Black And White

Lately, I've been dressing like the Unibomber. Not necessarily on purpose; the look just seems to come together on its own like a well coordinated outfit.

When I walked out of class today, my bitter attitude was met with an equally bitter cold wind and in true Unibomber fashion, I put on my dark sunglasses, threw up my hood and began my trek to the labyrinth that is the parking lot. As I pondered an excuse to use to call out of work, I realized that there was someone in front of me walking rather slow. Oddly enough, he was dressed a bit like me, but he traded pants for a pair of puke green cargo shorts. The color of the shorts and the fact that it was below freezing was not what struck me as odd, it was what the shorts revealed that caught my attention.

Below his shorts, wrapped around his feet, like any other normal human being, were two socks. The intriguing part: one sock was black and ribbed, while its counterpart was pink with a red rim at the top. Now I'll be the first to admit, that there have been times where I've walked out of the house with two different socks on, usually on one of two occasions:

1. I am extremely hungover and I decide that style is not of any importance today.

2. I haven't done wash in some time and all I have left are two loners.

But this guy didn't seem hungover, and the wash thing didn't seem to fit him either. I thought maybe he was a rebel and doing something innovative, but he wasn't stylish enough, especially with his choice of pink, red and black. So clearly his sock faux pas was unintentional. After I subjectively decided this, my attention shifted to my the next question. What type of predicament did this fella get himself into this morning while dressing himself that would warrant his sock choice? I thought of many possibilities...late for a test, rushed to the hospital, found out STD test results, the list goes on and on, but none made solid sense.

Since I couldn't figure out what happened to my dear friend this morning, I decided that this was the reason...sheer laziness. It seemed to be the only possible explanation, and it was one that satisfied my now obsessive mind. I wanted to ask him, but I missed my opportunity when he made a left and made his way up the left side of the parking lot. He walked farther and farther away until the red stripe on his single sock disappeared into a blur.

I continued my stroll through the parking lot, all the while searching for my now seemingly lost vehicle, when I noticed another interesting person. Sporting the meanest pair of mutton chops I had ever seen, was a kid walking through the parking lot strumming a tune on his acoustic guitar. His eyes were closed, his gait was steady and his voice was ear numbing, but he didn't seem to care how horrible his voice sounded. I didn't let my mind think for a second what the hell this one went through this morning, or this year for that matter, and I darted to my car two spaces ahead. In that moment I concluded, without any research of course, that these kids are the "normal" ones for being "strange," and I'm the "strange" one for being "normal." It was slightly devastating.

Being the outcast that I am, I stood at my car and shook my head for a moment. As I reached for the door handle, I noticed my reflection in the drivers side window. My very stern, very Unibomberish look, glanced back through the dark sunglasses that covered my eyes. Just then I wondered if people were looking at me saying, "Yea, I can totally see it. He does look like the Unibomber." If that's the case, then that would technically remove me from the outcast list and place me as "normal" for being "strange." Once again I stopped thinking about this nonsense and started my car. To think, all of this because I acted out of sheer laziness this morning while dressing myself.

The Name of Names

Something has to be said about the names that we give to our children. I'm not saying that there should be laws against certain names, not yet of course, but there should be some guidelines at least.

I was in the mall wandering aimlessly, thinking about my finances, which by the way are virtually nonexistent, when I heard a woman shouting at her child. Naturally my full attention was diverted in that direction, because I am such a fan of public discipline...it's much better than a "private sit down" which only makes your bastard kid hate you more. I listened intently as she yelled at him for stealing something from the previous store that they had been in and I swore she called her bastard child by a certain name. So in order to clarify my previous notion, I shuffled closer to her and the convict and pretended to stare at a food menu. Less than a minute later, she indeed called her spawn by the name I had heard earlier. In a commanding voice, she announced, "Get over here messiah, I'm not playin' wit you." I'm not shitting you, the kids name was messiah.

In all honesty, how arrogant can you be to name your kid messiah? He didn't look like a savior to me. I'm not a religious extremist in any sense of the word, but that seems like a bad choice for a child's name. Those are some pretty high expectations to put on your kid. What if he is a fuckup? Wouldn't that sully the name of "messiah?" What if he becomes a serial killer? Will future generations associate the name messiah with a deranged psychopath who cut forty-seven people up. What if the name starts catching on and more and more people begin to name their kids messiah? Could you imagine what that would be like?

What I don't understand is why parents name their kids the way they do? Sure having a kid is like buying a pet, or a new toy and it's fun to give it a stupid name, but the bad part about it is that you can't let it run away, or donate it to the Salvation Army. No, you're stuck with the kid and his stupid name, which only makes it harder for you in the long run.

For years to come, your child and his horrible parent-chosen name will have to walk this earth all the while being tortured by other kids, teenagers, frat boys, insecure men and old folks with dementia...in that order. But that's not the worst part. The worst part of your choice to give your shitty kid an even shittier name is that you have to deal with his whining and complaining about getting beat up because of it. Ultimately his constant complaining causes you to stop paying attention to him which makes your kid do drugs, beat women, and probably end up in jail at some point in his life, costing you not only emotional pain, but also money. Bottom line...think before you give your kid a name that you thought of after you ate and eighth of mushrooms, save those names for relatives that you hate, or co-workers instead.

KENTUCKY

- Introduction -

During the time in my life that I was subjected to living in a cubicle from 9-5, I was forced to take a number of so-called “business” trips. Some lasted only a day, while others consumed an entire week. Some time back, I was sent to one of our corporate offices in Kentucky, to help them program a shipment of cell phones that they had recently received. Surely one associates Kentucky with Louisville, or perhaps Lexington, but unfortunately the office was no where near these cities. Instead, my trip was to a town in Kentucky that had a population of, what seemed to be just under eighteen people. The following is an account of what took place during my trip to Kentucky.

- Tuesday -

4:06pm – As I scan the airport parking lot for empty spaces, one thought comes to mind. Why the fuck are so many people flying on a Tuesday afternoon? Out of the thousands of spaces in this gigantic automobile prison, not one is unoccupied. I drift further and further away from the terminal, hunting for somewhere to park. My eyes are beginning to burn as I scrutinize each space down every row, only to find another shitty car parked in each one. I finally turn down one of the last rows in the lot and pull into a spot next to the outlining spiral fence. With my belongings in hand, I force the door open rather violently, which slams into the spiral fence. Since, the driver’s side door opening only affords me approximately four inches of space to squeeze through, I make an uncoordinated exit through the passenger side door instead.

4:25pm - After a twenty minute trek through the parking lot, in the ninety-five degree heat of the day, I have finally made my way into Philadelphia’s airport terminal. My flight doesn't leave for another hour and a half, so I stop and take a seat at "The Airport Tavern." The quaint hole-in- the-wall-bar is filled with depressed, sloppy business men, who seem like they had been fired from their cushy fortune 500 jobs earlier that morning. I immediately grab a stool at the end of the bar and order a shot of Jaegermeister & a Miller Lite. The liquor will help coat my fragile stomach from the excess beer which I intend on consuming.

5:30pm - Four shots and four beers later, and I am feeling rather intoxicated. The terminal is nonsmoking, so I'll have to wait until I arrive in Kentucky, after 10pm, to have a cigarette. For a second, I think about sneaking a cigarette in the bathroom, but then I wondered how I would explain to my manager why I missed my $268.00 non-refundable flight. After a short debate with myself, I quickly come to the sad realization that it's not worth taking the chance. I instead make my way to the bathroom to take a piss, in the urinal of course, but end up doing so, mostly on my shoes. In my alcoholic state, I walk out of the bathroom and forget to wipe off my shoes.

5:35pm - I am still at the "Airport Tavern" waiting for my flight to board when I hear, "Last call for flight 813, Philadelphia to O'Hare. Again, this is last call for flight 813 from Philadelphia to O'Hare, you flight is now departing." My brain, now submerged in alcohol, processes the garbled message once more, and I quietly say to myself, "I'm going to O'Hare." I dig through my bag and find my boarding pass which reads, “Departure Time 5:45pm.” I think to myself, “Well that can't be my flight, because I still have ten minutes before the flight departs.” In my alcoholic state, I never read what time the flight was boarding; I assumed the flight would board at 5:45pm since that was the time it was departing. After realizing that my flight is about to head off, I pay my tab and rush to the gate to board, and I am immediately met by an attendant at the counter:

ME: “Is this flight going to O'Hare?”

ATTENDANT: “Yes Sir, the gate is about to close, where have you been?”

ME: “Drinking.”

7:10/8:10pm (Depending on where you're reading this from.) - I wake up and hear the dinging sound of the intercom, followed by a garbled message from the captain; I must have passed out as soon as I got into my seat. My wrist is lined with drool, which confirms my previous notion. The captain’s voice graces the intercom once again to let everyone know that the seatbelt sign is in fact, still illuminated. I have to use the bathroom again, and that's all that I can think about. I'm like a child. I ring the bell from my seat and the attendant approaches with a disgruntled face:

ATTENDANT: “Can I help you sir?”

ME: “I have to use the bathroom.”

ATTENDANT: “Well I'm sorry sir, but the captain has not yet turned off the seatbelt sign, so I'm afraid you're going to have to stay seated.”

ME: “Ma'am this is an emergency.”

ATTENDANT: “I'm sorry sir, but we all have to follow the rules.”

ME: “Miss, I'm pretty sure that I’m going to go in my pants in about three seconds, so I ask you again, may I please use the bathroom?”

ATTENDANT: “Sir I can not let you out of your seat, please remain seated until the captain turns the seat belt sign off.

ME: “Well than you’re going to have to explain to the captain why seat 29E is wet when this plane lands.”

ATTENDANT: “Quickly.”

ME: “Thank you.”

I rush out of my seat and bolt for the bathroom. Without even locking the door, I unzip my pants and let loose like a kid in a swimming pool. Aside from sex and a good sandwich, this may be the best feeling in the world.

7:26pm/8:26pm – After the plane lands, I grab my bag and make my way off of the plane into the terminal to find the gate to my connecting flight. As I walk through the terminal, I begin to notice that people are staring at me as I walk past them. Now, I know that I’m drunk, but does everyone else know too? By the way they're looking at me, I'd say there's a good chance they do. Halfway through the terminal, I stop and look down at my paper to find where my next gate is located. In that instant, I realize why people have been staring at me. Along my left pant leg, from my zipper to just below my knee cap, laid a thick, freshly wet stream of urine. That's twice in three hours that I've managed to piss on myself.

7:40/8:40pm - There's no use in trying to cover the urine stain; I accept it and continue my march toward the departure gate. On the way, I stir up quite a hunger and find a place called “The All American Bagel & Bakery.” I order a chicken parmesan sandwich on a plain toasted bagel and the employee, whose ethnicity is unknown, asks me if I would like pepperoni on my sandwich. “What an excellent idea,” I professed in a slight slur. I agree to the extra topping and three minutes later I have what feels like a two pound sandwich. My eating takes minutes. I mix half chewed food with Orange Gatorade, swallow, breath and repeat, until there is no more. Feeling quite satisfied, I follow the terminal hallway down to the departure gate, but I stop as an advertisement catches my eye. Pictured on a giant pillar was a frumpy old man with copy underneath him that read, “Air India, nonstop from all the popular destinations including Mumbai and Singapore.” I didn't even know that a place called Mumbai existed in the real world, and I would assume that Singapore hasn't been quite the hotspot for American tourism since Michael Fay last visited in '94.

8:00/9:00pm - Boarding for my connecting flight is finally announced; I made sure to listen this time. I begin to walk down the winding cattle chute to the entrance of the plane, and I make out what appears to be an oversized toy airplane. Upon further investigation however, I realize that the object is, in fact, an actual airplane used to carry human people. On my best day, I am 5’6” and on this flight, I had to duck my head to board the plane. Visions of Godzilla smashing planes out of the sky filled my head as I sized up the aircraft once again. The inside was no better. On either side of the plane was one row of seats which were squeezed together fairly tight. I take my seat and ask the flight attendant why the connecting flight is such a small plane. She kindly informed me that the “Blue Grass Airport” runway can't handle anything larger than a plane of this size. I'm flying to a place called Blue Grass Airport on a Micro-Machine-sized airplane. I wish I were making this up.

- For the full story, send me an email at NarcoticsandNonsense@gmail.com -

copyright (C) 2009 Chris DiFerdinando