2 Minutes in Heaven...

I don't know why I chose a somewhat "inappropriate" title, but I suppose it will get some attention for an unrelated post. I feel bad not contributing my "curried" thoughts to the blog recently, but unlike rishb I don't reveal anything too personal about myself at work so my post wouldn't have been that intriguing. I recall that the spamming topic started because of my rant to rishb about a phone scandal, but it's too late to post something on that topic too. What's going on in my life that will spark a 2 minute story...about heaven? Well, I do love to laugh... so for those that know me pretty well, or even random strangers probably know that I have occasional "laugh attacks." It's a condition that is triggered by completely random things that happen in every day life, but I suppose it keeps me looking young.

The most recent incident occurred after I had my Impala checked for fluids and tire pressure. Standard procedure right? Well...this time was a bit different. I went to our local Jiffy Lube and asked the boys to do a quick check up before I jumped on to the freeway. They opened the hood, checked the oil, and filled up more wiper fluid. After that, one of the mechanics put his gloves on and and started cleaning some stuff out of my hood. I assumed it might have been leaves so I was half paying attention to what he was cleaning out. One of the mechanics that was helping him said, "There's a lot of chicken wings in here." I didn't know he was talking to me, but I looked up and noticed that he had two fists full of bones and skin. I looked at the guy who said this and he didn't say anything else so it was even more confusing. They closed the hood, and the third mechanic said I'm all set so they opened the garage door and I left. In my confusion and curiosity, I pulled over and opened the hood. To my surprise, I found potato wedges, chicken skin, and bits of cat food on top of my engine. Chuckling to myself I cleaned out the rest of the food pieces and called my mom to tell this story. At first I assumed some drunk wolverines opened up my hood and stuffed this food in some form of drunken protest because of my MSU license plate. When I told her about the food, all she had to say was,

"Oh right, your dad and I have been eating a lot of chicken wings and potatoes recently."

"WTF...what do you mean? You guys put the food in there?"

"No no...maybe mice or some kind of animal was eating in your car because you kept it in the garage for a couple of days right?"

"Ohh...right. Ok haha see ya."

After hanging up the phone I was thinking about how ridiculous it was and just had to tell someone so I called up rishb. As I was telling him the story I realized even more how ridiculous the story was. And so started the attack...

"I have to tell you a funny story"
"Ok cool"
"I went to get my tire pressure checked and...haha, and there were chicken wings...!!...on the engine"
"What?"
"Yeahh...hahha, the mechanic pulled out some wings...hahahahhh"

And the conversation really went no where so I had to hang up. It really isn't that funny of a story, but the lesson of the day to take home is to check under your hood in the winter because the mice like the warmth of the engine while gobbling chicken and potato wedges.

Greesh's 2 Minute Music-Shimmy

My first CD ever was Red Hot Chili Pepper's Californication. I listened to that thing all the time on a Walkman CD Player that I thought was so cool because it had G-Force something on it which meant it wouldn't stop if it fell or was shaken. But apparently the only thing G-Force can't stop is falling down stairs.

I bought The Beatles Number One US Hits CD and after that I decided to give music a shot. Never really cared much for it after my favorite radio station, 93.1, fired all its DJs. I don't know why I cared about that so much but it meant that 95.5 was the only pop station anywhere.

Which is fine I guess. Look at me, caring about radio politics. But yeah, The Beatles brought me into the music scene. Cliche but whatever, it's special to me and that's all that matters.

Then a bunch of my Michigan State University boys introduced me to the world of music-snobbery which led me to The Strokes, The Libertines, and others I can't recall. Fun times but music-snobbery does not lead to many friends. And I'm extremely needy so you can see where there would be a problem. Anyway, I'm MUCH more mature than that now and I'll only raise my nose at you, and shift my scarf and fedora hat at you, if you enjoy the works of Nickelback and Pink. Which is understandable ain't it?

2 minutes of the only thing I care about. Me and my muzak. Fun fact: After family and girlfriend and blah blah, the thing I care about most is my external hard-drive which has all my music. All 9,869 of my songs.

Two Minutes, Five Months, One Week and Five Days

My heart hurts. I want to draw what I’ve felt like the past three days. It’s so much more painful this time around.

The drawing would look like two colorful, sticky blobs of goo that are stuck together. Then they both separate, with tiny strands of globule from one glob sticking to the other. When the two globs are ripped apart, the one who was trying to stick together becomes inflamed.

That’s what I feel like. Inflamed as in ‘hurt,’ not 'angry.'

I love her more than anyone else I’ve ever loved and am wondering if this decision is a mistake.

But I know the opposite decision would be a mistake for me. At least, that’s what I know now. What people know changes as time goes on, though.

Good to keep things in perspective, I guess:

Two Minute Cold

So I've have a cold. Or the flu. Either way, I have pressure in my head, my throat hurts, and the stuff I keep coughing up and blowing out my nose is a combination of green Gak (remember that?) and really old chocolate fudge sauce. Tasty, right?

Anyway, I have a part-time job where I do a late-shift at a radio station (Because of the position and current events, I can't exactly promote it in other media sources. Let's just say I work at a station that's public for all, somewhere in the Central Michigan region. Somewhere around a university), and I have a shift this Thursday morning.

There's no way in Hell I'll be able to go on air, and part of the reason is that I currently sound like a mixture of Peter Steele and Kermit the Frog.

Now, being the metalhead I am, I'd love to sound like Peter Steele all the time. But that stupid Kermit the Frog part is ruining the one thing I could enjoy about being sick. I have kind of a deep voice already, and it is kind of nasally, but how often is it that I have the opportunity to sound like a Goth/Doom metal singer without trying to change my voice? Very rare, my friends, very rare indeed.

Enjoy these two links: One's a video of Peter Steele's band Type O Negative's "Love You To Death," and the other is of Kermit being, well, a singing frog. Mash 'em up together, and you'll know how I sound. Plus, add dripping snot and the sound of mucus being coughed up, and you'll be on point. Enjoy!

When I Suggested the Topic I was Thinking About A Scene in Arrested Development When Gob says, "I Fear I've Said Too Much"

You guys all know me pretty well. They say don't think coworkers are your friends because it's all competitive and there's nothing holding you guys together besides the fact that you're all working together. Well, even though I know the advice "They" have given, every place I work at I forget "They"'s important council and bare my soul to all my coworkers. I need to stop this because coworkers either smell bad or they can't stop smiling.

I've done it all, man. I've sang in front of my coworkers, I've air-guitared in front of my coworkers, I told my coworkers/managers I smoke dope, and I told my supervisor he's "hot" right to his face. I did all this in one day at a hotel job I had. I need to stop this because I've just started to realize the importance of references and what's my hotel boss going to say? "Oh yeah, he knows the guitar solo to Led Zeppelin's Rock and Roll." First off, who doesn't? Second of all, I worked at this place for almost a year and I can't list them as a reference. Well, I have a girlfriend now so I can bug her with my neediness. Thee end

Professional Office Etiquette

I work in an office. We office workers have strange customs.

We don't talk to people; we "reach out" to people, like technological beggars who will just be so mad if we don't get that document.

We don't think logically about the way things work; we "process model out" a "flowchart."

And we don't leave the office at 5PM; we work until "2AM."

We're a skiddish bunch and we hold to our reverse-Sharia norms (no beards allowed!) like heroin addicts hold to their heroin. Anything out of our ordinary frightens us.

So I probably told my coworkers too much when I said that I murdered their families.

A fictitious story about a fictitious event with fictitious people

I am writing this story from my writing room, in the drawing wing of my Tudor house (I am not really writing this from there, it's all fiction).  As I look out over the meadows of evergreen grass and the slow moving clouds in the crisp blue sky I think deeply into a moment, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year.  It was when I was younger, probably.   The thought of it still haunts me today.  It haunts me like Casper haunted that house and Christina Ricci in that movie, Casper. Shivers are running down my spine as I type this (yours too, probably, because writing), and I wonder whether to divulge this moment, this deep dark past that I have locked far back in the recesses of the swing wing of my Tudor house. It must come out, I decided. It must be heard.  I must tell the story about that time when I feared I told my coworkers too much.

Cue Intro.


I was a stable boy for a flower shop back then.  I remember old Mr. Hutchins would yell, 'You boy, Jenkins, stable these daisies.'  And I would say back to him, 'Yessir Mr. Hutchins. Right away sir.'  Or something like that.  My memory fails me often these days.  I'm not as fresh of mind as I once was, I'm afraid. Yes, the days at Hutchins, Montgomery, Blueberry, and Ross Flower and Apiary Symposium Incorporated, A Subsidiary of Glemco, a joint venture of StrongArm Oil & Chemical and Glemmings Diamond Consilidated were some of the best and most carefree days of my life.  And by carefree I mean extremely stressful and angst-ridden, for I had a secret.  A secret so great that I will waste no time in telling you what it is.  I will not build it up to unworthy proportions.  Make it seem that this secret may change the face of history or time. Or will I drag it out only to lead to an unsavory reveal that could be labeled anti-climatic or disappointing.  I will do the opposite of that.  So more like Snakes on a Plane than The Sixth Sense.  Or more like Eat, Pray, Love than Murder on the Orient Express.  So I'll just reveal my secret now, to get it over with and out there and then I can move on with my story. My name wasn't Jenkins. And I was a CIA agent, or something cool like that. And my real name was Brad Pitt. And I was also really wealthy so I didn't really need to be a stable boy at a flower shop, I just did it for some reason that I can't think of right now.  Probably because I was in the CIA.  Yeah, it definitely had to do with the CIA, and being Brad Pitt.  All of these things together were my secrets.

Cue Midtro.


So one day at my work where I had a secret, I was stabling the flowers when I heard Old Mr. Hutchins and Old Mr. Blueberry hatching plans to take over the world or something close to that. It could also have been like, we should take over that ward on the corner (the one on 82nd and 1th).  But I swore I heard world.  So anyway I took one my coworkers, Diane, and I took her into this supply room that was filled with fertilizer!  And for a second I was like they are going to bomb the world (!), and then I was like no they probably are going to use it on the flowers because there wasn't that much fertilizer. So Diane and I had been having this crazy on again, off again, will they? won't they? sort of deal and I pushed her up against the flower fertilizer and I said, 'Diane! Listen to me. Don't you understand?  My name isn't Roscoe Jenkins. And I am no ordinary stable boy. What I am about to tell you will change the face of history or time.' And then I told her all that stuff that I said like 10 sentences ago. And she was totally like OMG, but this was before OMG was a thing and I was all like iknowright? but this was before iknowright? was a thing, so our facebook statuses were like it's complicated, but this was before facebook. After that she ran out of the room screaming, probably because we just invented the internet and we both knew we were going to become super duper rich and famous.  And then right then I was all like, 'I fear I told my co-workers too much.'  Because if I hadn't I could've invented the internet all by myself and I wouldn't have to split all the money in the world with stupid Diane.

Cue Outro.


So that's it. That's my story. That's my secret and I have to admit it feels good to get that off my chest.  I never figured out if Hutchins, Montgomery, Blueberry, and Ross Flower and Apiary Symposium Incorporated, A Subsidiary of Glemco, a joint venture of StrongArm Oil & Chemical and Glemmings Diamond Consilidated were going to take over the world.  It still haunts me a little bit to this day.  But what do I care? I am extremely wealthy, and work for the CIA or something, and I am Brad Pitt, and I live in a Tudor House.  So I think I am doing pretty good, pretty pretty good.

Cue Explosion.