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                               T-File_15____November_26_2005
                                 - Greasy Turds of Spite -
                                         By Emoticon

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\        HATS: HATS Are Totally Sweet         ________________________________________/
 \___________________________________________/  "Because tastelessness is a virtue."                                   
_______________________________________________________________________________________                               
    Fucking shit man, the cable's been out for three days.  I called Cartel            \
Communications on Sunday morning, pissed off, and finally, three days later, this       |
greasy little turd shows up in the Company Van.                                         |
    He comes in and takes a look at my sad blinking modem and tells me to reboot my     |
computer.  What the fuck is with these "technicians" and their fetishistic passion for  |
rebooting?  Maybe it's some Windows thing.  Whatever.  I didn't do it.  (Linux 2.6 on a |
Pentium III takes a while to boot up and I don't shut down any of my systems without    |
good reason - especially not at the whim of some ugly little turd.)                     |
    He looked through a very official looking spiral bound book, probably trying to     |
find out what the protocol was for handling such a hostile customer, and after some     |
uneasiness went outside to check the lines - but not before dropping a festering shit   |
bomb in my bathroom.                                                                   <
    He asked to use the crapper where he gave birth to what must have been a shit the   |
size of bowling ball, purely out of spite.  Reluctantly the little turd waddled out,    |
ten pounds lighter and got to work on the lines.  I pulled on the HAZMAT suit and went  |
to work cleaning up the bathroom.                                                      <
    A couple hours later and the ugly little turd had fixed the problem, at least       |
temporarily.  He was sitting in my room, lackadaisically shuffling through some         |
paperwork for me to sign.  He mentioned that when he ran some new temp cables, he went  |
around my driveway instead of across it because he didn't want it to "look retarded-" a |
comment for which he immediately apologized, as emphatically as if he thought perhaps I |
had an extra chromosome.                                                               <
    "So you go to West College?" he asked, eying some paper on my desk; I nodded. "Good |
stuff!"  The turd prattled on about the fraternities, which ones had the best parties,  |
but said he never went to college, in a somewhat satisfied tone.  He nostalgically      |
reminisced about missing his chance to go to school, and confided in me that when he    |
worked in New York as a contractor he had 20 buildings "under his name," whatever that  |
means, but now his job was much less stressful.                                        <
    Then the conversation got really interesting when he saw my X-Box, which had been   |
dormant for a couple of years, and started telling me about how great "360" is, and     |
that it was well worth the 16 hours he had spent in line just a day before.            <
    "Give me the fucking paperwork, you disgusting little turd!  Let me sign it and get |
the fuck out of my house.  Go play your fucking video game in the solitude of your      |
parents' basement and let the world exist without you, you greasy little cretin!"      <
    That's what I should have said.  Instead I sat, dumbfounded, listening to his       |
pathetic rambling, signing the forms as they came.  Sometime later he shook my hand,    |
before I could avoid his disgusting appendage, and left.  I felt as if I had been stink-|
palmed - times a million.                                                              <
    I nearly scalded my hand exorcising it of the certainly demonic foulness with which |
that vessel of putridness of a cable-guy had been cursed.  While scrubbing relentlessly |
I noticed the stench of the spiteful turd had returned to fill the room, and was now    |
becoming increasingly bold.  The smell was denser and more tangible than the counter,   |
than the faucet, than my very own hand.  I could reach out and touch the stink which    |
was now far beyond the realm of earthly potency.                                       <
    I left and returned with my cleaning gear, to begin scrubbing.  When I lifted the   |
lid of my once innocent toilet, the horrific imagery inside that bowl was almost        |
unspeakable, and certainly unbelievable.  Inside the old American Standard was a bloody |
fetus made entirely out of shit, but unmistakable nonetheless.  Its umbilical chord     |
extended into the infinity of my plumbing as it bobbed, lifeless in the ceramic womb.   |
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