Potboilers

Baby salted

So the other day I’m in a San Francisco coffee shop. This one has an especially contemporary and stylish interior, fittingly the Barista is a fox. It’s the type of coffee shop where they have thirty different types of organic fair trade beans from five continents and they brew individual cups, it takes forever and the coffee is stronger than redbull. I’m in line and a young father is waiting for his cup of custom brew. I know he’s a father because there’s a baby strapped to his chest. He’s in his thirties, slight beer gut, mustache and stupid Ska hat. The kinda dude you hang out with from time to time, always forgetting he’s a jackass up until you’re hanging out again. 
The baby is cute. I figure I’ll make it laugh. If I can make the baby like me, the hot coffee shop girl will like me, because chicks dig dudes that can make babies laugh. It’s a fucken fact. Ultimately, this is how more babies are produced and the cycle continues: laughing, fucking and birthing.
I give the baby my best astonished face. Babies get a kick out of adults with surprised expressions. I figure this is because nothing babies do is surprising, so they don’t see that expression too often. The kid loves it, gives me a big grin and marble mouthed giggle. 
I check the coffee girl, she has a “how adorable!” expression on her face. I’m like “BOO-YA”, one step closer to making a baby with the hot coffee shop girl who likes cute babies that giggle at astonished adults. 
However, dork dad is not having this. He looks down at his bald baby’s head and says, “Now what did I tell you about talking to strange men?”
Motherfucker.
For a nano second everyone evaluates whether I look like a babyfucker. The coffee girl’s view of me is tainted. The situation has become weird, even the baby looks uncomfortable.
The dad has successfully baby-salted my game. I understand his motive: the only person allowed to use this baby to get pussy is the father. 
Fair enough, I’ll get a puppy that looks like a baby.

First Day

Today was my first day at a new job. I am an Assistant to the Manager of General Administration and Internal Operations at a Pharmaceutical Advertising Firm. Our company creates ad campaigns for cancer drugs. These are the types of drugs that do not need advertising. If you can afford them you take them to prevent death.

A peppy woman named Dina gave me the office tour and rundown of duties. It was a blur of rushed introductions and doors with titles. Dina is 36, has a modest mustache and makes a whistling sound when pronouncing the letter “S”. Her favorite animal is the Pug. She has six of them. She cooks them dinner every night. She has a lump on her left shoulder. It pushes against her shirt like a clump of grapes.

 My first task was adding myself to the list of phone extensions. Then I added this list to a folder of company lists. Around lunchtime, Dina asked me to clean out the refrigerator in the office kitchen. She gave me this task with pity dripping off her face. The kitchen was filled with coworkers eating their lunch. They all seemed to be eating the same meal. Bowls of brown lumpy stew ladled from a large pot.

I opened the fridge door. Everyone started laughing.The fridge was full of tumors. Cancer tumors.

Bloggadocio

This blog is fucken awesome. I made it and you couldn’t because you didn’t, so don’t even try. The whole internet will want to suck my blog. This is going to be the shit.

-Bloggin hard.