Jobs suck. Working sucks. Having to spend your time doing some bullshit that you’d never really want to spend your time doing is unfair. In my book (in stores now), it’s classified as cruel and unusual punishment. I’m not too sure why the government hasn’t looked into this more than they have but I’ve already sent about six letters to different congressman about it. So don’t blame me when you think about how horrible your job has made your life.
Now, I’m not going to sit here and say some bullshit like “but sometimes, something happens at work that shows you why it’s all worth it.” There is no situation where that could ever be true. I don’t care if you just helped One Armed Sally find the perfect prom dress. There are ten thousand better things you could’ve been doing at that second. But there is some truth in the statement that being at work allows you to interact with some of the most ridiculous people you will ever come across. Without being at work, you’d never be able to even dream up these people. Which is normally the best thing that could ever happen to you. But in this case…nevermind. It would have been fine with me if I never had to meet this guy.
My day started out like any other day at my place of employment. I’m not going to tell you where I worked for privacy reasons. Ok, I lied. I worked at a paint store. Since it was a smaller store, I was usually the only employee there when I worked. I was your typical hardworking employee. I had been spending my day like I usually did; running laps around the store, playing basketball in the stock room with roller covers and dropping gallons of paint off of ladders and watching them explode all over the ground.
I cartwheeled out onto the sales floor to see if any customers had decided to stroll in when I noticed that the weather outside had gone to Hell. It was raining. It was windy. Tumbleweeds were blowing across the parking lot. There was thunder and lightning. It was snowing. It was fucking thundersnowing. All of a sudden, everything around me turned to black and white. The store’s front door swung open but I didn’t think anything of it. The door was broken, it happened all the time. I’m not an emotionless robot. Suddenly, cheesy organ music started to play and a wavering voice that came out of nowhere announced “Jason in…THE ZOMBIE SHOPPER!”
Before I could even ask the voice what it was talking about, I looked toward the front door that was still swinging in the wind. To my surprise, there was a man walking through the door and toward me. Actually, Frankensteining is the proper term. He was Frankensteining toward me. Very slowly. In his extended arms, he carried at least ten plastic shopping bags. By the time he reached the counter where I was standing, at least five minutes had passed. He was dripping wet from the thundersnow and appeared to be drooling. He started to talk. I think.
“Gasuh muh muh aaah amuh muh bags. Noajuh meah bbmbm back. Bauh uhh muooh.”
“Excuse me sir?” I asked. I was the most darling, polite employee you could ever dream of.
“Bags,” was all he said. He set his bags on the counter and turned back toward the door. He started to Frankenzombie again. I called out to him, telling him that he had left his bags on the counter. He completely ignored me. If I wanted to, I could have chased him down and found out what the hell was going on. I knew I would never understand what he said though. Five minutes passed and he had finally made his way back out of the store. I stood there in shock. Was he drunk? Was he a zombie? Was he an unexplained creature that rode to earth on a lightning bolt in the thundersnow? The only thing that I really knew was that I had to see what was inside those bags.
For some reason, I tip-toed toward the bags. I guess I didn’t want the paint cans to hear me. As I reached to open the bags, what sounded like an angel’s voice started to sing.
“Aaaaaaaaaaah,” sang the high-pitched voice as the bag and it’s contents suddenly turned to color. Remember, everything else was black and white. As I peered inside, I couldn’t believe my eyes. No seriously, who the hell would carry this shit around with them? Inside the bags there were a few mystery items, at least six Wayne’s World VHS tapes and ten to fifteen ceramic figurines, most of them of clowns. The voice kept on singing.
“Oh my god, it’s fucking Wayne’s World video tapes! SHUT UP!” I screamed at the voice. The singing stopped immediately and the bags turned back to black and white. Probably a darker shade than they had been before they turned to color.
A couple of hours had passed. I had spent the time doing back flips off of the counter and making prank phone calls from the store phone. As I was doing a log roll down the middle of the sales floor, I heard the door swing open again. I did a somersault and sprung to my feet. I wasn’t surprised when I saw the male version of Rob Zombie’s Living Dead Girl walking toward me again. I prepared myself in a karate stance just in case he was coming back to devour my soul. But after a few minutes, my legs started to hurt and I readjusted to the classical athletic position.
The zombie customer actually started to browse the store. He eventually made his way over to the discount paint brushes, picked one up and came to the counter. As he inched closer, I was nearly blinded by the light that was emanating off of the beads of drool that were swaying from his chin. He set the paint brush down on the counter and pulled out his check book. For a two dollar paint brush. He started to write the check as my worst nightmare unfolded. Slowly from his lip, a fresh string of drool descended toward the check. Just as he finished writing it, the drool splashed onto the check, covering half of it with zombie slobber. “Oopfths!,” he said as more drool sprayed from his mouth. He handed the check to me and I maneuvered so that I could barely pinch the corners and grab it, avoiding the toxic ooze. The name on the check was Tauhughuh Muahakuh. I gagged as I asked him for a phone number that I could use for the check.
“Eeh seah soouh fwouggh mieeeeyy nahnahnono seposoewo,” apparently he had his own hotline.
“Was that 861-8757?” I asked, completely making up each number.
“Yahwugugh,” he answered and picked up his magical treasures that he had left behind earlier. He lumbered toward the door until he was out of sight, never to be seen again. Until the next week. But seriously, after that second time I never saw him again.
Can you hear my voice when you read this? What does Jason’s voice sound like to you? How did you know that? Do I know you? Will you please stop that? I’m sure you would love to ask me one of these questions. Go ahead. SERIOUSLY, JUST COPY ONE OF THEM AND SEND IT TO ME.
Welcome to the answer of the most important question you’ve ever asked. This week, I’ll answer the only respectable three word question, subliminally mimic Daniel Tosh in the intro, and answer the question of my dreams.
Ask Jason is blowing up! I’ve been asked questions from all corners of the world this time around and have had more questions asked than ever before! That’s right, we have FOUR!! Ok, maybe I didn’t really get questions from all corners of the earth. But I did get one from Argentina! Ok, that’s not true either. But for the first time ever, the Jasonites from Twitter and WordPress want in on the act. Ultimate excitement. I can’t contain myself. I can’t even imagine what you feel like. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, I know you’re busy.
Q: Man, that was awesome. Ralph was such a dick. WTF?
Answer me right now or else, Maxim’s Madness
A: Our old buddy Ralph. You know, I can’t tell you why Ralph is such a dick. I’ve known him for such a long time and every time I see him, he’s almost kind of friendly. But then when he gets on the internet, and on my blog in particular, he becomes a demonic figure. He feels invincible. He’s reckless. He thinks he can say whatever he wants. He thinks he could kill a small child just by flicking them in the ear. He does have some pretty fat fingers though. So maybe it really isn’t that unrealistic. I think he’s jealous of my blog and my life. I think he’s jealous of the Jasonites. I think he’s jealous that if he had a group of followers or fans, he couldn’t call them the Ralphites because it just sounds stupid. Like, why would you want to confuse your fans with mechanical pencil refills? No, I just meant that it sounded like graphite, sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you, Ralph fans. But Maxim, if I were you, I’d be prepared. Knowing Ralph, he isn’t going to like the fact that you called him a dick. I hope he doesn’t offend you. If we do hear from him again, and I’m about ninety-four percent sure that we will, I will take care of him. Proms.
Q: Jason-do you believe in cake?
I Love You, Dew Nestry
A: YES! Of course I do. When you like to eat as much as I do, cake is like a foreign delicacy that has been hand delivered from the East Indies after a three year voyage over extremely rough seas. I do like certain cakes more than others though. For example, by far my favorite kind of cake, and this may sound strange to those of you that are into the ultra-competitive, breakneck, suicidal reality series Cupcake Fuck or whatever it’s called, is Funfetti. Yes, I prefer homemade cakes to store bought or gourmet cakes. But you can’t overload the frosting, that really destroys the cake. Once, a co-worker baked me a cake for my birthday but loaded it with gross amounts of frosting. It was impossible to eat. I brought a piece of it to her, slammed it down on her desk and screamed “you try and eat this shit! Why the fuck would you ever put so much frosting on this? Learn how to bake a cake next time before you drown another innocent victim in frosting! ” I went to thank her for the cake later in the day but she was crying and wouldn’t look at me. I really don’t know why, I was just trying to give her some advice.
Q: Rugby or Water? Pancakes or Prostititis?
Submitted on Twitter by @Attackofthe
A: When I first met my ex-girlfriend, the first thing I said to her was “I haven’t brushed my teeth today.” I actually haven’t brushed my teeth today either. When I initially saw the first of the two questions, I was definitely leaning toward water. But it’s turning out that I may not be as into water as I once thought I was. There was also that time when I almost drowned in the Lazy River at that amusement park. I’ve been scared to death of inner tubes ever since. Rugby wins by default. Now the second question is much easier. At first, I read the second choice as prostitutes. If that was the case, this would be one of the hardest decisions that I’ve ever had to make. Unfortunately, there is no prostitute option this time. I’m not too sure what prostititis is, but it reminds me of the word prostate which in turn reminds me of a prostate exam which brings to mind the words “trauma” and “nightmare.” My decision here is definitely pancakes.
Q: Is pro wrestling real?
Love, The Jasonites
A: Dream question! I really can’t believe it took this long for a pro wrestling question to be asked. I even had to set it up as clearly the best question on the poll and it still almost lost. But I assure you, you will be pleased with your selection. Is it real? Does this look fake to you!? Yeah, like the title of the video says, he killed him! Pro wrestling is so real that forty-five year old men have dedicated their entire lives to it. They tune in to every single program, cancel plans to watch it, and follow their favorite wrestlers around at the supermarket while screaming “wooooooo” at them. I don’t think they’d waste their lives like that on something fake. Some people complain that wrestling is too much like a soap opera. They argue that there’s too much drama and if they really wanted to beat each other up so badly, they would just do it instead of talking about it and putting on a show. This, to them, is proof that wrestling has to be fake. But guess what. Soap operas are super fucking realistic. Don’t tell me that you’ve never come into contact with an alien that was trying to rescue a crystal from your planet…or something. Just like I do with rap music, I have actual firsthand experience with professional wrestling. That’s right, you’re talking to an expert on the subject. I was a professional backyard/living room wrestler for at least five years of my life (yes, I do put that on my resume). I challenge you to go out and get smashed over the head repeatedly with a steel street sign and then have to hide it from your opponent under a “ring” made out of garbage picked mattresses and box springs because you are in so much pain that it is starting to burn all throughout your body for some reason. Or get body slammed onto crushed up CD cases that are made to look like glass and then have to pour fake blood all over your face. Ouch! Fake blood stings! Sounds pretty real to me.
That will do it for another fine edition of America’s favorite answer column. If this edition sucked, the blame can be placed solely on myself. I was provided with more questions than I’ve ever dreamed of. That being said, keep it up! You can get questions to me by commenting on this post, tweeting at me @YourPalJason, email me at JasonNotImaginary@gmail.com, or come up with something creative like sending me a singing telegram. If you could make the singing telegram guy swear in his song it would be even better. Like usual, I will leave you with an extremely important poll. The winning question will be addressed in the next Ask Jason.
Hello again. Is it that time of the month? Are your dreams at night 3 sizes too big? Have you ever loved a Doug? Does any of this make sense to you? It doesn’t? Oh? These are all examples of questions that I’d be happy to answer for you. Yes, even “Oh?” Remember, you can ask me anything and I will answer it. This edition of Ask Jason features a question on renting vs. buying, the age old Where’s Waldo debate and our
buddy least favorite person in the entire world Ralph pays us another visit. Sit back and enjoy the only answer column that gives you the answers you’re looking for.
Q: Dear Jason- After years of renting, I have been considering buying a house of my own. Do you think I should take the plunge and become a home owner?
A: Well here are some questions I’d like to ask you to help you determine if you are ready to become a home owner. Do you have to store your clothes up in the attic? Is your landlord a complete idiot? Does he tell you things and forget them within seconds? Did he promise to drop off homemade wine for you at least twenty times, forget to do it, ask you how the wine was and yell at you when you told him he never dropped it off? Does he start conversations with you by screaming the second you pick up the phone over something you had nothing to do with? Is he in cahoots with your insane downstairs neighbor? Does your downstairs neighbor send you texts at five in the morning that read something like this: “thou shalt not walk upon thine own floor with shoes secured around thy ankles once the clock strikes eleven?” If you answered yes to any of these questions, I think it’s time to buy a house. Just be prepared to spend all of your free time doing random shit like cutting weeds around your house with scissors and sweeping your driveway.
Q: Jason, we have spent a good twenty-seven years of our collective lives searching for that bastard Waldo. We need your help. You need to solve this mystery for us. Where’s Waldo!?
Love, The Jasonites
A: First of all, thank you to all of the Jasonites that voted in the latest poll, I was hoping you’d pick “Where’s Waldo?” because I have a lot to say about this topic. Why are we always searching so hard for Waldo and why is it so hard to find him? You would think a guy that hasn’t changed his clothes in twenty-plus years would be easy to locate based on smell alone. Speaking of those clothes, have you ever noticed how much of a hipster Waldo is? Those glasses, that beanie, the tight jeans and the striped shirt? All he was missing was a mustache. This guy was the ultimate hipster influence. You would think he would’ve checked in on FourSquare by now and helped us all out. But seriously, why can’t we find this guy? Is he a fugitive or a homeless junkie? Those are the only two groups of people that I know of that are this impossible to locate. Has anyone tried to page him? That might work. What about just asking him? Oh, right, you’d have to find him first. If all of this talk has you pissed off about not being able to find Waldo, you should play his NES video game. All you kids out there that whine about games like Final Fantasy being soooooo hard, why don’t you check out Where’s Waldo? But I have no idea where this douchebag could be. When I do find him, and trust me I will, I am going to hurt him.
Oh goodie! Our dear friend Ralph is back!
To Whom it May Concern;
Sorry for the grammatical errors, not everyone can have their mom proofread their stupid blog. Here is a question for you, why? Why do you write this garbage about your life? No one cares. Is it because you have no friends in real life? Perhaps scarring childhood experiences that left you in a bad place mentally, and you feel that you need to do this as therapy. Please explain.
P.S. Moustaches are for pussies.
I don’t care if you’re allowed to start a letter like that or not, I’m doing it. Speaking of having no friends in real life, didn’t I just see you the other day? Oh yeah, that’s right, you walked up to me and tried to pat me on the shoulder while saying hello. Luckily, I dodged your shoulder tap but I pretended I was doing the limbo just so I wouldn’t hurt your feelings. See! I’m a good person! Why do I write this garbage about my life? Good question Ralph. THAT’S A GREAT QUESTION RALPH! YOU ASSHOLE! I’M SCREAMING AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN RIGHT NOW AS I WRITE THIS BECAUSE I HATE YOU! AND I AUTOMATICALLY WIN THIS ARGUMENT FOR TODAY BECAUSE I’M TYPING LOUDER!!1!!!1 MAYBE I DON’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS IN “REAL” LIFE! BUT IN IMAGINARY LIFE, EVERYONE THAT COMES HERE IS MY FRIEND! I SHOULD CHALLENGE YOU TO A RAP BATTLE (foreshadowing) YOU NO GOOD BOZO! Actually, you know what Ralph? I’m not even mad. You could never make me mad. You can’t beat me. Not even at checkers, backgammon (which I’ve never even played) or Dominos (not sure if I’ve played that either). You definitely can’t beat me in an argument. Can’t wait to hear from you again!
P.S. If I had a mustache, it could kick your ass. Who’s the pussy now?
This concludes another fine edition of the only answer column that matters. Did you think that this edition sucked? Well that’s your own fault! Submit your questions! You can get them to me either by commenting on this post, sending an e-mail to JasonNotImaginary@gmail.com or by tweeting me @YourPalJason. There are several other ways that you can get a question to me that I’m sure you can figure out. Remember, you can ask anything.
Now, please take time out of your important life to answer this poll. Once again, the winning question will be addressed in the next Ask Jason: