05/02/2004 - 2:45 a.m. | in very old demented adults

That didn't take so long, right?

I'm just a teensy bit exhausted, and it feels like I've done absolutely nothing to warrant this, but I'll bite and give writing about it a shot anyway. After work on Thursday (yes, back to Thursday even) and a brief interlude of Grosse Pointe Blank, I went over to Dank's to watch Bram Stoker's Dracula. We had both heard it was a pretty good movie, but I guess we both heard wrong because it was bizarre and cheesy and stupid - and not even in a good way. And I guess movies from 1992 are already starting to look dated. BLUE FLAMES OF... CARTOON! Sucks for y'all. What else sucks? Keanu Reeves trying to do a British accent, trying to fill in the bad parts with more naked breasts, and the following conversation by me and Dank:

Dank: Man, and I thought Bram Stoker made pretty good movies.
Nate: You're joking, right?
Dank: What? You didn't hear that?
Nate: *slaps forehead*

Friday worked out as follows: Cross the guard, Buckle, cross the guard again during a carefully chosen lunch period, Buckle, Huff. I got my first paycheck on Friday - my average hourly rate right now is like $5.56. OK, agreed. Not great yet. But I could have done without Danee's little note on the bottom of it (and the accompanying speech) about .... OK, I dunno even what about. How I need to sell more, I suppose. But let me explain you the cycle of death, all right? I work on weekdays. Nobody comes in on weekdays. And I don't care what Danee says; they are not the "hardcore shoppers" coming in looking for something specific. They are unemployed people and truants, neither of which can afford our jeans. So I can't sell much on weekdays, 'specially with three other sales people there at a time. Sales are low, so they don't think they can trust me to work on weekends. More weekdays. Bullshit. I mean, the Buckle touts its little thing about how it treats its customers like people, but I don't think I can really agree with that. They treat customers like faint outlines of people, giving them alternating phrases of lies and pressure on an assembly line. Nobody ever seems sincere. Meanwhile, I'm doing my best to actually be an OK guy to people. I don't just run up with a sale. I talk to them for a while. I'm friendly. I'm seriously concerned about what they're trying to find and am totally sympathetic if they think the shit is too expensive. And I think people notice. I was talking to this one girl about belts, and she said that she was really glad I was working there that day. And this one little tiny girl thought no one ever had jeans her size, so I went on a mission to find her some, and she was soooo appreciative. Heh - maybe it is because I make it a point to talk mostly to the pretty girls (because then their oh-so obvious attraction to me will bring out my stunning charm), but I feel like I could be good if given my space.

Not that this is likely to happen. Danee was explaining to me how much I should be selling, using psychotic numbers that didn't make any sense. I think she was trying to explain how much I could be selling, but the way she said it sounded more like she was saying how much I could make. "$2400 in one week, so that's $600 for you!" What?! Anyway, she told me my goal for the day was $700. To which I yelled "LOL" and went off to build some more walls of jeans. I do this a lot, mostly because everyone else is busy failing at selling shit just as much as I do, damn it, and I've taken to the habit of doing the Penguin laugh whenever given a task. "Could you rebuild the wall of Relics?" Wah, wah, wah, wah. And then I'll waddle by later with a big pile of jeans. Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah.

There's a new girl working at the Buckle. Actually, not new actually, I think, but this is the first time I've seen her, and she is a giant. 7 feet tall, I swear to God. And if you wanna talk about awkward salesmanship, watch the play-by-play on her. She chews her gum with her mouth open and fucks up even the lame lines they tell us to use. Her only sales, I assume, come from people threatened by her or the ones she falls ass backwards into by standing around the counter. I miss those. Anyway, there is a huge internal struggle for me about whether or not I should just flip out and start yelling about how tall she is all the time. One thing is for sure - my new first homemade t-shirt will say, "I'll crush your bones to make my bread!" on it. Dress-up strategy #2 is to put on some really elaborate zombie getup and carry around a pair of jeans, screaming and chasing anyone who walks too close to the entrance of the store. Perhaps my total lack of respect for this job comes from the other two I feel can keep me buoyed. But man, if they went!

My fun little diary game, "Get an Arbitrary Rise Out of Kyle and Shelly," isn't going quite as well as I had hoped, so I think I might start rotating through other people to see if I can piss them off a little easier. Guess who today's is!!

The tape adapter for the Discman in my car (yes, I am quite that ghetto cool) has been messed up for a while now, constantly switching sides and causing obnoxious skips in the music, so I decided the best course of action would be to slowly break it until it worked again. Why would this ever work. Anyway, while I was stomping on it or something, I noticed the front right tire was really flat. Like, flatter than Lisa Yung's chest flat. So I ran to the gas station and filled it up. And the entire purpose of this story was that one line two sentences ago, and it really wasn't even a good line at all. Fuck.

Andie was leaving for the weekend, so I went to give her a hug. At a halfway point that didn't make any sense for either of us, but who's counting? Too bad she couldn't stay for this weekend's block party because, well... OK, be aware that this stuff does embarrass me, but when doesn't my life do that? Anyway, it was very unintentionally sexy of her last week when we had finished dancing and were all sweaty and she blew on my neck to cool me off. *cough* Forget it. I didn't say shit.

Through the gross mugginess and drizzle to Huff and its locked doors (of course). This time, though, some weird troll woman from a random building across the street came over and let me and some caterers in. I guess there was some sort of zombie dinner party going on, and since the gym was locked, and nobody showed up to use it in half an hour, I got the hell out of Dodge before my brains became the main course. Even grosser ride back, and then Spritz and I got ready to go out for pseudo-Italian. He was already all dressed up in a tie and everything from his job interview earlier, so I popped on my own hideous pink shirt, orange tie combination so that we would look keen. It was enough to trick the Olive Garden people, though, 'cause they totally thought we were grown-ups and offered us wine samples. I was very tempted, if only to act like a bitter snob, but I abstained because getting kicked out of the Olive Garden for fucking underaged drinking would just be depressing.

I realize I probably will get beat up someday for making fun of the wrong guy or the wrong guy's girlfriend, but somehow that is so, so, SO worth it. If I couldn't point out Jigglebunny's large, grotesque breasts as they came flopping by, I don't think I'd even want to live in this world. Despite what Spritz may tell you, American Pie's Jason Biggs was our waiter, so I had to keep making comments about his sex with the pastry selection. Spritz was not amused, but that could've been because there was a child nearby, and he wants them all to burn. Must everyone think that two dressed up males having dinner together automatically means we are fags supreme? I guess this is the case. Deal.

Later on, I went to go see Mean Girls with Dank, Will, and Kay. We all kind of came into it expecting pure awfulness (as did the hundreds of teen girls who were in the theatre with us, I assume), but it was actually really, really good and funny. The Danny DeVito line was pure gold, and for once, one of Will's wild predictions was hilariously accurate. So go see it, 'k? Good lambs. Pretty much every time I've seen Kay recently, I make some comment about sand in her vagina (This sounds more vulgar than it really is... probably). Anyway, it was raining when we got out of the theatre, so I made Will wait with me while the other two got the car, and when the came back, I covered my head with my shirt and screamed about mussing my hair and frizz. Dank suggested I get the sand out of my vagina, so I asked Kay for her douche, which she said she had already had to use earlier on in the evening. Hmm - this one is going nowhere either. I just like yelling dumb shit at people. Dank and I tried to watch "The Critic" for 2 episodes before we passed out. Before that, though, he gave me one BBQ chip - just one! - and even though I brushed my teeth that night and this morning, I was still tasting that fucker all day long. Gosh, this is a lousy entry! Better keep going!

Um, nah. I would however like to point out, once again, because my dad mentioned it today, that the lead in the ABBA musical "Mama Mia!" totally had the hots for me, so I fucking rule. We were in the second row, and she was giving me the eye the whole time, and her abs were pretty nice, I think. So shut up, doubters. Self-doubters, mental clouders, clam chowders. One more entry on the morrow, eh? Right-o!