Sunday, December 5, 2010

If I ever catch who vomited in my urinal...

Today is finally over. Infact, it is over to such an extent that it is not today anymore, but it is now the wee small hours of tomorrow.

My day began in agony. My liver, having been terribly misinformed about the amount of business it was going to recieve over the weekend decided to take it's sweet time processing the following:

2 Shots Captain Morgan
1 Shot Bushmills Irish Whiskey
1 Lemonade Flavored Four Loko
2 1/2 Blackheart 1/2 Cokes
1 Coke and American Honey
1/4 of a Flask of Rum
0 Glasses of Water
0 Food

Ingested between the period of 7:30pm and 10:45 Friday evening, my liver had not expected such a rush, it was having a slow day and had sent all the extra employees home early. By the time bright sunlight and my blaring alarm reminded me that I was in fact still alive, my liver had send a series of well worded complaints to my brain regarding my behavior.  I groaned the groan of the hungover, the faint, barely audible "urrrrg" of intense pain and regret and quickly adjusted my head to find the perfect angle where the room didn't spin around quite so much.  For some reason this was 8:00am.  Shower. Water. Saltines. Water. More Groaning. Water...

I had to work at 2:00pm at Kens. The entire shift I was constantly being reminded that my liver was not done complaining by any means. Drudgery Is the best way to describe that experience. When the thought of a shot of whiskey makes you feel physically ill, it is bad luck to work in a store that sells hundreds of different sizes and varieties of it.

7:00pm rolled around, I left Kens, got food, got gas, drove downtown, found parking and began working at Jake's.  Which is where I finally started to feel like a normal human being again. Still, the alcohol had been nice enough to shoot first and ask questions later when it came to the good bacteria in my stomach, so I was not having fun.

At first work was slow.
The Huskers won, then tied, then lost.

I sold cigarettes, booze, and cigars with Jason for all of eternity. Then one particular gentleman walks in my door: Rush Storz. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of meeting Rush consider yourselves lucky bastards. A sexist, egotistical douchebag, Rush has been fired from or kicked out of  nearly every place you can imagine. Reasons include stealing, fighting, vomiting in places where vomit should NEVER GO (foreshadowing), laziness, being a creeper, drunken loutishness, gambling, and all around ass-ishness.  Suffice it to say I'm not a fan.  Perhaps twenty minutes after I notice his arrival he walks back from the bathroom to give me some exciting news, "Somebody puked in your pisser.".  He went on to say that it wasn't him and I found myself nodding blandly while screaming something about fate in my head. I finally decided the best way to allay some blame was through this adapted quote from Casablanca:


"If Rush's presence in a bar can inspire this demonstration what more will his presence in Lincoln bring on?"

True enough, someone had thrown up in my urinal. The men had decided that there was nothing wrong with it and continued to use it, with every flush washing chunks of vomit and urine all over the floors.

Nothing can quite describe the feeling of intense rage and burning hatred one experiences when confronted with this situation. If you are a drunk person, and you need to throw up, but the stall is taken, what posses you to think URINAL over TRASHCAN?Would having your arm broken be enough of a learning situation so that you never forget ever again. Maybe a hammer to a kneecap, I don't care which one...

Whoever did it is damn lucky I didn't catch them. There is no telling what sort of psychotic rage that would ensue. I have no problem cleaning blood off the floor, its just sticking my hands into a clogged urinal that makes me want to stab people.

Night,
Grant

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