I'm Not a Real Man. Or Am I a 24th Century Man?

I'm not a real man.

No, no, no. You're just being nice. It's true. No! Stop it! Listen to me! It's true.

I am not a real man.

I am tiny. With the exception of my gut and big breasts, I have no mass. My arms are sticks. My legs below the knee are almost non-existent.  You could totally snap me like a twig. A twig with a gut and big titties.

My face is fat. No cheekbones. No defined chin. Just droopy fat. I look like I'm 16.

Worst of all, the facial hair. Or lack thereof.

I have no facial hair.

If I were to go without shaving for months, I would simply have strands of disgusting hair growing in a sort of anti-Hitler mustache. And approximately four strands of hair growing out of my chiny-chin-chin.

It's hilarious. My best dreams, the ones that are so good I realize they are a dream when I am dreaming them, have to do with me suddenly having facial hair. I will be amazed at the incredible beard I can grow. Sometimes, it may just be a bad-ass mustache or  even just sideburns. Other times it is the perfect amount of Indiana Jones class stuble.

In there dreams, I always realize, "Wait? Why do I have facial hair all of a sudden? Surely this is a dream!" It always is. A wonderful, wonderful dream.

Most people dream about winning the lottery. Some people dream about falling in love. Other, similar, but less juvenile people dream about the act of sex. Hitler dreamt about ruling to world. My wet dream is about growing facial hair (that is meant as a joke. A dream about facial hair has never literally been a "wet dream." Don't want you to think I'd that strange...)

Oh, and all the wonderful things I would do with my facial hair (if I had it)! Goatees!  And villainous mustaches (with that curl on the end that I cut stroke whenever I laugh manically)! And that British look where all that is shaved is your chin (like Watson used to have before the Holmes reboot)! And Obi Wan Kenobi class beards! And Indiana Jones, best of all, level stubble! Oh, the facial hair I would grow (if I could)...

I am not a man. I exhibit no manly characteristics. I've never been punched in the face. I've never thrown a perfect spiral. I have never watched an entire sporting event without getting distracted, not even when I have been at the game. I've never gotten drunk and snogged a chick. I don't know shit about cars.

I am not a man. But, aside from the breasts, I'm not a woman (and even those are not womanly. Wouldn't want to titty fuck these titties) either. So what am I?

Could I, perhaps be a 24th century man?

Not the kind of 24th century man portrayed in Star Trek. Captain James T. Kirk is far too much of a man for me. Even Bones, with his constant complaining and fear, is more man than I will ever be.

No, I'm an actual 24th Century Man, not a fictional one.

I have less hair on my body because I am simply more evolved. Farther removed from our monkey brethren. My arms and legs are tiny, because in the 24th Century, man does not need muscles. Machines do all the work. Man simply needs hands. For operating computers and masturbating.

For in the 24th Century, man need not have sexual relations to reproduce. Machines do all that for man as well. They keep the species going, so sex is a thing of the past. Therefore, courting skills are no longer known by 24th Century Man (which explains why I lack them). All 24th Century Man knows is masterbation.

I am 24th Century Man! Hear me roar! If I were not so easily defeated by 21st Century Man (aka Real Man), you should feel threatened! Because there would be the chance I could replace you, were I not far inferior to you in everyway.

Oh. And the breasts? 24th Century Man is the source of delicious milk. Because Cows are extinct.

Damn you McDonalds!

A Orgasmic Puzzle or Why Tina Fey Owes Me Sexual Favours (oh yes, the British variety [which mainly means it's toothless])

I work at Barnes and Noble. At Barnes and Noble, almost all, if not all, my shifts in a given week are on THE THIRD FLOOR! Besides being a lonely place where few people tread, a sort of bell tower that overlooks the cafe where the lonely hunchback (me) resides, THE THIRD FLOOR is home to Barnes and Noble's Music and movie department.

Yes, I work on THE THIRD FLOOR because I requested it, lost among our thousands upon thousands of DVDs and Blurays... and 12 CDs (we honestly only carry about 30 different music CDs on two measly racks. No one buys music anymore... no one except for the 5 people everyday who complain about our measly selection... who are all over 40... which means they simply don't know how to pirate music...).

My favorite part about my job - besides discussing movies with someone who actually knows something about them, which only happens about once every two weeks (and this someone is almost always a film professor from a LA college) - is a practice I like to call "tightening."

 A Tightened Shelf

Tightening is only done on closing shifts. Our shelves start tight in the morning, packed with merchandise so there are no loose spots. Picture a book shelf full of books so there is no open space - a tightly packed bookcase - only replace those books you are imagining with DVDs (only you don't have to imagine, because I took some pictures of my own collection for you [I realize there are some alphabetizing issues. I am embarrassed, but do not want to retake the photos. Rest assured, it has been corrected].) . That's how things start, if the closer the previous night properly tightened. Throughout the day, as we sell DVDs, the shelves get loose. So that night, the closer has to tighten them anew. Fascinating shit, I know.

A shelf that needs to be tightened.

Obviously, the most obvious way to tighten is to add more DVDs to the shelf (obviously!). But we very rarely have "overstock" (DVDs to add). So, the act of tightening becomes one big puzzle. When I tighten, I basically shift DVDs backward to earlier shelves that are loose, condensing the DVDs. After I have shifted enough DVDs, large spots begin to open up on the shelf. Once a big enough spot has opened up, I flip a DVD, so instead of it's spine facing out, the front cover does. That's how you tighten. You condense the shelves until a spot opens up and you can flip a DVD so it takes up more space. And, no, I have never hummed "Tighten Up" while doing it... not yet anyway, though now I have fucked myself by thinking about it.

 A shelf Tightened by flipping a DVD

It becomes a game, because you never come out just right. You need to get all the shelves tight without removing or adding merch. If you flip a title to face outward that has multiple copies, you obviously stack them on top of each other. More or less space can be filled this way. If I have 10 copies of G.I. Joe, for example (which I do [at least] because no one buys that shitty looking movie) I may flip 3 to face outward, stacking them, and leave the other 7 with the spine facing outward because this gets the shelf tight. If I were to flip 4 and only leave 6 it would not be tight. Get it (of course you don't, you have to live this shit to appreciate it)?

The act of tightening turns me on (No, not really you idiot. This exaggeration is for entertainment purposes in an unintentionally boring as shit blog!). No lie. It really is orgasmic for two reasons. First, all my Tetris skills finally have a real world application. Second, I'm handling loads of movies. I do this shifting of DVDs at home every time I get a new Bluray, only on a much smaller scale. I love to organize my DVDs and Blurays, because they are my babies, they are what I am most proud of in the whole wide world and will remain so even when I have human children (here I go about children again [and there I go commenting on it again {is reusing a joke over and over again okay if you comment on the act of reusing it? It failed miserably when they did it this season on 30 Rock with their lame Al Gore whale joke.}.].).

So, it makes sense that this tightening transcends simply being a chore of my job and becomes a ritual. A very sexy ritual. So, if you find anything sticky on that DVD you are planning on purchasing at my store, DO NOT TASTE IT! It's not candy residue left by a small child, which you would normally taste when finding in a store (it's semen!).

The other great joy of tightening is that I get to chose which DVD  flip to face the customer. I get to choose which DVDs stand out, perhaps leading to improved sales. Though I am usually smart about it, and make sure to flip top sellers like Twilight (which is also smart because we have multiple copies so by choosing how many to flip I can better regulate the tightening process), I also always make sure to flip personal favorites like Indiana Jones or Observe and Report (I always flip Observe and Report).

I often seem to flip 30 Rock (because it's awesome) and Baby Mama (because I've never seen it, but it does have Tina Fey and we do have multiple copies [because no one wants it] so it is a great regulator). So, basically, what I've written this entire blog to say is, Tina Fey owes me one. If I sell but one extra copy of Baby Mama, I think that calls for a favour. Of the sexual, British variety (I won't make the toothless joke again here [Oh snap! I just did!]. 

Because Tina Fey is adorable!



Oh, and all you people just waiting for me to fail (you know who you are, you cockface, you), this blog obviously counts for the 8th of January. Because it was written during the 8th's awake cycle (true fans of the blog know what I am talking about! Am I right?!). So, I have not yet failed my promise to write one blog a day. So, fuck you for wanting me to fail!

Diary of a Wimpy Kid = Crack Cocaine

I wanna make good on my promise (the one where I promise to blog early and often [is that a saying? I think it may be a saying). So, I'm about to overcompensate by blogging twice in one day (my unit for measuring the day is one "awake cycle." So even if this blog is posted after midnight, it is still the same day for me because I have yet to fall asleep, breaking the "awake cycle." Of course, according to my unit of measurement, a nap can create two days in a 24 hour period. But, hey, it's my system and I'm sticking to it). So, before I drift off to sleep after my nightly routine of a STAR TREK night cap I'll squeeze one off (a blog! You are so gross).

The beauty of my previous blog, is that I set the bar so fucking low. I both promised mediocrity and I delivered mediocrity in one foul swoop. So now I can literally blog about anything I want.

I can blog about my recent obsession with STAR TREK: The Original Series. I can blog about working as a cashier, serving the head of production at Universal Pictures twenty minutes after we closed last night because she was so entitled (oh yeah, I went there. Nothing is off limits on my blog, bitches!). I can blog about all the reasons AVATAR is a train wreck. I can blog about how I feel the EXTRAORDINARY MEASURES's poster is an incredible waste of Harrison Ford (I mean, you have Ford and Brendan Fraiser on the same poster and they'e... gasp... walking down a hallway with resolve? Resolve, I tell you! That's Indiana Jones and Indy Jones light [a la the MUMMY franchise] on the same poster and they're walking down a hallway! Come on!). I can blog about how my definition of a distance has completely transformed sense moving from Colorado to LA. And, in fact, these all may be blogs in the future. Surprise!

With Resolve!

But, not tonight. Tonight, I blog about an odd (yet mediocre) experience I... er... experienced tonight (it feels like I've typed mediocre a thousand times and I have yet to spell it right without spell check [expect I did just spell it right that time. Fuck]).

So tonight, it took a full hour to close at B&N (Barnes and Noble, which is where I work, silly) because we were so busy the store got trashed by customers, and all those books don't organize themselves (my fellow employees do it as I pretend to help... I kid, I kid... maybe).

So, at 11pm, a full hour after we closed, one of the managers was letting the last of us employees out of the building. There was this crack head of a mother (seriously, she seemed crazy before she said anything) standing right outside the door. She knew we were closed. But she was standing there.

The manager was like, "We're closed, bitch" (okay, I may be embellishing the story just a bit to keep myself interested long enough to finish this blog so I make good on my promise and never have to blog again).

But she was like, "I just need Diary of a Wimpy Kid!"

For those of you who don't know, Diary of a Wimpy Kid is a fairly popular book series for kids. At B&N, we have two tables devoted to the fucking series, an honor reserved for the likes Twilight. So it's a big fucking deal. What's it about? Hell if I know. I only work at B&N, I don't know shit about books. Well, this blog is becoming "Diary of a Wimpy Twenty Something", so if I had to guess, the book is a lot like this blog. A lot of cussing, whining, obsessing over movies, pretending to be clever, and suicide and dick jokes. Kids love that shit. There's a movie being made right now (which reminds me of a [not so] quick tangent of a story. I read and often post my opinion to a movie site called joblo.com [which I was a finalist for getting a job at this summer, but that's another story/blog for anther time/blog posting]. In the announcement where the actor who was going to play the Wimpy Kid was announced, the writer made some comment about how it was a horrible miscasting as a joke. Immediately, some jerkoff schmo [poster's are called schmos on the site] defends the kid, saying how great an actor he is and insisting his credits should not be held against him. This freaks me and some other schmo's out, cause why does this guy care so much unless he is the actor, or the kid's mom? Anyway, that can all be viewed here if interested. I remembered the story with great fondness, but going back and reading it again I was kind of let down to tell you the truth...).

Jesus Christ that was a tangent. Sorry.

Anyway, Wimpy Kid = popular shit.

So, this woman was there, an hour after closing, and was like "Just sell me one copy of Diary of a Wimpy Kid."

And the manager, Carlos, was like "Bitch, please. We're closed, bitch. Go home!"

"Just one copy, please. Just get me one."

"We're closed. All the registers are empty. There's nothing I can do for a whore like you."

"Please, I gots to have Wimpy Kid, I gots too. Just get me my fix."

"There's nothing I can do."

"Please! There must be a reason I must have this book at this moment. I know Christmas is still two full days away (though maybe I don't because I am stupid enough to think the store will open an hour after it has closed, just for me) but I must have the book now. My son will most likely beat me or something if I don't get it now. Or, maybe Wimpy Kid is printed on Crack Cocaine, because otherwise, why the fuck would I need it now? It could be that I am just too fucking lazy to return to the store tomorrow, or, go to any store closer to me, because this is such a popular title, even Target should have it."

And in writing this, I stumbled onto the reason why I wrote this blog. It wasn't just because I found it fascinating (not so much so that I uttered "Fascinating" aloud like Spock [I told you I'm obsessed with TREK]) that she would need to have this book tonight when it's not even Christmas Eve. It wasn't that she honestly looked like a crack head and acted like she was after her next fix.

The message of this blog is "how can people be so fucking entitled?" (And no, I'm not sure if I'm using that word correctly). Just like the Head of Universal who had me serving her needs twenty minutes after we were closed (I get it. I work in customer service. But there's a big difference between getting served by a retail employee and insisting on thirty minutes worth of special service because you feel like you're important). Just like two people I witnessed this last week who leisurely crossed the street at a walking pace, not at a cross walk, causing the cars to slow down FOR THEM (And I wasn't even driving. I was walking too. Yet I was still pissed off how selfish these people where that they though traffic had to slow down for them). How can people be so fucking inconsiderate? How can they feel like they are more important than the people they are inconveniencing?

People like this disgust me. Sure, I jay walk all the time, but I run across the street if cars are coming, to get the fuck out of their way. I don't walk slowly across the street, disrupting others' days because I'm too lazy to pick up the pace. Sure, I buy shit in a retail setting all the time, and I may ask help in finding an item (it doesn't bother me at all when people do this, in fact, I enjoy helping people find books), but I don't insist on special services and take up thirty minutes of a person's time after the store has closed like the head of Universal. And I'm pretty sure I've never asked a store to open again for me after they've closed. Which means I've never gotten pissed off when they didn't open just for me (that was probably the best part. After we would not open for this woman, she acted like we were the one's out of line).

So, fuck self-entitled bitches (I am using bitches to apply to males and females). No one pisses me off quite like them. Which is the main reason I can't stand to be an intern or even work as an assistant in the land of self-entitled bitches, Hollywood (but that's another blog for another time).

There. I blogged. Twice in one awake cycle. Promise delivered upon (there will hopefully be more to follow, hopefully one tomorrow even). It may be mediocre shit, it may just be me whining, but, hey, that was part of the promise as well.

Be seeing you.