Just More Work

I haven't really done anything outside of working and sleeping in for the past two weeks or so, seeing as how all my friends have abandoned me in Colorado Springs, the center of the boredom universe.

I was driving home from work last week, and I happened to catch a glimpse of the single funniest thing ever: a blind guy trying to cross the street by himself. He had a cane, but he didn't really seem to have much faith in it. He would run out about ten feet into the middle of the street, hear another car coming his way, and then haul ass back to the curb. I was laughing so hard, I nearly hit him myself. He almost looked like he was joking. You know, like he was doing a some sort of caricature of a blind man, and maybe he wasn't really blind at all. But that's not as funny...

I had to work a wedding not too long ago. I hate being at weddings to which I was not invited. It's sort of like finishing someone else's popsicle. Anyway, the guests were rude and obnoxious and basically a bunch of huge tools. This, as you probably guessed, didn't exactly endear them to me. In fact, "hoping they all died of acute radiation poisoning" is closer to my sentiments at the time. But I got to hear some hilarious conversations, including one that began with the declaration, "It really sucks that the hottest girls in there are all my relatives!" Ah, the dark side of alcohol... But there was nothing truly exciting about this night for most of the reception. That is, until the male escort of one of the bridesmaids tore his ACL while dancing. Then all hell broke lose. Drunken wedding guests of all shapes, colors, and creeds came pouring out of the ballroom like obscure pop culture references coming out of Dennis Miller's mouth(Zing!). I'd never before heard a woman's voice utter the phrase, "Well, he got what he ****ing deserved. Serves him right for trying to dance." The hotel was overrun by emergency vehicles within ten minutes, during which I was treated to the sight of the best man claiming before all within the sound of his voice that HE would show the paramedics where to go; after all, HE was the "BEST ****ING MAN!" Shortly thereafter, he was too preoccupied by his own vomiting to be any help to the paramedics. I hate weddings.

We recently had a guest bring in a brand spanking new Corvette. I'm not the best at driving cars with manual transmissions, but I know enough to get the job done. I'd never driven a sports car before, though, so I wasn't all too crazy about trying to park the thing. I was scared out of my mind that I would stall it. In front of the owner. Oh yes, he stood outside, and watched me pull it away from the front of the hotel and into the parking garage. But before that happened, he had to explain to me how to start and stop the engine. You have to have it in reverse, both when you start the car and when you park it. What made me nervous was the fact that the owner, bless his heart, had an unbelievably awkward st-st-stutter. He made me nervous just listening to him, which only compounded my already nervous state of mind. OK, so anyway, I pulled the car away from where it had been parked, and not two seconds later, I'd already stalled it. This didn't help to make me any less nervous. I put it into reverse again, and restarted the engine. This time, thankfully, I pulled away without stalling the car. Just my luck, the parking garage was nearly full. I had to search my field of vision for a few seconds to find a spot. Once I'd found one, I began the unpleasant task of backing into it. I was so scared of stalling that stupid car, I started sweating. I've never sweated because of nervousness before. I always kinda thought it was made up. Like when carton characters get hit on the head and they see little birdies. But I digress. I was so nervous, I could literally feel my heartbeat in my feet. I swear. If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'. Anyway, long story short, that's how I developed my nervous tick.

I was talking with the front office manager today about a shuttle I was planning on driving to the Colorado Springs airport. There was one name on the list of passengers that was crossed off, rewritten, and then crossed off again. I asked the manager, "So, is Mr. Taylor coming with us or not?" To which I received the reply, "No, I guess he caught a ride with another dude." The head of housekeeping happeneing to be standing right there, and she heard what the manager said to me. Now, you have to understand, the head of housekeeping is a tiny little elderly German woman. She's got an accent and everything. A heavy accent. So anyway, she thought that the phrase "with another dude" was absolutely hysterical. I've never seen her laugh so hard. She began repeating it, over and over again, in her thick German accent, "Vissanazzadood! Vissanazzadood! Vissanazzadood!" I still don't get what was so funny about that, but I'll never forget the strange, scrunched-up look on her wrinkled Nazi face as she continued to scream "Vissanazzadood!” at us. Crazy German lady.