Poor Fred Smoot.

Actually, I'm not even worried about Fred Smoot. Fred Smoot will get through this like only Fred Smoot can. But that car? That poor car.

I've seen this car, a white 2007 Rolls Royce Phantom, much like the one in this picture, hanging around either our valet station, or in front of the trendy hipster lounge/bar across the street on more than a handful of occasions in the past few months. Fred Smoot know how to roll, apparently.

I've never seen the man himself, but I was afforded the opportunity to drive his car--all of 10 ft, mind you--after he stopped in late one weekend night about a month ago. This whole procedure took me a total of 10 minutes, as I had trouble not only finding the ignition, but also starting the damn car, putting it into drive, putting it back in park, and then exiting the vehicle. Pretty much everything one does in order to drive a car, I could not figure out how to do. I know the car is supposed to be high-class, and presumably fast, but I definitely wasn't about to break any land speed records traveling at 1 foot per minute, that's for sure.

The coolest part? The hood ornament retracts back into the hood like Costanza's penis after he's been in the water. So cool. I can't imagine it would last long in downtown Minneapolis, either, what with all the random people walking around with nothing to do. Hell, even I can't say that I wouldn't steal it.

So, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like everyone to take a moment of silence for Fred Smoot's once beautiful, now almost totaled, $400,000 car. We hardly knew ye.

Amen.

I spent the bulk of yesterday afternoon disgusted, because the guy one cube over kept ripping ass, silently of course. I never heard him, but I know it was him. Had to be. It was bad. Real bad. So bad, in fact, that I had to leave work early to get away from it.

Due to the nice weather last night, I left my car at home and walked the 6 blocks to my second job. It allowed me a few moments to be outside, away from stank-ass cubemates, which was a breath of fresh air.

Har har. Get it?

But when I parked my first car, I had to double check to make sure my coworker wasn't hiding out in the back seat; the car had the same stink to it.

I didn't think much of it at first because some people just have an odd smell to them, which is easily transferred over to their cars. I didn't get a good whiff of the person that pulled up in the car--like I normally do--but it's a truth that some people smell differently than others, though most of the time it's not bad or good, it just is. I figured the owner of the car I was in, well, smelled.

But then the 2nd car reeked.

And the 3rd was, how do you say, 'odorous'.

4th--same.

An optimistic person might say that it was fragrant, or that it had an odd aroma. But that person isn't me--this pessimist thought it smelled like shit. I even had to drive with the windows down, head slightly cocked out the window. Had my tongue been out at the same time, the crackhead I passed on my way into the ramp would've had a story to tell about the Man-dog driving a Lexus. But he was a crackhead and they tend to live in another realm altogether. Who would believe the story-telling druggy?

So it was obvious the smell wasn't coming from the coworker, or the customers with less than optimal hygiene and car mainenance skills; it was coming from me. But how? From where? I took a shower in the morning and the last time I checked my pants weren't full of shit. I mean, I'm often figuratively full of shit, but not literally. I haven't been literally full of shit since I was in diapers, and that was weeks ago.

At one point I thought that I might be smelling my labret piercing hole. I removed the barbell the night before because it was bothering me and never put it back in. Anybody that's ever had a piercing knows they can smell funny, and not ha-ha funny, either. I swished a little water around inside by bottom lip and rubbed a little of the wet stuff on the outside, hoping that this would clear things up.

But the next car I took up--a car that spoke volumes about the owner's penis size--smelled, too. And if there's one thing I've learned since I started working at a hip and expensive restaurant it's this; when you have money, your shit doesn't stink. That would explain why grandpa and grandma's house always, always smelled like cheese.

Poor grandpa, in more ways than one.

Anyhow, it wasn't until Rachel said something about stepping in shit that it clicked; that I decided to check my own shoe.

I'm not sure where it came from, or where I picked it up, but there, lodged between the large treads of my hiking shoe, was a nice sized fecal hitchhiker. I removed the smelly freeloader with a rolled up piece of cardboard and happily accepted my "ShitFoot" monikor for the rest of the night.

But what does this say about me? I started telling this story to the Girlfriend last night, and I got exactly one sentence into it before she screamed "You stepped in something! Right?". She solved my stinky mystery in seconds, a mystery that took me hours to figure out.

I may be slow, but at least my shoe is clean.

Slyvester

I know this isn't funny like I meant this blog to be so excuse the emotions and just think for a second. I was biking home tonight just half an hour ago actually and at the intersection past the library, I think it's 2nd and Hennipen, I saw The bag O'chips guy. At work we always see this old back guy with a big gray goatee walking around with a bag of chips. Well I stopped on my bike gave him a five banger and talked with him for awhile. His name is Sylvester, and I think each shift I might give him some cash a dollar here and there in exchange for some conversation. I kind of want to know how people in this country end up homeless he showed me some card that I think said he was a vet ran or some sort of thing. It wasn't a drivers license. But I figure the least I can do is throw him a dollar here and there, maybe ask him what his favorite food is? or buy him a month long bus pass for 20 bucks or something. I felt real awkward talking to him though, but I hope it will get better in time, I always see in movies people befriending homeless guys. For instance "with honers" a joe pesicie film, or "fisher king" with robin williams. and I figure why can't I be Sylvester's friend? I mean doesn't he deserve friends? Or if he doesn't deserve them should at least find out why not right?

one is the loneliest number that will ever be

I suppose someone has to kick this off. tonight i had the luxury of being alone to watch the night life of downtown for 2 hours.

if you're not happy with your place in life. don't take it out in a semantic rant against people in the service industry. i don't care what your life is like, i just want you to get your car out of my fuckin' way. oh and beyond that, if you don't like what you've made yourself into, change it.

as i was dozing off two homeless women started having a crying argument. someone really must have deceived the other one. not just the i stole your piece of cardboard to sleep on tonight type of shit. like i'm sorry i'm pregnant with your fathers child type of argument. the tone in their voices was something right out of jerry springer. crying and almost to the point of fisticuffs then a little bit of gracious forgiving and right back into the catty name calling and more crying. half an hour of this and no even mild resolution. just two angry friends walking away from each other. it's like little kids arguing with their siblings. where you go back and forth with things that the other person has done to you, always trying to best them because you would win the fight if they hurt you more. then you could tell mom and dad and the other one would get in trouble. nothing solved. you just wanted to make them feel bad.

sorry this one's so lame just figure now we have room to grow.