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AtrophySUCKS
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Name: David
Location: Little Rock
Birthday: 7/29/1988
Interests: Being an ass, being pugnacious and bellicose, cussing, diabolical mad scientists, dumb bitches, gluttony, hurting women's hearts, insulting people, ob-gyns, pathogens, people inflicted with asthenia, people who correct me(sarcasm), symposiums, the dilapidated, the peccant.
Expertise: Do I even have to say?
Occupation: Legal
Industry: Textiles
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
10/27/2005
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| There are many different people on this earth and about eighty percent of them like shaved ice. The other twenty percent haven't had any shaved ice. Five percent of these people reside in the Americas, five percent reside in Europe and Asia, and the remaining ten percent make up the whole of Africa.
Anyway, it has become clear that you can easily split this eighty percent into groups. Categories of people. Now, although the following groups are customers of mine, most of the groups can also be put into other businesses, and personalities in general.
The Opener.
I'll start with the Opener. Mainly because this is the first person I see when I get to Tropical Sno. We open at one everyday except Sunday, when we open at two. The Opener, however, will always get there at 12:30. He's patient. And nice. But by this point he's a little aggravated because you're not going to open the window until one, and he saw you go in there at 12:45. The Opener usually doesn't understand that it takes time to prepare the trailer for business and will ask when you open; even if he knows the answer.
Old Schooler.
"Grape."
These people know what they like, and they stick with it. It's never complicated and they're real easy to please. "I'll have a grape please." Or, "Strawberry... my wife wants that... summer breeze thing, with the cream or whatever on it." They never want a flavor that they can't taste outside of a Tropical Sno, and they never combine flavors.
Timid Adventurer.
"What's in the ocean breeze?" Blue Raspberry and Vanilla. "I'll just take the banana."
The Timid Adventurer is actually just an Old Schooler. However, he's decided that maybe there's more to life than banana. Sadly, it's been so long since this poor guy has had any other flavor that he really can't even begin to comprehend what orange and mango might taste like. Fearing he'd regret it, the Timid Adventurer tosses the new flavor in consideration aside as soon as you tell him what's in it. This failed attempt is not followed by another. As he bites into his satisfactory classic, he is left with an emptiness and wonder of what else might be out there. "Why can't I quit you?" is all this pathetic man can ask.
The Bored Vandal.
"Shit! Ummmm, this fell off...."
The Bored Vandal is the guy who doesn't know what to do while he waits for his sno cone. This sudden boredom that has befallen him has caused a sudden rise in the man's need to kick something. Bored Vandals are rarely women because women notice something is wrong with their looks, and attempt to fix it. Men notice there is something wrong with there looks and try to beat the world around them black and blue so they look better in comparison. Anyway, if you don't have this guys stuff ready in about five minutes the fender that has the sign "Keep Off Please" on it will eventually be handed to you by a somewhat embarrassed yet somewhat absentminded alphamale.
The Crayola.
"BLUE! BLUE! I WANT BLUE!!!"
Although most Crayolas are children I've gotten an occasional middle aged woman asking me what "Red" taste like... The only thing I can guess running through their mind is that their kids love it so damn much I might as well try it. These people have been parents far too long. And trust me, they've got at least three kids. Do not attempt to explain that Red is not an actual flavor but a color. It will not work. Why? Because the Orange Factor. Middle Aged Crayolas will always play the orange card when arguing about this topic. It is best to just stay clear of it, and give the woman a cherry.
Today, I'll only put down five. The reason be is because I wrote about six more down here and I've got about four more in my head and it was getting incredibly long. Not to mention I think this whole post is boring. Anyway, someone told me I should update more and if people want cake from me they'd better learn to take the shit with the icing. The next episode will be posted shortly... if I feel like someone enjoyed this post or even made it as far as to read this sentence in which I am typing now. I plan on having at least three if not four or more episodes. If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again.
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| I drive up to my old school, (the really old school [elementary] in Dumas) and everyone is there. Standing outside there kick ass cars in obvious imitation of Dazed and Confused. Seemed like a joke but my car still failed in comparison. I go and lean on someone elses car just to look cooler.
Then I realize that I'm there for the boxing tournament. I realized this because I'm in the gym. In the ring. In the shorts, and in the gloves. My opponent? None other than the fabulous Matt Aurillio. I have no clue how to spell his name and I don't bother looking things up any more. Anyway, I'm not sure why I'm fighting Matt but I do know it's obviously to win. As is every game. And boxing is every game.
"Okay," I say. "This fight is already won." Matt is drunk off his ass. And he looks like he's already taken a beating from the earlier rounds. Were there really earlier rounds? I have no idea, but someone had taken a fist... or maybe a Jermain Taylor-Winky Wright headbutt to the face (as all headbutts are to). So, I'm about to beat the shit out of my drunk friend Matt. It sounds sick and pitiful for a friend to kick the crap out of his obviously hurt and staggering Italian counterpart. But, hey, we're boxing, and I'm gonna' win.
Matt beats the shit out of me. I said it. He did. It sucked too. I don't even remember much of the fight. Except that Matt was obviously drunk and I must suck so much at fighting that a drunken man with a busted up face can kick the crap out of me. Well... he is Italian...
I go outside. I've forgotten my wounds and don't feel too bad about the fight. Hey, it's not like there was some kind of trophy to be won, right? Anyway, I miss the feel of the shorts because who are we kidding? I look GREAT in shorts that just come past my ass.
Outside, everyone is still sitting around. The first person I notice, however, is Andy "Strong-man" Stroman. Only he looks a lot different. Sure he's sitting on a folding chair indian-style like Yoda, but his hair is black. Not to mention most of his hair is on the back of his head. It was as if someone had scalped him, without touching the skin of his head, and put gel in his hair to make all of it stay, sticking straight up in the back like some coked out peacock who dyed his hair because he was going through a midlife crisis. Seeing Andy bald was weird enough. Seeing that he still had all his hair was even weirder. Of course the classic Viking beard was still there... and still red. I talked to Andy for awhile. Casual stuff. Die Hard rocks. Kevin Spacey is no Lex Luthor.
I drop everything when Ben Elliot comes up. Now here is just the guy I needed to talk to. But what about? I had no idea. Why? Because Ben's carrying a 40. He just plops it down on the hood of his car and says, "Dustin." "Ben," I say. Classic greeting. However, this entire time I have yet to look at the man. Instead I'm staring straight at his beverage. I can't take my eyes off it. Now most would say it's because I have a problem, but Dr. Ross will tell you it's because some times there are obviously problems with the world around you, that just demand some kind of attention. And it might be something that makes you laugh, cry, or feel disgusting, or even whorish. But this problem... this wrong-doing... was the worst I'd seen in a very long time.
It was a 40. I was sure of it. It clearly was the same 40 I'd seen many a times on gangsta' movies and at the Puerto Rican's backyard bashes. But... it clearly stated 30 ounces on the label. "What is this!?" I tried to cry out but the words didn't come. I struggled to say anything in fact but all that came out was, "ahhhhhwaaaaa wabababada wha'?" I'd never seen such a shambling of reality. Thirty ounces!? In a Fourty ounce!? How could this be!?
Then came the fish. From behind the label of this carmel colored beverage came butterfly fish. First one. Then two. Then three. Just swimming merrily... or as merrily as fish would be in malt liquor... which is probably pretty damn merry. This was almost as amazing as the fact that there was a missing ten ounces of liquid from it. I can here Ben in the back ground but... I don't know what he's saying. I can only concentrate on this fantastic bottle.
"You gonna' drink that?" I finally ask.
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| So, like... what the fuck!? Jesus busted down the doors to the shed in my back yard, screamed something about how he was, "King of the Jews (wrong religion jackass)" and then took one look at his shadow and ran the fuck off squealing like a little girl.
I guess it'll be another six weeks of eternal damnation then...
And now, seeing as it is a special occasion I shall now read a chapter from my favorite book, from my favorite book (and yes, I meant to write that twice, that's how you speak bible, bitches).
Leviticus (my favorite book) from the Good Book (my favorite book because it is Good (only arrogant inanimate object on the planet).
Anyway, Leviticus 12.
1And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 2Speak
unto the children of Israel, saying, If a woman have conceived seed,
and born a man child: then she shall be unclean seven days; according
to the days of the separation for her infirmity shall she be unclean. 3And in the eighth day the flesh of his foreskin shall be circumcised. 4And
she shall then continue in the blood of her purifying three and thirty
days; she shall touch no hallowed thing, nor come into the sanctuary,
until the days of her purifying be fulfilled. 5But
if she bear a maid child, then she shall be unclean two weeks, as in
her separation: and she shall continue in the blood of her purifying
threescore and six days. 6And
when the days of her purifying are fulfilled, for a son, or for a
daughter, she shall bring a lamb of the first year for a burnt
offering, and a young pigeon, or a turtledove, for a sin offering, unto
the door of the tabernacle of the congregation, unto the priest: 7Who
shall offer it before the LORD, and make an atonement for her; and she
shall be cleansed from the issue of her blood. This is the law for her
that hath born a male or a female. 8And
if she be not able to bring a lamb, then she shall bring two turtles,
or two young pigeons; the one for the burnt offering, and the other for
a sin offering: and the priest shall make an atonement for her, and she
shall be clean. That's right women, if you don't have a lamb then you'd best find a fuckin' turtle... although to be honest with you, two turtles has got to be easier and cheaper to find then a lamb. Oh well. That's God for ya'. I'm sure Moses was like, "Hold up, G-Man. Wouldn't it be easier to just go to the pet store and buy two lil' turtles than to take up your own sheep and burn the bitch?" And the Lord spake unto Moses, "Mother fuck! You did not just question me, man. Who do you think you're messing with, huh? Some pussy pinko-commie New Testament God? Fuck no, this is Yahweh, bitches! You can't even pronounce my name according to my laws, I'm THAT powerful! Look at this bush, man... It's on FIRE! But is it burning? Is it burning? Come on, it's an easy one, Moses. IS THE FUCKIN' BUSH BURNING YOU STUTTERING ASSHOLE!?" And Moses said unto the Lord, "No, man. Damn, dude, alright! Jeez, I'll put down sheep and turtles, fuck!
Why aren't Cheez-it's in the Bible. I mean, that shit is holy. I can just picture the last supper...
Jesus: And this is my body... now eat up, dudes, I've been cooking this shit since two, man.
Judas: Jesus, you seriously need to hire a cook. I mean Savior or no Savior, this bread is fuckin' flat! You don't know how to cook, just give up.
Jesus: Judas, you have betrayed me! I'm gonna' shove this fuckin' bread down your throat if you don't eat it, and like it, bitch! Damn, they're going to hang my ass on a fuckin' hunk of wood tomorrow man! I'm just trying to have a nice meal with my friends and get a little hammered before they kill my ass, dude! Fuck man, do you think they sand that wood down, dude? Fuck no, they don't sand that shit down. I'm talking splinters, man. Splinters. Everywhere. I mean, damn, that clothe ain't going to kick splinters out my ass man! Now eat your damn supper, bitch, or go hang yourself!
Peter: Fuck man, I know you're on edge, I mean, we're all on edge. I feel like fighting personally.
John: Chill people. Chill. Can't we all just get along... Jesus, the bread is fine. The wine is great, as always. 10 AD was a great year. And Peter, you need to stop drinking or you'll end up cutting some poor fuck's ear off.
Peter: Shut up John! Some day someone will look back at this and be like, man... everyone else looks straight but John looks like either A) a chick or B) total queer bait.
John: Hey fuck you, man, who made you rock of the Church!
Peter: Jesus, bitch, he told me last night!
John: What!? Jesus, you didn't!
Jesus: I'm sorry, John... you're great and all, but like... I want my Church to be... manly... and you're just... well...-
Peter: *Cough* Queerbait *Cough*
Jesus: NO! Just... you make a really good... traveling guy, yeah. You're great at converting and organizing and stuff whereas, Peter here, is more of a... symbol guy.
John: That is so fucked up.
Well, shit... this was a little long... and a little tangent...
But in the old Catholic style... I had to get drunk for easter... Because on that day that Jesus rose, which was the third day, he said unto his disciples, "Ye shall celebrate my resurection with joyous drinking, but if any who feel my religion be changed... they may no drinkith on this day... that's right only Catholics will get drunk on this, the day of my daughter's wedding, I mean, this the day of my resurection. Unless you just so happen to be Baptist and alone, because everyone knows the moment a baptist is alone he starts drinking... and fondoling little boys... wait? Nevermind, just drink fuckers I came back from the dead!"
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| My dog... This is really hard to say... my dog... has F.A.G.s!
I remember when we got Dog. He was... different. But great.
Well... anyway Dog had to be named so I called him Dog. It was the best I could think of. Of course that turned out to be a bad name. So Dumbass it was.
He ran into walls. Well, not walls... more like... doors. But he fell down stairs and jumped into trash cans/bags. He did lots of stupid things and he still does stupid things. Thus, dumbass. Well at least once he proved his worth by snatching my hand and biting as hard as he could. Let me tell ya'... that was not that hard. So I threw him. It had to be done. I didn't even have to pick him up. I just lifted my hand which he held on to with his teeth... in earnest... and then I just acted like I had a dog clutching my hand in his teeth and shook. Pretty much taught him not to bite.
My mother always liked to dress him up so he pretty much always looked gay. So his name once again changed to... Gay Dog. Well, only at my grandmother's. She was the one who started to call him Gay Dog.
But now... Dog is very sick. The vet says...
"It would seem your dog has...
Fat Anal Glands."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" my mother screamed. My father responded with simply...
HAHAHA! FAG! The dog's a fag! Hahahahaha!
"You do not call him that!" my mother yelled. "I have lots of friends who are gay and they would not appreciate that!"
"What? They've got fat anal glands too!?" my father questioned.
"Wait... what are anal glands, anyway?" I added.
"I don't know, and I don't know why I even told you two!"
"Wait... I just got it! Hahahahaha, the dog's a FAG! Hahaha, hey Dog! You've got FAGS! Hahahaha, what a great word."
Fags.
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