speed limit, however I can only assume that speed is a problem for nearly every other driver who is on the road because there has been a slue of lawn signs put on along the road urging us drivers to slow down:

"Slow Down, We love our kids"

"Drive 25"

"182 Kids and Pets, Please Slow Down"

"Child Molester in the neighborhood, protect him too"

Ok, that last one isnt real, but you get the picture. I cant really say that speeding on this road has been a problem, because I am only on it for a short period of time, however, I have yet to really see anyone going THAT fast down the road that these signs are really needed. I think the real problem lies with the parents and their twerp children!

An elementary school is right around the corner from this road, so everyday after school there is a wealth of children walking to their homes down this thoroughfare. I see these kids running up and down the street, playing tag, throwing things at each other from across the road, and actually running across the road without looking. What I dont see are the parents who these kids belong to. Where are they if they care so much about them? Sitting at home gawking at that fucking Oprah woman most likely, but they sure have enough time to put out a lawn sign.

Just the other day I was passing an SUV that was parked outside of one of the homes with a lawn sign when a little girl, who was in the back of the SUV, opened her door - which was on the street side mind you. Thankfully she didnt get out, but what she did do was close the door and open it again, repeatedly. Where was the mother you ask? Oh, she was too busy to notice her lil sprite as she was busy talking to another muumuu wearing waste of intelligent life. As this little girl continued to open and close her door horns began to blast, but did mommy dearest turn to see what was going on? No, of course not, instead she lit a cigarette and continued chatting up the importance of General Hospital in her otherwise meaningless life. At the stop sign, about a half mile down the street, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw that this scene had still not ended. I can only assume that it finally did cease when Mom of the Year noticed that Dr. Phil was soon to start and that she had to get home to "make dinner." And by "make dinner" I mean boil water.

Even if everyone goes 25 MPH on this road, a child will still get killed, or at the very least severely maimed, upon getting hit by a car. And the parents of this child will still go after the driver of the car as the killer (or maimer), completely oblivious to the notion that the fault should squarely rest on their own shoulders. Where were you when your kid got hit? Oh, inside, on the phone, not paying attention to your brood? Good for you, murderer. I have half a mind to stencil on my car the following:

"Im going 25, keep your kids out of the street"

But the problem with my sign is that it wouldnt be seen by any of these self-indulgent parents anyway since it is more important to be instructed by the tv on how to be a good parent instead of actually practicing parenthood. And lets not forget that smoking is good for children and its use is strongly encouraged by the surgeon general.

Halcyon

The news was unnerving at best. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later, although I was hoping for later. And even though I expected it, it still came out of the blue and hit me like a ton of bricks. I guess I just didnt expect the well of emotions that came over me to be so cumbersome, but they were.

I remember the times we had together, good and bad, and always will. I remember the last time we spoke and the things we said to each other before saying goodbye that last time, almost like it was yesterday. Maybe it was yesterday, when things were different.

Im told that life goes on though, that we get on living as we get on dying, and that is true, but the dimensions are now different and I wont be able to see as I used to. Perhaps that is a good thing though. Perhaps.

As much as I try, I dont understand the simplicity that we call life, but we are all married to it, or at least engaged. I cant comprehend how a person can be there one day and just not the next. We have a limitless mental capacity, yet we are bound by our physicalities.

I suspect that the shock will eventually wear off and that my energy now exuded towards shaking will once again go towards making the clock tick. The conundrum, however, is when this serenity shall return.

One Big Drunken Day

I have figured out St. Patrick's Day, at least here in Philadelphia. It is basically the one day out of the year that celebrates the drunken Moe who sits in the corner of every bar in the city. It is a day for the wino, the almost wino, and the future wino. And the best part about it is that the cops, for once, are on your side!

I dont know exactly how long the parade in Philly lasted this year, but I heard a helicopter high above the city when I woke up around 11, and it was there all day long. Unfortunately I didnt know that there was a parade going on until I was driving up towards Broad Street and began to see a sea of drunken green. But instead of getting stuck at the parade and having to find an alternate route there was one police man at the intersection who stopped the parade after each large group and allowed the traffic to flow for about a minute. It was then that my interest in the significance of the day began.

From what I understand, the parade starts all the way down Broad Street, somewhere in south Philly. Sure the parade isnt as colorful as the Mummers on New Years Day, and it doesnt have any floats like the Thanksgiving Day Parade, but it certainly makes up for it with its sheer volume of people who are all dressed alike! And it seems to be an all day event for these people, Irish or not!

I cant even imagine what time these folks get up in the morning and start consuming alcohol, but I would imagine that it is early. Then they all congregate somewhere and wait for their turn to start walking down Broad Street in a drunken delight, but it is all ok, because this riot is organized and sanctioned by the police. The drunks are contained on one street and stop when told by the police. Is there any other day like this during the year when the police allow drinking in public and in turn the public follows the lead of the police?

I even saw a yellow school bus getting a motorcycle police escort to South Street. At first I imagined that the bus contained added police support for the area, but when I got over to South Street I saw the bus the bus parked in front of a bar and unloading its cargo: drunken, red-headed, green beret wearing Irish/French-men. And each Irish/Frenchman, before heading into the bar, walked over to the motorized cop and giving him a thankful handshake.

This kind of atmosphere is strange to see. In fact, I wouldnt be surprised if anyone getting pulled over for swerving got off with merely a warning yesterday. There should be more days like St. Patrick's Day; it seems to help us all in our attempts to get along.

Pocket Pete

There is a telemarketing company somewhere out there in the world who employs an 80 year old man living through the back end of life. He has been working at this telemarketing company for over 6 years, and in spite of his advanced years he has become quite successful. But this story of perseverance is not the one I plan on detailing today. No kiddies, this story is about a little old man who couldnt stop touching himself - Pocket Pete.

When Pocket Pete started at this telemarketing company 6 years ago each telemarketer had a headset on so they could speak to the customer and only had to use one hand to operate the program on the computer. This allowed Pocket Pete's other hand to roam freely, and roam freely it did! Once settled into his chair and ready to work the phones Pocket Pete would take his left hand and slowly move it into his pants. Since he only did this while sitting down and because he only needed one hand to actually work, the activities of his left hand went unnoticed.

That is until recently, when said telemarketing company went through a technology update that required all employees to now use two hands on the computer. Once the new technology was implemented, Pocket Pete's productivity decreased greatly. At first the thought was that he didnt understand the new system, so he was given extra classes to learn the system and time to get used to it. After a short while his productivity did not increase, so he was scheduled to be monitored by one of the managers. Shortly after his first monitored call began it was noted that his hand slipped into his pants and stayed their, thus causing his poor productivity.

Pocket Pete has since been confronted about his, uh, problem, however it seems that old habits are hard to break as Pocket Pete is still unable to use more than one hand at a time. As of this reporting the next chapter in the story of Pocket Pete is unwritten, but I am sure it involves the sanitary cleaning of a certain keyboard and one old man huddled in a corner of the bathroom with his pants dropped around his ankles.

I have figured out the Japanese

Japan, as a country, is at the top of the developed country list with their booming economy, their solid infrastructure, and their sheer determination and honor. They have built some of the tallest, sturdiest buildings in the world in an area ravaged with earthquakes and tsunamis. They have taken products such as the TV and DVD player, improved on them, and made them cheaper to purchase. Japan has developed a forward thinking mentality where their people are goal oriented. We, as American's, have become enamored with their culture and their people, yet beyond all this capitalistic growth, and their idealized system, we in the Western World are left with this one question:

"Why are the Japanese so hyper?"

It seems that the Japanese have given new meaning to the word "fad." They take their love of silly little products to a new level. Their fads have led to world-wide hits among tweeners, such as tomaguchi, and among children, like pokemon. They have become the ultimate celebrity inspired environment - hell, O-Town was chased down the street as if they were the Beattles. Why is this? Why are the Japanese so happy and so excited all the time?

Well, your wait is over, I have the answer for you right here: The Japanese government pumps nitrous into the air. It is that plain and simple, and that explains everything.

Think about it, what we cover in our nightly news in 35 minutes at 11PM, they cover in a little under 5 minutes, thus allowing for more cultured anime or reality TV shows where men see how long they can hold "it" in after drinking 2 gallons of water, while being tortured by having to wear only a diaper and sitting on a 2 ton block of ice.

Remember the music from those old school nintendo games, such as Super Mario Brothers? Turn on whatever kind of music you are listening to, do some nitrous and then you tell me where that music style comes from!

And what better way to get rid of the general fear of the population of this weeks impending natural disaster than to give them all some laughing gas. Hey, it works in the dentist's office, doesnt it?

Have you ever seen what kind of movie and TV editing goes on over their? It is quicker than MTV editing, and can only be made, and watched while on nitrous.

But God love 'em, who else would have thought that putting a camera in a cell phone was a good idea? I mean sure it was invented so that Japanese tourists could hide their cameras from out stereotyping eyes, but they are laughing all the way to the bank now, and that laugh is only fueled by the nitrous in their atmosphere!

Chicken tastes good, why not just eat chicken

I have a real problem with people who praise strange food as "tasting real good; tastes just like chicken." I dont mind the strange food so much, because I will try just about anything that doesnt have fungus growing on it at least once. But if you are going to tell me that it tastes just like chicken, fuck you, I am going to eat chicken!

It doesnt make sense to me to pay all kinds of money to try something exotic if it is going to taste like grounded, clucking fowl. "Sir, would you like to taste iguana, it tastes just like chicken?" How about you eat your chicken tasting iguana and I will go have some actual chicken, because I am sure that the real thing is going to taste more like chicken than some fuckin reptile that belongs in the zoo (ironically, I just found out that the iguana is also known as the tree chicken...). What is so bad about eating the actual bird itself that we, as humans, have to go around searching for other creatures that taste similar?

Can you believe there is an actual Harvard Study on why animals taste similar? Interesting stuff. It deals with common ancestry theory, which by itself is thought provoking. However, there is a figure on the bottom of the page that outlines the tastes of different types of animals that shows that everything from a kangaroo to a two-toed amphiuma - including a tyrannosaurus rex - tastes like chicken. And from that figure, with no exceptions, I will only eat chicken! It was interesting to see that humans, apparently, taste like pork, which leads me to think of many "other white meat" jokes that I just wont share because they are too racially charged.

Next time I eat chicken I am going to turn to the person next to me and say, "Man, this is some good chicken, tastes just like rattle snake."

Midnight Special

So there I was walking - ok, maybe not walking because it was dark, but more like briskly strolling - down the cold street, looking at the ground with my hands in my coat pockets when a thug came up to me. Clearly he was a thug, or at least a wanna-be thug - with the fake gold fronts, cubic zirconia earring, the thick gold plated chain dangling down his chest, and the valor baggy sweat suit riding far below the boarder - and he had a gun: A standard glock-17, probably loaded with 9mm's. It was a black extension from his outstretched white arm and aimed at my body as he demanded "all I got."

"But I got nothing sir," was all I could muster, and I was being truthful because I was dead broke just walking down the street from the bus stop to my little studio apartment on the west side of town.

"Bullshit, you got somethin', look at you," as he approached me closer, waiving the gun around as if he we the Don and I was his low-man on the totem pole bitch.

I slowly reached down and tapped my pockets to show him that I wasnt carrying anything, but that wasnt enough for him. He got right up in my face with the gun, snarled at me and reached around to my back pocket in a last ditched effort to steal my dignity, or rather my money.

I noticed, and awfully quickly I must add, that his hand and forearm loosened a bit as he clearly focused on my ass instead of his method of intimidation, so I swung. Yep, I hit this mother fucker as hard as I could, right across his knuckles. And as he screamed and grabbed for his hand the gun dropped to the damp street with a metallic thud. I dove for the pistol, grabbed it, turned around and as he began to lunge for me I blasted: BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, three rounds and he dropped.

He lay there motionless with three quickly spreading red spots on his oversized sweatshirt. I stood up and stammered over to this dead son of a bitch and unloaded one final round right between his dilated eyes.

Niagara Pee

Whilst I was in middle school I visited the administration offices a number of times for a variety of reasons. Yes, I did go to the principles office for fighting a couple of times (I was in middle school, cut me a break, I didnt realize my temper management abilities until high school), and there was that time when I balled up an entire Tasty Cake brownie in the middle of a lunchtime speech by the assistant principle and flung it up to the ceiling where it got stuck - after lunch I had to climb a ladder and pick it off, plus I got a weeks worth of detentions, oops. Actually, there was another time during a different lunchtime speech when I stood up and pretended to throw something at my friend, but alas, the assistant principle though I did throw something, so down I went to the principles office again. I guess I was somewhat of a lunch-time terrorist, but I digress... The main draw of the office, at least for me, was the nurse’s station. Now I am not about to say that I enjoyed going to the nurse, but what better excuse is there to get out of a class that you dont want to attend?

Although the administration office was constantly buzzing like a bee hive there was one constant, the Queen Bee if you will. She was not a principle, or even an assistant principle for that matter, but as soon as you went into the office you could not miss her. She was (and perhaps still is) an amazon of a woman, easily standing at 6 foot 2, and she looked like the mom from the Wonder Years, complete with rind stone glasses. In my memory she wears a poodle dress pulled up above her waist, but I doubt she actually did, at least not in the early 90s when I was in middle school. She had blonde hair, shoulder length, parted in the middle and curled out at the bottom. She was not easy on the eyes, in fact she was quite rugged looking, but then again, so was the mom from the Wonder Years. She had the shoulders of a linebacker and child baring hips, but she was not fat. All of these facts, though, didnt cause my fascination with this woman.

What made her amazing were the sounds she made from the bathroom. Now before you start getting all queasy let me explain. In the administration office there was a simple bathroom with one toilet which was right outside the area where the nurse’s office was, so while I waited for the nurse I heard this behemoth of a woman take a leak to end all leaks, but I am getting ahead of myself...

As I sat there waiting to see the nurse I looked down the long hallway and notice the lady come towards me. Our eyes met and she smiled, not a full smile, but more like a movement of her lips to acknowledge my existence. I smiled back and quickly looked away. She turned into the bathroom, turned on the light and shut the door. I heard a little trickle and thought nothing of it, until the flood gates opened. As the sound increased, I couldnt help but think that she was standing up and peeing from across the room, but the room wasnt nearly big enough for her to do that. I then thought that the pee was being pushed out with such force that it was probably hitting the bottom of the bowl and bouncing straight back up. I was reminded of the booth at the county fair (the one where you use a water gun to skirt a target, which is connected to one of 8 plastic horses that run along a straight track. The more accurate you are, the faster your horse goes; if your horse crosses the finish line, you win the prize), and thought that if I had her lay on her back, spread her legs and aim towards the target that I could beat any lame water gun.

Through my years of life there have been times when I have forced my pee out, making the whole experience a lot quicker in the process. This lady, however, had a forceful pee that lasted way too long for someone who was forcing a pee, so I thus concluded that she was not forcing. As she finished up and washed her hands I kept thinking to myself, "dont look at her, dont look into her eyes," but naturally, as she walked out of the bathroom I found myself starring at her in amazement. She smiled again, this time with a refreshed look on her face, and walked away.

From that point on, every time I saw this woman I reflected on the pee that I heard her take. I have forgotten her name - hell, I might not have ever known it - but I will never, EVER, forget the pee.