Being a baggage operator at an airport is the only job you can be just "ok" at and it's perfectly fine. People get upset when they don't get their bags, but they really don't and can't do anything about it. "Your bags aren't here, we are sorry for your inconvenience." And people just have to be ok with that. I mean what really can you do? Where did the bag go? And you know that every person you talk to has no clue who actually moved your bag from point A to B. So you really are fucked. You can't go to a bank and ask for your money in your account and they say; "We don't know where it is, but we'll get it back to you when we find it."

THE TOY

If you have some time at this moment read along. If you don’t then wait for another day where you aren’t so caught up in your selfish life of work and masturbation on a couch while watching Internet porn or Cinamax After Dark, to culture yourself in some knowledge the good Lord has blessed this young man with. Ok now that we have weeded out those individuals that use Myspace as a constant search engine for that “special” some one. I was thinking today while I was walking to my car, don’t ask me why, about the movie, The Toy. A mildly successful comedy from 1982 (one year before I emerged from my mother’s vaginal canal) staring Richard Pryor and Jackie Gleason. The premises is that Gleason, a wealthy man, Hires Richard Pryor to play and entertain his spoiled child because no tangible gift has ever satisfied the brat. Now you know the movie think about this: A rich man “purchases” a black man, to entertain his only son. Yes you read that correctly, he “purchases” a black man to work as an entertainer for his little boy. Everyday, he has to show up at their mansion, and do whatever the kid wants all day every day. Something about this reminds of something I read about in say, 7th grade history class. Something that rhymes with “bravery” I believe, but I’m not sure. So I started to picture the writer pitching this movie to Columbia Pictures, the film company that produced the film. “So I got this movie. A rich man can’t please his son, and has more money than he knows what to do with. So to please his son, he, get this, buys him a real life size black man to play with!” How did this movie ever get made? How did anyone think this was a good fucking idea? “Oh yeah, you know I think you got something here my man. I think we should also maybe have him like up on some sort of stage before he is bought too.” Watching this movie I did think to myself, “ self I think the only thing that would ever REALLY be a good old time would be to have my own personal black man that would do whatever I wanted, or my daddy would hurt him and his family.” So in closing I feel that America isn’t the democratic republic that it claims to be if every white Christian boy doesn’t have their very own personal black man to play with daily. I mean what kind of society denies their youth the learning experience of bossing around a minority for a few hours a day. Wait actually Pryor was forced to sleep there every night, away from his wife and family, so yeah this movie was pretty much “bravery” wasn’t it?

Your Face Isn't Always On Your Head

I was taking a number two at work the other day (if you work in an office building you already know that you must avoid taking to the stalls in-between 1:00 and 3:30, that's the death zone) So I was in the death zone the other day, couldn't help it. As I'm going, I hear the most horrifying sounds coming from the stall directly next to me. I mean sounds that would make wild animals cringe. Take the most wrong fart jokes from television and film and multiply that by say, 34. Now if you're the person doing this crime to a toilet, you can take solace that as long as you stay in the stall until everyone is out of the bathroom, you can make a clean get-a-way and no one knows a thing. But not when at a place of business that makes you wear an ID badge. When I heard the sounds of a 1,000 screams coming from just beyond a thin piece of material, I did what any normal person would do. I looked down. Right there sitting nicely on top of his shoe was his name Scott Johnson and his smiling 40-something face. Do you see the problem here? Now every time I see Scott Johnson in the building I have a sound to go with that face. And not only a sound, but a mental image that has kept me up some nights. I can never shake this man's hand, or look him in the eye. No good professional relationship can ever come of us now, with a friendship far out of the question. So a tip for all you kids out there; when taking a crap in the corporate world, put that little badge in your pocket before you drop trow.