This was
back when I was working the late shift at a shipping hub that was later bought
by FedEx.
I worked
sorting in unload. One of my duties was pushing boxes onto different conveyor
belts that would deliver the goods to three different banks of trucks. People
on those belts would load individual trucks for local deliveries in the
morning. The other, more entertaining (and unofficial) duty was breaking box jams on the conveyor belts.
Getting
on the conveyor belts at all, of course, was strictly no. But, when
you have a box jam in one of the conveyor turns there’s little choice.
The anatomy
of a jam is simple; a long box didn’t make the turn or a tire didn’t go
down the slide and packages are piling up behind. Maybe too many boxes came
down from unload at once. Or, more likely, some asshole overloaded a shitty
cardboard box. On this frigid night, it was a combination of the last two.
I was
waiting for another truck to deposit a trailer in my bay. To pass time and keep
warm, (and to play with my Pikachu pedometer) I was walking in place on the conveyor (okay, I did this a lot) to keep warm while another guy was
sorting to the east of me; his unloader was feeding his conveyor like he was
possessed. Maybe possessed by the spirit of meth.
As I
walked in place I would surreptitiously check on my Pikachu. However, even as I knew the joy of having walked enough
to get Pikachu to do a new trick, a red light started flashing and the jam alarm
went off.
Since I was on the belts already, I took off for the corner where
most of the jams happen. Radio chatter confirmed the jam. There’s very little
overhead clearance there so if I went that way I would usually sit down or ride
a box. For a jam though I had to run hunched over. It’s a dark, elevated, and
full of boxes.
The jam
wasn’t the worst I’d seen but there were some flimsy boxes getting crushed. I realized
that those boxes would probably free the jam up if I could pull them. I pulled and threw boxes past the jam as fast as I could, but the bottom of
the biggest flimsy boxes had been worn down by the conveyor belt’s friction.
When I grabbed it to pull it free, the box’s bottom flap got caught and the box ripped apart.
A big
black plastic bag came out of the box and I knew that was going to make things
worse, so I grabbed it next (all
while walking backwards to avoid getting sucked into the jam myself). But it was, of course, too late; the plastic got caught and
when I pulled, the bag ripped open and colorful silicone contents started
tumbling out, down the slide, and onto the conveyor belt that goes to the
trucks.
What I saw took me a while to process. I just
stared while shuffling backwards. The jam was freed, sure, but so was an
avalanche of unpackaged dildos.
After only a few seconds the supervisor radios
started to erupt with commentary.
“Sex toy
invasion on K-1.”
“Hello,
QA, we have free range dildos on K-1.”
“Exclusive
dildogate coverage live on K-1.”
It was
all fun and games (people were either dying from hilarity or really grossed
out) until somebody found the boxes’ label. None of the dildos had packaging because
it was a box full of returns.
imagine making friends with someone, and you get on really well and become pretty close. you’ve been friends for a few months when they tell you, “i need to show you something.” you watch in awe as they open twitter, log into the account @dril, and make a tweet right before your eyes. what would you do
so obviously the problem with listening to country music too much is that it is a constant reminder of my wayward youth growing up on a farm in virginia, and all the stupid shit i used to get up to while my poor mother ran after me waving her hands in the air shouting things like, "why are there eggs on the garage door????“ and, “HOW did you end up in LOUISA COUNTY??? YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE IN SCHOOL,” and, “YOU’RE GOING TO GET THE PLAGUE IF YOU DON’T GET THAT PIGEON BLOOD OFF YOUR HANDS.”
just girly things!
anyway, i’ve been thinking about my mother.
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED FROM MY MOTHER:
all my best swear words
how to make midnight snacks with nothing but condiments, weird leftovers, and a goddamn dream
how to take a shot without flinching
The Drunk Dance (CLAP YA HANDS)
every word to every joni mitchell song
7 alternative spellings of the word “laugh”
how to BETRAY your FAMILY by leaving them to DIE ALONE in FIRES.
rewind.
the year was 2005. my dad brought eleven of his students to spend the night at my mom’s house (my parents are amicably divorced) because they were flying out of DC early the next day and my mother was closer to the airport by about 4 hours. they were all asleep in the rooms upstairs; i had slept on the couch, my father in the guest room, and my aunt in her apartment (which was attached to the kitchen).
the point is: we had a full house, and my mother decided to make everybody a big farm breakfast. which would have been a really sweet gesture, except of course that the stove in the house is incredibly temperamental and sometimes lights things on fire that aren’t meant to be on fire.
SORRY ABOUT YOUR SHIRT, SKIP
“SHIT,” said my mother.
i woke up, somewhat groggily, to the fire alarm. “is the house on fire?” i asked.
“EVERYTHING’S FINE,” said my mother.
“is the house on fire?”
“IT’S UNDER CONTROL,” said my mother.
i got off the couch, rubbing my dear sweet little 12-year-old eyes, not yet aware that i was about to be faced with the terrible truth about my own position in the household hierarchy. my stepdad was in the kitchen, fanning smoke out of the windows, while my mother poked at charred bacon.
i sat down at the island, stretching my hands out to steal a pancake. “hey,” i said through a mouthful, suddenly noticing: “where are the jerrys?”
the thing is, my mother and i go through phases of liking things where that thing is the only thing we like, to exclusion of all other things. examples of this include nacho cheese, the billy gilman christmas album, and, when i was in high school, 4 betta fish which for the purposes of this story are all named jerry.
my mother LOVED these fish. she talked to them all the time. “are you hungry, jerry?” she would ask.
“i’m hungry, mom,” i would say.
“there’s bread and probably some condiments in the fridge,” she would answer, cooing at the stupid betta fish while it flared its dumb neckbeard like an IDIOT. you’re the YOUTUBE COMMENTS OF FISH, JERRY. “or if you want we have fruit.”
FRUIT? FRUIT???? I’M TWELVE, I DON’T WANT FRUIT UNLESS IT’S IN A PIE AND SMOTHERED IN CINNAMON.
each jerry had their own little tank, even though it made using the island for anything but fish-viewing completely impossible. did you want to eat? TOO BAD. YOU HAVE ENTERED THE JERRYS’ DOMAIN, AND YOU MUST LIVE BY THEIR LAW.
smug fucker.
back in 2005, just moments after the alarm has begun to ring: YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO COLLECT WHATEVER THINGS IN THE HOUSE YOU LOVE MOST, said my mother’s brain. EVERYTHING ELSE MUST BURN.
the most precious items in the house that by no means could be sacrificed to fire, a complete list:
FOUR PIECE OF SHIT BETTA FISH ALL NAMED JERRY.
items that MIGHT, to SOME PARTIES, be considered SIGNIFICANTLY MORE PRECIOUS than 4 betta fish named jerry, an incomplete list:
myself, her only daughter
her ex-husband
her ex-husband’s gaggle of ELEVEN INNOCENT MIDDLE SCHOOLERS
her SISTER
the dogs?????????
48 years of tax returns, FOR EXAMPLE, I’M JUST SPITBALLING HERE
my mother made four trips, in and out of the smokey kitchen. FOUR. she rescued FOUR LIVING CREATURES from her house and they were ALL AQUATIC FUCKING NECKBEARD FISH.
look, i know my mother loves me. i know my mother does not prefer the company of the jerrys to the company of her daughter. of course i know that.
BUT COME ON!!!
FOUR TRIPS!!! SHE MADE FOUR TRIPS!!!
MY MOTHER HAD FOUR CHANCES TO SELECT HER MOST PRECIOUS CARGO AND SHE CHOSE HYPER-AGGRESSIVE WATER ANIMALS WHO ARE SO FUCKING STUPID THEY WILL OCCASIONALLY FIGHT THEIR OWN REFLECTION.
LOOK I MAY HAVE RUN OVER VINCENT ON THE FOUR WHEELER ONCE OR TWICE BUT AT LEAST I NEVER TRIED TO FIGHT MY OWN—
whoops, okay, one time i did try to fight my own reflection after reacting badly to ambien but that is NOT THE POINT.
the point is never let your parents near betta fish, because they will BETRAY YOU.
A man sneezes while five other men are talking over him. You know exactly which one sneezed.
Your brain is now unsure if someone has actually said this or if you can hear their voice in your head.
There is a cult for an editor. We are all members of said cult. We all bring our hands together above our heads. We worship this editor. PE/KE. SPE/K. P E / K E S P E / K
There is an infinite number of Adams.
You click on a video that is 10 minutes long. You black out and come to hours later, watching a different, but similar video.
You are called a shizno and you feel insulted. You do not know what this word means, but you are insulted.
All your money is disappearing. You don’t know where it’s going, nor do you remember spending it, but merchandise keeps showing up on your doorstep. You have so much merchandise. Your room is covered with so many posters that they cover the windows. No way in. No way out. You only wear merchandise now.
One man is constantly constantly shirtless and this is not questioned.
You wanted to watch a silly show about soldiers in a canyon. You didn’t know what you were signing up for. It wasn’t this. Anything but this.
There are two pairs of Joel and Adams and no one ever knows which one a person is referring to.
There are screencaps of tweets on tumblr before the staff has even tweeted it.
Another hypothetical situation has been discussed. They must have hundreds of millions of dollars at this point.
A man is impregnated with an alien child, but this is fine. This is perfectly normal. This child grows up and plays on the basketball team. This is perfectly normal.
You feel the strange compulsion to add “as dicks” to everything you say.
There have been terrible, terrible things done For The Kids.
For some reason the dynamite is kind.
Certain state names make you cry.
One man is simultaneously the dumbest and smartest person alive. You do not question this.
A different man is at once a murderous dark god, a loving husband, and a gigantic nerd. This, too, is never questioned.
There are four of the exact same person. Not cloned, however. The clones are a different story we must never speak of.
Everything is also a gun.
You must pick a team in the great battle of red versus blue. Friendships have been ruined over picking the wrong team. There is no remaining neutral.
No one thinks twice about giving a child access to weapon gun hybrids, nor do they reconsider letting them fight the monsters of the world. Clearly, a man has made many, many mistakes.
You do not know who this drunk man declaring that he is the cheese master is, but you accept his mastery of cheese.
We wonder why we’re here. We see it as one of life’s greatest mysteries.
okay so the only Harry Potter i accept is Indian Harry Potter but imagine this:
Biracial Harry. James is South Indian and Lily is white. As Harry is practically identical to James, he still looks very Indian.
The Dursleys are a white family and Harry is the one brown child.
So can you imagine, on top of the abuse and neglect he experiences in the Dursley household, tiny baby Harry also has to deal with people telling him “the Dursleys must be so nice to take you in” and “you know they’re not your REAL family” and “did your parents not want you?”
So growing up, Harry doesn’t know whether or not he could actually feel bitter towards the Dursleys because, well, they took someone like him in.
Guys did I ever tell you about the time I completely accidentally ruined a professionally made campaign for Dungeons and Dragons thanks to a single roll
Please explain
Ok so we had to fight our way to the bottom of a castle to stop a group of cultists from summoning an Orc god to the world and we got there and the ritual was already going so I ran up to the god, who had already begun to manifest, and cast Finger of Death, which kills any target I touch if they fail a Fortitude roll. Since he was a god, he had a good constitution and would have certainly survived
