My Little Demons

I've never been one to make a promise I can't keep. So, keeping in tradition, I've decided to start the day off on a happier note. Today, we will discuss "THINGS I HATE". As the days roll by, I'm sure the list will progress but without further adieu, here she blows:

1) That whistling fucking yellow happy face ball from the Wal-Mart commercials. I mean, let's face it.... if you get that close to cumming over a damn 24 cent price roll back on a bag of cheese doodles you need some serious fuckin' help.

2) Gap Sales Associates. Madonna called, she wants her bloody head sets back. I mean, was the whole operation designed to see how many flamers they could fit under one roof? Your clothes don't fit me and I don't LIKE you.

3) Brussel Sprouts. Could nature of provided us with a more disgusting, mushy, green piece of shit? We already have big cabbages so back off!!

4) Clowns. Serial Killers with make-up as far as I'm concerned. Don't touch me, don't touch my kids. Get HELP.

5) Tequila. New Years Eve 1999. You bastard. My liver still curses your name.

Care to add more to the list? WHO CARES, it's my list dammit. More to come I promise.

Yummm..... Naugahyde!!

Imagine this, you get home after a nice 12 hour shift and open the door to your place of residence. Unfortunately it's not that easy because the cheap bastard of a door sticks and decides it's going to make you attempt to open it a minimum of five times. Now, I forgot to mention that it's a mild -15 Celsius in tropical Calgary so not only are your hands trembling because of the cold, but your balls have now decided to take a vacation to your upper pelvic region. You finally open the door, and are greeted inside but none other then your mother in-law who daintely screams at you in Portugese about how you should have worn a jacket today because it's cold outside. As you mutter "no shit" and try to keep your shrivelled balls from jumping off your body and slapping her in the face..... you walk past the mirror and discover that maybe it wasn't 5 pounds you gained after all..... it was fifteen. You drag yourself to the toilet to take a piss (because damn, a good piss always brings a smile to anyones face) and you stand over the toilet contemplating why the new "faux finish" you did on your bedroom didn't turn out like the one on Trading Spaces. During midstream, your boyfriends loudmouth Parakeet decides to let out a rip roarer of a squak and you peel backwards like a pissing lawn sprinkler. You chant to yourself that it can't get worse but as you get up from the floor, your shirt brushes up against your nose and the smell of leather products wafts through your nose. As the tears begin to well up you realize that yes, you do in fact work in a shoe store. Damn. Double Damn. You try to dry the urine from your dress pants, wash up, and take the routine march to the freezer. You pull out your Hagen Daas, and head upstairs for a good porn. Ahhhhhhh, this is the life......

My name is Mike. Yes, I really do work in a shoe store. This.... is my blog.