In Which We Become Acquainted with the Self-Described Crazy Motherfucker
I worked at the Slippery Rock Area McDonald’s for four years. Teens in my town had few opportunities for after-school work, considering that we were far outnumbered by college students. Plus, McDonald’s was approachable. I had zero self-esteem when I was fifteen. My parents routinely reminded me what a scatterbrain I was, and for good reason. I was always leaving refrigerator doors open, lights on and doors unlocked.
"You’re too busy thinking about your stupid computer!" my dad would yell.
So I was terrified of getting my first legit job, where I’d be handling other people’s money and scalding oil, all the while being called “college boy” by my hateful boss, despite being years away from attending college. But then, I figured if they allowed actual retarded people to work there, surely I could meet their expectations at least some of the time.
So I put on church clothes and had my mom drive me to the McDonalds. When I asked for an application the manager laughed in my face and asked me when I could start.
On my first day, the same manager spent five minutes running through several dozen pieces of machinery and gave me some busy work so he could masturbate in the walk-in refrigerator. I was to arrange cheese slices in a fanned pattern so they could be easily dispensed during the dinner rush.
Under the already intolerable beeping from the timers and my constant mental exhortations (don’t screw up, don’t embarrass yourself, don’t look at anyone funny), I heard a spritzing sound. I turned around to see a man whom I later learned called himself BJ.
In his right hand he held a container of dehydrated onions. These are the little sour bits that taste nothing like onions on Cheeseburgers and Big Macs. They came to us in dry packets and we soaked them in water for two hours, allowing the pellets to expand to five times their original size.
In his left hand, BJ held a bottle of blueish industrial glass cleaner. He was soaking the onions with Windex.
What could I say? It was my first day. The guy was ten years older than me.
He looked up and stared back, spritzing about eight more times before his face broke into a grin that can only be described as “shit-eating.”
"I don’t even care, man. I’m a CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER. Whoo!"
Here was a guy who is so far removed from humanity, that he would make hundreds of people sick, not because it fun or because it benefited him in any conceivable way, but because that’s just who I am, my man. And if you can’t handle it well then fuck you.
“In “King of the Road”, the first episode of season one, they take a “23 hour road trip” to the Hoover Dam, in Colorado, ruling that state out. In episode seven, “When Petes Collide” its mentioned that “Dad had to run for 4 hours, to the Canadian border” to get rid of their family bowling ball “Rolling Thunder”. The best area given the amount of travel time from both points would be Allegany County, New York.”—The Adventures of Pete & Pete - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
A middle-aged man in a motorized wheelchair, grinning from ear to ear while watching Avatar, a film about a man who is able to escape his paraplegia by projecting his mind onto a running, jumping, super-agile body.
“Clearly the only reason that people join the military is because they’re all just jock bonehead football asshole prickface jerkmos. Certainly not because our country leaves few other options for people on the lower tiers of the economic ladder, and not because swarms of recruiters offer “enlistment bonuses” to high school students who don’t see a lot of options for themselves, and not because it offers a full-time job in a country that’s always struggled with high unemployment rates, and not because military service in simply a proud tradition in some people’s families, and not because we live in a society that promotes the military’s ideals, and not because some people have criminal troubles and join the army to turn their life around, and not because other people just want to find that asshole Bin Laden and wring his neck, and not because sometimes you just join the army and it’s no fucking business of some dude in Oakland tapping on a gamelan. Congratulations, dude, you just reduced the entire military-industrial complex to a Trenchcoat Mafia diatribe of “All jocks are assholes, wah!””—