SHITTY DAYS AND MONDAYS ALWAYS GET ME DOWN

Somomabitch ... that was one shitty day we had there yesterday.

We'll start with the shittiest portion of the day and move backwards to the less shitty portions, but believe me ... it was ALL shitty.

Okay ... first off ... I now remember why I quit deejaying for a living.

Because I have a severe problem dealing with drunk fucking assholes who think that just because they've managed to guzzle a few Miller Lites, this automatically makes them better deejays than the guy currently playing the music.

What other job has to put up with this shit?

I'm pretty goddamned sure that airplane pilots don't have to go through this shit. In the history of flying, nobody has ever sat back in the cheap seats, drank a few toddies and then waltzed up to the cockpit saying, "Pull up, pull up. You don't want to hit that cloud, dude."

No college professor has ever had some drunk bastard burst into the room and say "E doesn't equal MC square, you dirty fuck! It equals E!"

Nope. Only deejays have to suffer this quandry.

So yesterday my buddy Billy picks me up and we go to this fancy shmancy clubhouse where the party is being held. We get there and I ask the people there where they want the deejay set up.

"Outside by the pool," is the snippy response I get from some fat fucker in an Izod and ironed shorts.

Errrr...okay. Nobody told me I'd be playing outside in the 94 degree heat. Gosh, if I had known that, I probably woulda worn FUCKING SHORTS instead of these nice pressed slacks that I thought were more appropriate for a fancy schmancy birthday party.

We set up all the equipment. The guy throwing the party (heretofore referred to as "Big Bill") wasn't there, but his snotty little teenage son was.

"Put a speaker inside the clubhouse," he told us. "They want one speaker inside and one speaker outside."

Oh. Well that takes away from the whole "Stereo" effect...but yeah...sure...we can do that.

So Billy lugs one of the speakers inside. These fuckers are heavy and on these metal tripods, so it's an awkward act.

He gets the speaker inside and we put on "Blueberry Hill" to test the system and make sure everything's running.

It is.

Little snot-nosed teenager comes running outside and says "Take the speaker back outside. It's too loud in the clubhouse."

I grin.

He says "I bet you guys already knew it would be too loud, huh?"

I said "Yes."

I casually left out "...You snot-nosed fucker".

So at 6 p.m., the lifeguards at the pool instruct all the little kids in the pool area that they have to pack it up and go home.

More than one child was crying. Here it was, there first weekend out of school, and they can't swim on a Saturday night, because some rich fucker was throwing a party and didn't want to have any children around.

I thought that sucked. I understood why it was done...he had rented the clubhouse and pool area. But it still sucked. It reminded me of that Christmas story where the heartless old man treats the little crippled boy like shit.

So anyway, there's a buncha people there, and they're just standing around, with the occasional fuckwad coming over to tell me to "turn up the music" because the people inside can't even hear it.

So I keep inching the music up.

Big Bill and his wife show up...the party was being thrown for his wife, who I thought was having a birthday. Apparently she had graduated from college or something and the party was congratulating her on that.

She's like...in her 50s. Just graduating. And she's getting a party thrown for her. I'm sorry, but if I was 55 years old and had just graduated from college, I'm pretty sure I'd wanna keep that shit under my hat, if you know what I mean. I don't think I'd want a party screaming "It took me 30 years to do something most people do in four!!"

After the initial dozen "Could you PLEASE turn the music up louder?" people, I was saddled with two drunken fuckbugs.

Number one is a local TV personality, Joe. This guy is one of the most obnoxious alcoholic fucks in town. Joe thinks that because he has a local cable access show that he's the king of shitty television. He's an insufferable prick and a dick to boot.

Joe's son once got me a deejay gig to spin records for the governor's daughter's Sweet 16 birthday. The gig paid $300, and the check was made out to Joe's son who said he'd cash the check and give me the cash the next day. He cashed the check, blew it all on cocaine and then left town. Years later, he's managed to pay me $60 of it. Like father, like motherfucking son.

So anyway, before Joe arrived at the party, we were given instructions that whenever Joe wanted to use the microphone to let him use the microphone.

Billy sighed and said okay. Billy hates the bastard as much as I do.

Joe gets there, and some drunk weasel (Heretofore referred to as "Drunk Weasel") runs up to him and tells him there's a microphone at the party, come be a total asshole just like you are on TV and everyone will laugh because they're all drunk and they think you're the king of shitty television and they worship the ground you walk on because you play an obnoxious fuckwad on TV but you're not really that bad, we know this because nobody can be that obnoxious of a fucker in real life, can they?

I swear...people were kissing this guy's ass like Elvis had just walked in with Jesus on his arm.

Joe walks over to where we're set up and starts firing off his requests.

"Please Please Please" by James Brown?

We didn't bring it.

"Searching for my Baby" by Bobby Moore and the Rhythm Aces?

We didn't bring it.

"The King of Shitty Television Gets Invited To A Party Thrown By People With Too Much Money And No Respect For Other Human Beings" by Joe?

Oh. We've got SEVERAL copies of that shit, you monkey fucker.

Drunk Weasel informs me that Joe would like to have the microphone now.

Joe scrunches up his face, points to his throat and says "I'm hoarse...I'm hoarse."

What Joe wants is for people to BEG him to get on the microphone.

Sorry Joe. I don't beg for fucking SEX ... don't think I'm going to beg you to get on the microphone and bask in any kind of glory you never fucking deserved.

I shrug, Drunk Weasel looks upset and Joe walks away.

A few minutes later, Drunk Weasel stumbles over to me.

"You might wanna turn it down some," he says, like the true amateur deejay that he is.

"Sure," I said, not turning down shit.

Drunk Weasel walks away, secure in the knowledge that he knows more about deejaying than the deejay does.

The night goes on ... Joe keeps firing off more requests of music that we "don't have" (we had most of it, I just didn't want to give him the satisfaction of telling people 'I requested that one!'), while Drunk Weasel comes up there over and over again, asking me how we can get Joe to get on the microphone.

Christ. Like the only thing I have to ponder is how the hell to get Joe to break out of his shell and REALLY get this party kicked into overdrive.

I was getting really pissed. And the main reason was because of what we were being paid. My boss told Big Bill we'd charge $150, half of which I was giving my buddy Billy since it was all his equipment and all his music. But Billy had told me that his going rate has been $400 for the last two years...not $300 as I had reported. And he was booking gigs left and right for $400 a pop.

So ... we were giving this guy a HUGE discount on the party ... and we had YET to meet Big Bill.

To make a long story short (it's about time!), we never even MET Big Bill. Big Bill is the type of person who doesn't have the time to mingle with the hired help ... he's too busy mingling with the people who he thinks he can actually get something out of...the creepy fuckwad.

After four hours of playing...at 10 p.m., Big Bill gave my boss $150 and told him to give it to me.

My boss brought the cash out to me and told me to pull the plug.

Hey...cool. I'm tired of this shit anyway.

But it wouldn't have taken Big Bill THIRTY FUCKING SECONDS to walk outside, hand me the cash and say "Good job."

Or "You sucked."

Or "Hi, I'm Big Bill. Thanks for doing the party."

So we packed it up, loaded everything into the van and as our royal FUCK YOU to Big Bill ... we didn't put up two folding tables.

Heeeeeeee!!

Boy...we sure did show him!!!

Big Bill had to put up two folding tables his OWN DAMNED SELF!!!

WHOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOO!!!

FUCK YOU BIG BILL!!! FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!

We laughed all the way home over that.

I think we were both delerious from the heat.

Okay ... it was a suckass night. But I should have known it was going to be a suckass night after what I went through yesterday afternoon.

I go to the grocery store. I buy groceries.

I get in the checkout line ... two ladies in front of me.

...And a brand new fucking checkout girl named Tasha.

The first lady in line had all her groceries checked out when I got in line. She just wanted $20 back from her check.

Well...this was like asking Tasha to stand on her head and drink a glass of water. Tasha had no idea how to do this.

She called management over there who took their sweet assed time to come over, show this new girl how to ring up a $20 overring or whatever the hell it is they do, and Tasha gave the lady $10.

The lady wanted $20. Not $10.

So Tasha, who wasn't paying a BIT of fucking attention when the manager came over and showed her how to do the overring, had to call management BACK over there.

Finally, management sashayed over to the line, showed her AGAIN how to do it, and Sasha gave the lady $20.

That's fine. But what about this extra $10?

Sasha CALLS MANAGEMENT OVER AGAIN and they show her how to open the drawer and put the $10 back in.

That lady's done.

The next lady, with five children all under the age of four is ready to be checked out.

Her groceries are SLOWLY checked out.

Here's the kicker ... she's paying in FOOD STAMPS.

Oh gee golly gosh!! Who woulda thought the single mother of five kids would have food stamps?!?

Certainly not Tasha!!

Tasha looks at the food stamps like the lady had just handed her a handful of moose shit.

Tasha doesn't know what these are. Obviously, she had never watched her mother pay for groceries in her life.

The single mother explains that they're food stamps.

Tasha needs a manager.

The manager FINALLY gets over there and explains that these are food stamps.

Tasha's confused. If it ain't cash, Tasha's confused.

The manager shows her how to ring food stamps up.

Tasha fucks it up.

I have now been waiting TWENTY FUCKING MINUTES in line. I was PISSED to say the least.

Tasha keeps fucking the food stamps up. Finally ANOTHER manager comes over and tells Tasha to just ring me up (he could sense my anger) and he will take Food Stamp Mama over to another lane to work with her.

Tasha starts ringing me up.

The VERY FIRST ITEM is two green bell peppers.

She rings them up as broccoli. She thinks bell peppers are broccoli.

Excuse me Tasha ... but what are your memories of first grade since you must have GONE THROUGH IT FOR 12 FUCKING YEARS?!?!

Broccoli rings up at $3. Two bell peppers are $1.19.

So Tasha stands there staring at the bell peppers. She doesn't call a manager. She doesn't look it up. She fucking stands there and stares at the bell peppers, waiting for them to magically turn into broccoli.

I said "Look ... I will PAY $3 for the bell peppers ... let's just keep this moving."

I was PISSED.

All my frozen food was thawing. My milk had curdled. I had gotten into this line of two people at 2:45 and it was now 3:15.

I AM NOT EXAGGERATING ON THE TIME.

I know I tend to exaggerate, but I had literally been in line for 30 minutes now.

Tasha doesn't want to charge me three bucks for the bell peppers.

I say "Who do you need? Do you need Steve? (the store manager) Do you need the girl with the keys? Because I will go get them."

"I need one of them," she confirms.

I spot the key girl, walk over to her and tell her to get over to lane 7, Tasha is having problems, I've been waiting in line for 30 minutes, I've never had to wait this long in a grocery store in my life, all my frozen food is thawing ....

I just went off. Very quietly and I kept my temper in check. But I wanted SOMEBODY to know what the hell was going on over here.

I don't want to say it was Tasha's fault. It was her second day on the job. But management should have been there to hold her hand during Saturday afternoon peaks. And she should have had to take some sort of test before they made her a cashier. Some test that determined if the stupid punk ass bitch knew the difference between bell peppers and broccoli would have been a good start.

So Key Girl comes over and shows Tasha for the fourth time since I've been in line how to do an overring.

Tasha once again doesn't pay attention.

I tell Key Girl AND Steve to stay RIGHT HERE next to Tasha because she is having so much trouble.

I'm sure Key Girl and Steve had other things to do ... but by God, I shop here three times a week ... you're staying RIGHT HERE, goddammit.

Tasha fucked up my IAMS dog treats.

"Do you know how much these are?" she asked me.

I burst out laughing from frustration.

"They're right over here," I said, walking over to the dog aisle and getting the price. "They're $3.59."

So she has to manually put $3.59 in the cash register.

She puts in "$5.39".

Jeez. Who saw THAT ONE coming??

FINALLY, after both Steve and Key Girl have apologized quietly to me and I said it was okay, that I understood it was her second day but she really needed someone to help her instead of trying to do it herself, my groceries were bagged and paid for.

Forty minutes after I had gotten into line.

I swear. If the world wants to keep fucking me in the ass on a daily basis, I sure wish it's slap a condom on.

Now then...

Time for church!!