sad mafioso
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 30, 2007
- Messages
- 3,117
More people, more chairs. Why are there so many people?
Whoever was supposed to make the coffee has dropped the ball. The meeting starts in five and the fucking coffee is still brewing, percolating, dripping. How do they expect me to sit through any portion of a meeting without a cup of coffee?
And I don't even like coffee, really.
The thing is, having something to keep my hands occupied is necessary if i'm going to sit still for an hour. They have a mind of their own, you know. I've caught them doing things they really shouldn't be doing at very inappropriate times.
see: nose picking
see: public masturbation
see: unintentional strangulation of a complete stranger
And if I'm holding a cup of hot coffee without a protective lid on it my hands tend to focus on the...task at hand. Because, well, they know that at the very least any attempt to do anything but calmly and slowly bring the cup of coffee to my lips every 30 seconds or so will result in terrible burns on the skin of the hands, on the fingers, the palms, knuckles, as the hand really is the only unprotected part of the body that will receive immediate burns without being shielded by an article of clothing. And if one hand is occupied, the other always pays attention to what the occupied one is doing in case it needs to assist. Therefore I don't have to worry about the unoccupied one getting into trouble or conspiring with the occupied one and, say, pretending to engage in public masturbation while the occupied hand pours scalding coffee all over my exposed genitalia. They really aren't that smart, you know.
"Coffee's all set!" somebody from behind me calls out as I jump out of my aluminum folding chair, a man with a beard and a terrible comb over wearing a cute little sky blue T shirt with the cute little lime green slogan Floridaaaaah! written across his chest doing a terrible job of covering up his man boobs and actually accentuating them if anything then drawing more attention to his bulging gut as if it were some giant slide at a playground for fat kids. "Weee! Floridaaaaah!" I yell as I slide down the man's enormous belly and get lost somewhere inside his sweaty, unwashed, putrid naval.
"Hey buddy, you awake there?" A voice behind me asks as I notice a face leering over my shoulder. I am standing in front of the coffee maker and I turn around to see a line of people behind me, waiting for me to make a move and get out of the way. I apologize, mumble something about daydreaming and grab my Styrofoam cup from the stack, pour my coffee and walk back to my seat which is now occupied by some frumpy ten million year old woman with tiny little curlers in her silver white hair and what appears to be some sort of nightgown barely covering her lumpy decaying body.
"Oh I'm sorry, am I in your seat young man?" She says sweetly, noticing me standing right next to her and glaring down like she's some sort of infectious germ about to crawl up my leg and sodomize me, impregnate me with it's disease and make me one of them. I don't answer the woman and as I take an empty seat somewhere in the middle a few rows back. I am not unaware that had my hands not been occupied holding the coffee, half the pathetic excuses for men in this room would probably be pulling me off that half dead ancient witch as I straddled and strangled her by her floppy wrinkly turkey neck. A man sitting at the front behind an aluminum folding table speaks.
"Hi I'm Bobby and I'm an alcoholic and an addict."
The crowd says hello to Bobby. I sip my coffee and it burns my tongue a little. I want to walk up to Bobby and pour it on his head.
"I want to start off by saying that through the grace of God and with the help of the fellowship, I can claim that I have been clean and sober for sixteen years now."
The crowd applauds. Each and every one of these mutants lifts their hands in front of them and slaps them together like a bunch of hungry seals, all staring at Bobby whose head isn't on fire from the hot coffee I want to shower him with and who isn't jumping up and down or running around the room in some sort of reactionary exclamation of pain. Poor unsuffering Bobby.
"I began drinking when I was thirteen years old but I do believe that I was an alcoholic from the minute I left my mother's womb."
I try and picture what Bobby's mother's twat might have looked like all those years ago. Probably some unshaven sloppy mess stretched out enough to hide a gun in. Bobby tells us he used cocaine when he was sixteen. Smoked marijuana at fourteen. Took qualudes and barbituates. Blacked out all the time. Got sober, got married, had kids, and began drinking again.
"I thought, hey i'm cured now. I can have a few beers."
He tells us how a few beers led to almost a handle of vodka a day. How he neglected his family and that his wife threw him out. Slept in shelters if there was room, and sometimes on the street.
"The lowest point in my life," Bobby confesses to the crowd, "is when I tried to kill myself. After that, I decided I needed to get sober." And I can't take it anymore.
"Uh, Bobby?" I interrupt, raising my hand, some sort of automatic response left over from grammar school. A man sitting next to Bobby, the man I assume is in charge of this whole mess, tells me it isn't customary for people to comment, that this is Bobby's time to talk.
"No, no. That's okay," Bobby says. "What is it young man?"
Everybody here refers to people my age as young man.
"I'm just wondering, how did you try to kill yourself?" And the man in charge protests again, but Bobby decides to take the bait.
"Well, young man," Bobby continues but I don't give him the chance to even answer before I interrupt him.
"Because it seems to me that if you fail at killing yourself then you must be one hell of a fucking retard. I mean, how hard can it really be?"
The man in charge is yelling something but I don't listen.
"If you really wanted to die, Bobby, you wouldn't be here pissing and moaning and whining to a bunch of complete strangers who have absolutely nothing in common with you save for the fact that they spent a good portion of their lives being drunk or high. You'd be dead!"
And the man in charge screams "Enough!"
"Either that, Bobby, or you didn't really want to die."
More voices speak out in protest and I stand up, still holding my coffee.
"Did you, Bobby? Did you really want to die?" I ask him condescendingly, stepping over the legs and feet of the people sitting in my row and making my way towards the center aisle. Some middle aged hag yelps as I step on her toes. More protests and the man in charge rises to meet me, to stop me.
"Yes!" Bobby shouts out, standing up himself now. "I really wanted to die!"
"How did you do it Bobby? How did you try?" I yell as I reach the end of the row, another woman on the end screeching something at me and I throw the burning coffee in her face. My hands have joined the rebellion. I feel people behind me, hands and arms trying to restrain me. Bodies jump up in front of me and Bobby stretches his neck to keep eye contact with me.
"HOW?" I scream at Bobby as the people try and tackle me to the ground. I see tears forming in his eyes and I just keep yelling out:
"WHY ARE YOU STILL ALIVE, BOBBY? WHY ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?"
Whoever was supposed to make the coffee has dropped the ball. The meeting starts in five and the fucking coffee is still brewing, percolating, dripping. How do they expect me to sit through any portion of a meeting without a cup of coffee?
And I don't even like coffee, really.
The thing is, having something to keep my hands occupied is necessary if i'm going to sit still for an hour. They have a mind of their own, you know. I've caught them doing things they really shouldn't be doing at very inappropriate times.
see: nose picking
see: public masturbation
see: unintentional strangulation of a complete stranger
And if I'm holding a cup of hot coffee without a protective lid on it my hands tend to focus on the...task at hand. Because, well, they know that at the very least any attempt to do anything but calmly and slowly bring the cup of coffee to my lips every 30 seconds or so will result in terrible burns on the skin of the hands, on the fingers, the palms, knuckles, as the hand really is the only unprotected part of the body that will receive immediate burns without being shielded by an article of clothing. And if one hand is occupied, the other always pays attention to what the occupied one is doing in case it needs to assist. Therefore I don't have to worry about the unoccupied one getting into trouble or conspiring with the occupied one and, say, pretending to engage in public masturbation while the occupied hand pours scalding coffee all over my exposed genitalia. They really aren't that smart, you know.
"Coffee's all set!" somebody from behind me calls out as I jump out of my aluminum folding chair, a man with a beard and a terrible comb over wearing a cute little sky blue T shirt with the cute little lime green slogan Floridaaaaah! written across his chest doing a terrible job of covering up his man boobs and actually accentuating them if anything then drawing more attention to his bulging gut as if it were some giant slide at a playground for fat kids. "Weee! Floridaaaaah!" I yell as I slide down the man's enormous belly and get lost somewhere inside his sweaty, unwashed, putrid naval.
"Hey buddy, you awake there?" A voice behind me asks as I notice a face leering over my shoulder. I am standing in front of the coffee maker and I turn around to see a line of people behind me, waiting for me to make a move and get out of the way. I apologize, mumble something about daydreaming and grab my Styrofoam cup from the stack, pour my coffee and walk back to my seat which is now occupied by some frumpy ten million year old woman with tiny little curlers in her silver white hair and what appears to be some sort of nightgown barely covering her lumpy decaying body.
"Oh I'm sorry, am I in your seat young man?" She says sweetly, noticing me standing right next to her and glaring down like she's some sort of infectious germ about to crawl up my leg and sodomize me, impregnate me with it's disease and make me one of them. I don't answer the woman and as I take an empty seat somewhere in the middle a few rows back. I am not unaware that had my hands not been occupied holding the coffee, half the pathetic excuses for men in this room would probably be pulling me off that half dead ancient witch as I straddled and strangled her by her floppy wrinkly turkey neck. A man sitting at the front behind an aluminum folding table speaks.
"Hi I'm Bobby and I'm an alcoholic and an addict."
The crowd says hello to Bobby. I sip my coffee and it burns my tongue a little. I want to walk up to Bobby and pour it on his head.
"I want to start off by saying that through the grace of God and with the help of the fellowship, I can claim that I have been clean and sober for sixteen years now."
The crowd applauds. Each and every one of these mutants lifts their hands in front of them and slaps them together like a bunch of hungry seals, all staring at Bobby whose head isn't on fire from the hot coffee I want to shower him with and who isn't jumping up and down or running around the room in some sort of reactionary exclamation of pain. Poor unsuffering Bobby.
"I began drinking when I was thirteen years old but I do believe that I was an alcoholic from the minute I left my mother's womb."
I try and picture what Bobby's mother's twat might have looked like all those years ago. Probably some unshaven sloppy mess stretched out enough to hide a gun in. Bobby tells us he used cocaine when he was sixteen. Smoked marijuana at fourteen. Took qualudes and barbituates. Blacked out all the time. Got sober, got married, had kids, and began drinking again.
"I thought, hey i'm cured now. I can have a few beers."
He tells us how a few beers led to almost a handle of vodka a day. How he neglected his family and that his wife threw him out. Slept in shelters if there was room, and sometimes on the street.
"The lowest point in my life," Bobby confesses to the crowd, "is when I tried to kill myself. After that, I decided I needed to get sober." And I can't take it anymore.
"Uh, Bobby?" I interrupt, raising my hand, some sort of automatic response left over from grammar school. A man sitting next to Bobby, the man I assume is in charge of this whole mess, tells me it isn't customary for people to comment, that this is Bobby's time to talk.
"No, no. That's okay," Bobby says. "What is it young man?"
Everybody here refers to people my age as young man.
"I'm just wondering, how did you try to kill yourself?" And the man in charge protests again, but Bobby decides to take the bait.
"Well, young man," Bobby continues but I don't give him the chance to even answer before I interrupt him.
"Because it seems to me that if you fail at killing yourself then you must be one hell of a fucking retard. I mean, how hard can it really be?"
The man in charge is yelling something but I don't listen.
"If you really wanted to die, Bobby, you wouldn't be here pissing and moaning and whining to a bunch of complete strangers who have absolutely nothing in common with you save for the fact that they spent a good portion of their lives being drunk or high. You'd be dead!"
And the man in charge screams "Enough!"
"Either that, Bobby, or you didn't really want to die."
More voices speak out in protest and I stand up, still holding my coffee.
"Did you, Bobby? Did you really want to die?" I ask him condescendingly, stepping over the legs and feet of the people sitting in my row and making my way towards the center aisle. Some middle aged hag yelps as I step on her toes. More protests and the man in charge rises to meet me, to stop me.
"Yes!" Bobby shouts out, standing up himself now. "I really wanted to die!"
"How did you do it Bobby? How did you try?" I yell as I reach the end of the row, another woman on the end screeching something at me and I throw the burning coffee in her face. My hands have joined the rebellion. I feel people behind me, hands and arms trying to restrain me. Bodies jump up in front of me and Bobby stretches his neck to keep eye contact with me.
"HOW?" I scream at Bobby as the people try and tackle me to the ground. I see tears forming in his eyes and I just keep yelling out:
"WHY ARE YOU STILL ALIVE, BOBBY? WHY ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?"
