So I’ve been doing a whole lot of walking and taking full advantage of my body ever since I got out last week. Man, it feels good to stretch out my legs and kick children under the table at restaurants so their parents can’t see. The kids usually start crying or accuse me, but I’m always on my best behavior, so what parent in their right mind would trust their own shithead child over me, the “cream of the crop”? Especially when she’s a single mom and I lead her on so I can get free dinner and a chance to kick her kid. The other night I went out with this fairly young mother, and I convinced her that I had just given all the money I had to a hobo that was shivering on the street. She thought it was incredibly sweet, and obviously she had no problem paying for my meal. In reality, I really just spent all the cash I had in my wallet on hiring a bear to shred Charles’ bedsheets to pieces. You should have seen his face when he saw the state of his bed when he came home early. Priceless! The bear and I exchanged high fives, and the three of us found single moms to go on dates with that night via the Internet since I spent the grocery money on that awesome prank. They make it so easy these days to get free dinner.
That was completely off-topic. Anyway, yesterday I was walking along, taking HUGE strides to show off my legs. I guess I was also walking a lot faster because of this, because I ended up clear in the next county in front of a vacuum factory. I’m not big on fate, but I was there and I was hungry, and I knew that vacuums sometimes sucked up little pieces of food, and I knew that they tested the vacuums they produced before they were sold, so I concluded that I could probably find something to eat in a used vacuum bag. I pulled open the front door, walked inside and asked at the front desk for the testing department. The secretary gave me directions to the department, and he asked who I was. Without a word I opened my titanium business card case and slid one across the desk to him.
Let me tell you a little something about my business cards. I have a lot of them. By a lot I mean a lot of different kinds. None of them are real. I got the idea to fabricate them from watching a slice of cheese melt on a frying pan. I always carry a different kind with me every day just for the hell of it. Sometimes it comes in handy, sometimes not. Sometimes I don’t even use them. At another time, I tried to convince the manager of a fast food place to give me a free shake with my food. I pulled out the business card case and slid him a card that said I was a cigarette salesman. It didn’t work, not because it was unrelated, but because he deliberately killed his wife with second-hand smoke and made it look like an accident, and he thought I was a cop.
I glance at the card as the secretary picks it up. It says I’m from the Better Business Bureau. I’m in business. I thank him for his help and make my way back to the delicious food that awaits me.
I got pretty lost on my way to the department. I guess I took a left when I shouldn’t have, and I ended up outside at the loading dock. I asked one of the smelly guys how to get back to the testing department, and he spit on my shoe from six feet away. “Big mistake,” I uttered. From that distance I managed to stretch my leg far enough to kick him in the junk, wiping off my shoe on his crotch in the process. The guy moaned in pain and fell to the ground. He had a bagged lunch nearby, so I took it and ate it while I walked home. He sure had a lot of laxatives. They were the best part.