Holly O'Donnell Strikes Again

I work in a bookstore, where I fail to realize my potential but do an excellent job shelving the magazines. My plan has been to continue doing this until it is no longer comfortable and I am forced to move in another direction, possibly a direction involving a bronze medal in gymnastics or maybe crank. According to my eleventh grade english teacher, Holly "You're never going to earn any money" O'Donnell, this lack of direction and/or purpose is what comes from a double major in history and music. Ms. O'Donnell says I'd have been much happier majoring in a subject that I hate and show no aptitude for, such as math or business. Had I known the key to happiness was going against my own instincts and rejecting everything that appeals to me, that is exactly what I would have done.

Mrs. O'Donnell, or the Soul-Raping Dark Queen of Pragmatism as she will henceforth be referred to, came into Barnes and Noble last week. There she overheard me talking to an old woman about some sort of Jewish scripture.
"Like a Jewish Bible. No, not the Torah, different. It's got the whole old testament. No, I want one in leather. No, that looks wrong to me. I don't know why, it just does."
As soon as I dispatched this confused lady, The Soul-Raping Dark Queen of Pragmatism came over and discussed the Tanakh with me. Neither of us had much of a clue what it's about, but we agreed that it must be what the woman wanted, whether she knew it or not. Then I told her Highness that I had been accepted to graduate school.
"Really?" she asked perking up, "What would you be going for?"
"Music History" I replied, wearily.
"Oh Jesus," she said, "You're never going to learn, are you? What exactly do you plan to do with that?"
She's a sweet woman. Her cell phone rang and, my career decision safely belittled, she felt free to answer it.
"Nice talking to you," I said through tears.
"Hey girl!" she said to her phone, putting my crushed self-esteem from her mind and moving on to lunch plans, or selling real estate, or some damn thing.

Cocksuckers great and small

I referred in a recent post to the language on HBO's show Deadwood. I chose to comment on the characters "heightened language," with all of its interesting rhythms and cadences. Most people discussing the language on Deadwood choose instead to discuss the fact that a lot of the characters say "cocksucker" a lot. I find that my exposure to the show has desensitized me to the word, a word which may not have offended me before, but now seems as natural and commonplace as "table" or "asphalt." My usage of the word has increased, leading directly to the two hilarious anecdotes I now relate.

Hilarious Cocksucker Anecdote #1
The other day at work I went into the receiving room to yell and slam things around, something that happens with such frequency that most of my coworkers hardly even notice it at this point.
"What's up Andrew?" yawned Tommy the receiving manager.
"This cocksucker wouldn't believe me when I told him we didn't have yesterdays newspapers, that we threw them away. Fucking rude cocksucker."
"Yeah," said Tommy, who is gay, "What a stupid faggot."

Hilarious Cocksucker Anecdote #2
Occasionally I feel the urge to exercise, and sometimes I respond to this urge by jogging, exclusively at night. I feel that exercise should be a solitary, private affair, taking place away from the muscle-bound eyes of smug pony-tailed men and wiry women in sportsbras. I feel that nobody should have to see me sweat or pant for breath, both to save them the unwanted spectacle and to save me the feeling, real or imagined, that I am being laughed at. Running in my neighborhood spares me the company of the pony-tailed and be-sportsbra-ed. Running at night spares me the stares of random assholes mowing their lawns or playing with their children.
On one particular street near my house lives a small yellow terrier, whose owners let it out unattended to piss and shit and run around barking at passing joggers. I hate this dog and he hates me. He normally spots me a good fifty yards away and flies out of his yard at me, barking all the way. Many times I have been scared, once I even turned around. Yesterday I ran directly at him, yelling
"GET BACK IN YOUR FUCKING YARD YOU LITTLE COCKSUCKER! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
We both stopped in the middle of the street, several feet away from each other, he barking, I yelling.
"BARK! BARK BARK!"
"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU LITTLE COCKSUCKER," stomping my feet for effect.
Then his owner called out, "Petey! Come inside right now!"
Embarrassed, I waved, and jogged off in the other direction.

God's own tool.

In high school most of the stories I had to tell came from Ukrop's, where I worked fifteen hours a week bagging groceries and walking them to people's cars. The best of those stories revolve around a character named Kevin Lanham, my boss.
Kevin was a friendly man, always smiling from ear to ear, always laughing in a way that seemed insincere but couldn't have been. He was a devout Baptist who prayed over his potato wedges in the break room and who, though I never witnessed it, I am told proselytized to shoppers at local malls. Kevin was, to put it in a colloquial sort of way, crazier than a rat in a tin shithouse.

Bestselling author and noted Richmond area lesbian Patricia Cornwell came by our store once, arriving in a limousine and escorted by her wife. Ms. Cornwell came in to use the salad bar, and upon her leaving was followed into the parking lot by Kevin, whose religious zeal knew not the boundaries of professionalism and good taste, nevermind sense. It is said, though I did not witness it, that Kevin approached Ms. Cornwell at her limousine and began thumping Bibles at her.
"Ms. Cornwell, it isn't too late for you. You may reject this life you have chosen and be welcomed into the body of Christ Jesus, who reigns at the right hand of the Father for ever and ever. Praise him." Or words to that effect.
And though Ms. Cornwell is a celebrity, the influence of lesbians appears not to weigh heavily with the Ukrop brothers, religious nutbars in their own right. Kevin kept his job inspite of Ms. Cornwell's angry complaint, and I can only imagine that she now shops at Kroger.
No, when Kevin left my store it was in order to accept a promotion to Assistant Manager of the Forest Hill store. Before he left he posted a note on the bulletin board in the breakroom telling us that we knew only one side of him, Kevin the Grocery Store Manager. At home he was Kevin the Songwriter, and he shared the words to one song of which he was particularly proud.

Why the Cross?
Someone asked me 'Why the cross?'
And this was my reply--
Because of love at any cost,
The cross
The cross IS why!

He went on to assure us all that though our parting might be sad he knew that we would all meet again with Jesus in His heavenly kingdom.
Amen, Kevin, amen.