For Chad

My best pal Chad was always trying to keep me down as a kid.  He was a chauvinist little boy bastard.  Chad’s mom used to watch me while my parents were at work, so I was over at his house quite a lot.  Chad had the newest and best toys and games and was forever getting more stuff.  G.I. Joe, He-Man, Transformers, Thundercats, Ghostbusters, and for some odd reason, My Little Pony…as you can see, this kid had it all. 

Chad and I are fairly close in age; he’s about nine months older than I am.  Chad has a younger brother, Jeff, and he is three years younger than us.  The story I’m going to tell takes place in 1986–the height of Ghostbuster mania. 

As mentioned before, Chad had the latest and greatest little kid gear and Ghostbusters paraphernalia was no exception.  He and Jeff had the action figures, the Ghostbusting mobile, the backpacks, and the ghost catcher.  It was like a mini version of the movie, starring six and three year olds.  Everytime I came over during that fateful year, we played Ghostbusters.  No–let me rephrase that:  Chad and Jeff played.  I was always forced to play the secretary.  It never failed.  Nevermind that they had four of everything, so it wasn’t an issue of not having enough equipment to go around.  No…they just didn’t want me to play with them.  Chad would have none of that.  Jerk.

So, while Chad and Jeff were busy suiting up, donning the backpacks and looking amazing, ready to kick some supernatural ass.  Me?  Chad would dig out his old Fisher Price cash register and telephone and leave me alone in his room.  The basic premise of our version was that while Chad and Jeff got their supplies in order, a client would call me and be all scared and worried about some sort of ghost infestation.  I’d calm the person down, take down the info needed, and assure them that the suave and debonair ghostbusting team of the Holle Brothers would come and save the day.  I’d relay the message to Chad and Jeff, who would immediately hop to action.  The first few minutes they were gone, I’d do some secretary things…file papers and whatnot.  I didn’t mind being left alone because I knew that in a few minutes the boys would come back from their job and then tell me that their mom had our snacks ready. 

However, later on as the story lines got more involved, Chad and Jeff would be gone for much longer amounts of time and there is only so much a kid can organize in a fake office.  Eventually, I’d ditch my post, something I was told explicitly not to do under any circumstances, and grab a handful of My Little Ponies, a few action figures, a remote control Godzilla, and a dump truck.  I’d go into the living room, sit down on the couch and go to town.  My play time was WAY cooler thatn Chad and Jeff’s.  I would pretend that G.I. Joe and Skeletor had a My Little Pony ranch, but Godzilla would attack the herd, so Joe and Skullface would get in the dump truck and run Godzilla over with it.  Then, they’d load up the dead body and bury it out in the pony pasture.  Much better than stupid ghosts.

I’d be sitting on the floor, playing along, when I’d sense a dark, ominous shadow looming over me. 

Chad.

He had come back to check to see if there were any more jobs and found me gone.  He stood over me, arms crossed over his defiant little boy chest, ghost pack still strapped to his shoulders and asked me just what I thought I was doing.  Without looking up, I’d tell him that I closed the shop because I was on my lunch break.  He’d yell at me for abandoning my post and for missing job opportunities for him and Jeff.  Then, he’d fire me, take off his backpack, and play with My Little Ponies.

Jeff would come toddling in a few minutes later, his chubby 3 year old face streaked with dirt and tears.  Chad had left him outside by himself.  He looked so hurt and rejected, but would instantly cheer up when Chad would hand him the remote control for Godzilla.  So there were the three of us, maintaining a pony farm and trying to keep a horrible Japanese monster from eating our herd.  Life was never so good.

Now, twenty years later, I still constantly remind Chad of his piggish ways and that he still owes me a game of Ghostbusters where I can be part of the team.  Sadly, after two decades, he’s still an ass and won’t let me, but that’s ok.  I like to tell people about his My Little Pony collection and how magnificent it was.

Take that, Chad.  Take that.

A guide of what not to do in life

I seem to be an expert on things that are not acceptable, so here is a list of things you should all avoid in life.  It will be a heart smart journey and I hope you all learn a little from your time spent.  Take care.  –Erin

Things You Should Not Do.  Ever.

1)  Tease the grizzly bears.  This should be obvious and hopefully doesn’t need further explanation. 

2)  Kiss a cactus.  Your lips are not invinsible and this will hurt.

3)  Try to stop a bicycle tire with your tongue.  Again, pain is the biggest issue here.  Plus, it tastes like the Michelin Man’s ass.

4)  Invest money in the stock market.  You never know when there will be another Black Monday.  This is why all money saved should be converted to quarters and kept in old Folgers coffee cans, hidden in your back yard.

5)  Ask zaftig women “When’s the baby due?”  You will be sorry…so very, very sorry.

6)  Name your childen after towns in Wyoming, European cities, last names, or random things you see.  These people will be grandparents one day and it’s stupid to have a grandma named Cheyenne McKenzie Paris Epic Sunbeam.  Joe and Margaret are good names.  Use them.  Embrace them. 

7)  Have intimate relations with various farm animals.  Pigs can love other pigs, but you cannot love pigs.  But if this sort of thing is your bag, rent Charolette’s Web and wack it to that.

8)  Asking a friend who is sad, “What’s wrong?  Did your Gramma die?”  Chances are, yes.  Please refrain from doing this. 

9)  Thinking it would be funny to fake a stick up at a bank by writing “Give me all your money!  Ha ha, just kidding!!  LOL!” on your deposit slip.  They will fail to see the humor of the situation. 

10)  If you are white, and you are singing along to a rap song and the “n” word is in it, it is not ok for you to sing along.  Instead, say the word “neighbor.” 

11)  Put your roast beef sandwich in your pocket to save for later, then go to the pound to pick out a puppy for your niece.  Puppies love sandwiches and will ruin your pants.  This will make your mom very upset and we all know how bad it is when mom’s pissed.

12)  Get a ferret for a pet.  “Ferret” is Philipino for “glorified rat.”  I know that a ferret saved everyone’s lives in “Kindergarten Cop”, but that was a movie and this is real life.  Ferrets = trouble.

13)  Pick up smoked cigarette butts from the ground and pretend to smoke them.  This is gross and unsanitary. 

14)  Befriend a monkey.  Sure, it seems like a really great idea now, but you’ll be sorry later when the monkey steals your girlfriend and takes her to Hawaii, because man, they ain’t never comin’ back.

15)  Drinking beer before hard liquor.  Beer before liquor, never been sicker.  Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear.

16)  Never stiff your waiter/waitress on a tip.   Just don’t do it.  You’ve all seen Fight Club; you know what happens to the Lobster Bisque.

17)  Leave your oil unchecked in your car.  Apparently, this isn’t good. 

18)  Leave Grandpa sitting the car in July without a window cracked.  His poor little old man body will become more shriveled and your mom will be mad at you again.  And from # 11, we already know that having mom mad is bad business.

19)  Calling collect.  But this might be moot…do payphones even exist anymore?

20)  And finally, saying you will write the next great American novel.  There is no such thing and you should give up your dreams because you’re a janitor and that clogged ladies room toilet isn’t going to fix itself.

So there you go.  I hope this list helped you make some good choices in life and you learned from this experience.   If not, well, you’re hopeless and deserve what comes to you. 

Thank you, and good day.

Erin

 

Shut your stupid face up!

Goddamned procrastinators!!!!! 

I HATE the last week of school.  I hate it!!  This is the time when everyone gets everything that should have been done weeks ago finished.  This is when the assholes come out.  First of all, I’m not going to be too keen on helping you when you’re acting like a douche, ok?  Second, I bust my hump every week to get my stuff done on time…why should I be bending over backwards to help you?  Oh…that’s right….I shouldn’t. 

One guy in particular is going to meet the backside of my hand here if he doesn’t leave me alone.  Ok, first, a visual:  have you seen the movie ” The Libertine” with Johnny Depp?  You know how he looks at the end of the movie when he’s all messed up from the syphilis?  I am not making this up:  dude looks just like that shit, aside from the creepy eye.  I wish I were joking and making a funny, but help me god, I am not.  And I’m the only tutor that will help him because everyone else suddenly becomes too busy when he asks for help.  What’s my issue with SyphilisBoy?  He’s one of those people that no matter how many times you explain to him how to do a simple procedure, he still fucks it up. 

“Erin?  How do you open a new Word document?” 

“Well, ______, just like I told you yesterday.” 

“Erin?  How I do save my paper to the flash drive?”

Well, _______, just like I showed you yesterday, and the day before that, and then once again on Monday.”

Also, when I am trying to help him, he always says, “What?”  I know you heard me talking, asshole, just stop wasting my time and do it.  Jeezy creezy….

Today was exceptionally fun and fantastic for me:  surprise surprise, he’s also one of the Last Minute MotherFathers, so he’s trying to write 3 papers and make up a resume.  On these computers, there is a resume wizard, so all you have to do is fill in the information, like name, address, schools, past jobs, and this thing puts it all together for you.  A 4 year old could do it, if said 4 year old needed to put together a resume.  But no, no no…Syphilis Face cannot grasp the simple mechanics of it, and is constantly calling me over to see if he did it right.  It’s students like him that make me want to take over whatever they’re doing and finish the damn thing for them.  See?  These people drive me to do it.  They also drive me to not want to have kids EVER because I am deathly afraid our kids will by some cruel twist of fate, be retarded and won’t be able to tie their own shoes and wear little retard helmets when they go outside because they have big water baby heads.  They will be the children you see sitting the backseat of the family station wagon, noses pressed up against the glass, extra retard boogers getting the glass all boogerfied, sticking My Little Pony stickers on the windows, and getting carsick all over their little brother.  I cannot wait.  My uterus is simply atwitter with anticipation. 

Speaking of unwanted children, when is Nebraska going to get on the cool state bandwagon and put in the drop boxes at hospitals where mothers can leave their unwanted babies?  How sweet is that?!  Instead of chucking Junior in the trash like so many are wont to do, they can take the kids to a hospital and leave them there.  The hospital will take care of the baby and then put it up for adoption.  I think that’s an awesome idea, but of course, people think that this will promote more people leaving off their babies.  Well…..what do you expect, dumbass?  You give these people a service like that, they’re going to use it.  Is there a limit to the number of unwanted babies you want?  Only 5 per month?  What, do you lose funding if you surpass your baby quota?  If you don’t want people to use your service, then don’t fucking make it available. 

One more thing and I’m done.  I was “working” one day and this girl comes in and gets online because she had heard a story about a 5 year old girl giving birth.  No joke here.  It’s true.  Over in Thailand, a 5 year old girl gave birth to a baby boy.  Apparently, she has a genetic defect on her pituitary gland that caused her to go into puberty at age 3–no shit!!–and a friend of her father’s married her and they had a baby.  The baby had a baby.  When her kid is 5, she will be 10.  How absolutely twisted is that?!  When I was 5, I was playing with my She-Ra doll.  Definitely NOT having sex.  I understand the culture differences, but good god almighty.  That’s wacky.

So, moral of the story is to not be retarded and piss me off by your retardation.  And don’t have sex with 5 year old girls.  I think that about covers it. 

I’m not a junkie, I just play one on t.v.

As a medical student, I get the joy of practicing blood draws and injections on my fellow classmates.  On a good day, I will have roughly 20 different needle punctures in my body.  I have track marks that even Keef Richards would be proud of.  My favorite activity is going out somewhere after I’ve been poked and stuck with needles.  I have all these bandaids and this stuff called Coban (it’s like an ace bandage) all over.  It’s even better after a few days when I have giant bruises everywhere.  I get looks of sympathy and some raised eyebrows, too.  Silly people. 

My mom was very concerned when she learned that we would be practicing on each other in class.  I think it was just the fact that it was ok for us to do it on other people that creeped her out.  But honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Some schools do not do it this way:  they uses hotdogs and oranges to practice.  Now, as a patient in a hospital or clinic,  would you rather have someone whose actually worked on other people?  Or someone whose only given shots to a piece of fruit?  Yeah.  That’s what I thought.   What’s even more badass is that we had to practice giving ourselves an injection on the side of our leg.  Let me tell you what, if you don’t feel like a crack-raged junkie after sticking a 1″ needle in your thigh, then I don’t know what will.  And here’s a sight I’m sure most of you will never have the insane priviledge of seeing:  16 women lined up along a table, bent forward,  asses hanging out, all getting shots in the butt.  That’s what I call feeling alive. 

I’ve never minded being stuck with needles.  I give blood regularly, so I’m used to it.  And freak alert, but I like to watch the needle go in and the blood fill up the collection bag.  Not for any perverted reason, but just watching it all take place makes you marvel at the thought that your blood is being used to help other people.  That’s the coolest thing ever.  Lots of people spend tons of money trying to help out others, and I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, but by donating blood, you’re saving 3 people’s lives and it’s free. 

This might be evil, but I hate the Save The Children campaigns.  I am not a bad person, I just think those commercials are ridiculous.  For 24 cents a day, I can feed 18 kids?  Really?  What are you giving these kids?  Elmer’s glue and wood chips?  Plus, this is horrible, but there’s one commercial where the spokesman is showing pictures of kids and they all have dark hair and skin, but then, heeeelllllooooo!  A blonde hair, blue eyed little girl?  In Thailand?  Did this kids parents send her away to some 3 rd world country?  I don’t get it?  I know, I know, I’m a bastard, but shit.  I know this is also super butthole-ish of me, but we have millions of people in America who can’t afford food….why aren’t there any Save the American Children campaigns?  Or maybe in other countries, there are commercials for that.  Wealthy Chinese businessmen sending all their yen over to America to help feed some poor kids in Detroit.  I doubt it.  But it would be kick ass. 

 This is my major problem with celebrities who make mad stacks of coin.  These douches are sitting on millions of dollars, blowing their money on the latest Gucci handbag that costs more than my first car did.  Spread the wealth, bitches.  And not just in times of crisis, either.  I mean monthly.  Actors and actresses that make upwards of 20 million dollars for shitfest movies like “Ghostrider” and “Monster-In-Law” should automatically have to donate half to charity.  In America. 

Bigotted assface?  Sure, call me what you want, just don’t call me late to dinner.