the inconsiderate journey


This week’s travels took me to Pittsburgh, connecting through Baltimore. It was a last-minute trip, so the choices on connecting flights in the time crunch were fairly limited. I hopped a flight from STL to BWI and we got there on time, without incident. A two and a half hour layover was just enough time for me to grab a bite to eat at a decent restaurant just a short walk down the terminal.

The layover was decidedly uneventful, sans the mention of an excruciating soft jazz Christmas soundtrack. Boarding began. My “A-List Preferred” status with Southwest allowed me to board after the “elite upper echelon” Business Select passengers, but before the rest of the “common folk.” As with most full flights, we were advised by the flight attendants to find the first open overhead bin and the first available seat. I didn’t ignore my instructions. I dutifully followed the guidelines set by our airborne caretakers.

The first seat I found with an open bin above happened to be an aisle seat. I put my bag in the overhead bin and sat down quickly so the others behind me could do the same. I did not realize the person I had chosen to sit next to would prove to be quite the trainwreck. A self-centered trainwreck at that. She had put her obnoxiously large “purse” in the middle seat, and positioned herself in such a manner that she was leaning over into the middle seat. She was using this well-known tactic of making it look like the middle seat was unavailable, so she could have more elbow room. It was all for naught, as all she would have to do is sit there and act like herself.

She was keenly focused on the white glow of her cell phone, the contents of which seemingly making her sigh loudly and angrily every few seconds. Each breath intruding upon my own personal airspace one seat over came with the unmistakable odor of alcohol. I could only surmise that she had consumed about a gallon of wine before getting on this plane. Her clown-esque makeup and overall disheveled demeanor only served to bolster this assumption. I strained my neck around looking for other seats. It became evident that I was in a prime spot – near the front of the plane and on the aisle which would make for a quick de-plane in Pittsburgh. Disheartened but accepting of my fate, I uttered a quiet, “Oh well.” Immediately assuming that I meant an offense towards her, the woman blurted out, “WHAT!?!??” I didn’t bother acknowledging her outburst, but put on my headphones and focused my gaze on the movie on my tablet. I did however, keep the volume down low enough so that I could hear what else this disaster of a human being had to say.

Scheduled take-off time: 10:30pm

10:09pm: First utterance of “Jesus”

10:12pm: Second utterance: “Jesus, damn-it” while looking out window

10:16pm: Everyone boarded, doors about to be closed

10:16pm: “Jesus Christ” – apparently antsy that we’d not taken off yet, despite it being 14mins early

10:19pm: Flight attendants close door, begin safety announcements

10:19pm: “Assholes” – reacting to the flight attendants using humor to enliven the presentation

10:22pm: “Jesus fucking christ, come on.” (Still 8mins ahead of the scheduled departure)

Woman, still on her phone, obviously texting someone & getting madder, looking back & forth between the window and her phone. We had already been told to turn devices off or put into airplane mode.

10:25 – “jesus, come on.”

10:27 – “are we leaving today? jesus christ.”

10:31 – Plane pushing back from gate “unbelieveable”

10:33 – takeoff, up in the air, woman is still on her phone

I mostly ignored the woman for the rest of the 35 minute flight. I just turned up the volume and watched my movie. I certainly did not want to engage any interaction with her.

Upon landing, there is always a mad dash to get that seatbelt off and be the FIRST one up in the aisle, the FIRST one getting the bag down, and the FIR- oh, wait, everyone has to wait? Good thing I jumped up and grabbed my bag, only to be uncomfortably crowded, crotch-to-butt with complete strangers that have absolutely no concept of personal space. At this point, the woman was cheery, and even remarked to me, “Wow, you got up quick!” My instinct was to retort, “Yeah, I wanted to get the hell away from you,” but I just nodded, not wanting to spur any further interaction.

Everyone got off the plane without incident. The Calamity Show, as I’ve dubbed her at this point, continued her antics at the baggage claim carousel. Still focused on whatever text conversation that was enraging her earlier. Still muttering obscenities at random. (It was NOT Tourette’s – I know what that looks and sounds like). My own bag had just passed me on the carousel. I did not pick it up because the situation with CS had elevated itself to comical status. I wanted to see the rest of the show.

Sure enough, it continued. She eventually put away the phone so she could find her bags on the large metal device. The first bag she picked up was a rather large hard-shell metallic pink suitcase. She struggled with it and it nearly toppled her over as she drug it over and slammed it to the ground in front of her. I should also mention that she was exhibiting another quality of air travelers that I cannot stand. Those that go to the baggage claim and stand RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE CAROUSEL. They stand so close that those around them cannot get up to the rail and get their bags. It is common courtesy to stand back a few feet so others can see their bags and move around and get to them. Not this woman. She was one of those that think their bags are going to disappear if they aren’t snatched up the very second that they are recognized.

After she offloaded the pink monstrosity she still stood there, as if waiting for more. As if her giant purse and oversized suitcase weren’t enough. She apparently had more to claim. Meanwhile, my bag had gone around two more times. I needed to see this through. I needed to have another farcical story to tell and entertain the masses. Though, just as I was considering grabbing my bag on its third trip, “Excuse me!!” was the next outburst I heard. She had TWO more bags to get from the carousel, two medium sized duffle bags, only slightly smaller than the first monstrosity. She also struggled with those. She had been such an abrasive person to those around her that no one offered help. She managed to get the bags into a pile next to her. The next task was to search for a luggage cart. I have no idea why she didn’t think ahead and get a cart beforehand. I suppose she had to get the precious cargo off the big evil carousel before they all turned into pumpkins. I didn’t stick around to watch the abuse she was about to lay on the poor airport employees for not having a cart available within milliseconds of her claiming her entire closet from the metal conveyor belt.

I went about my business. I picked up my rental car and drove the fifty miles to my hotel. The following morning, I got my work done and was able to go out and get a steak & a beer at the end of the day. A minor celebration for getting things done in a timely manner and being able to go home the very next day.

The restaurant I chose was in close proximity to a mall. After enjoying a steak, potato, and a moderate thirty two ounces of Sam Adams, I parked closer to the mall and walked around a bit. Once I had enough of the heat, crowds, and lackluster Christmas music, I decided it was time to go back to the hotel and pack.

As I was leaving the mall, I saw someone I did not expect to ever see in three lifetimes, let alone less than twenty four hours later. It was the same catastrophe-addled woman I had just encountered the night before. I stopped dead in my tracks. I had to do a couple of double-takes before I was able to focus and figure out that it was indeed the exact same woman I had dealt with previously. I couldn’t believe it. I had flown into Pittsburgh and THEN drove fifty miles away. At some random time at some random shopping mall, I had run into this woman again! What made the situation even better was that she was being addressed by two security officers. I couldn’t make out exactly what was being said, but it was not calm. SHE was not calm, the officers were. She obviously got caught doing something, or her behavior got her in hot water and the situation was being handled by authorities. As I made my way outside, I realized I had inadvertently gone out the wrong exit. I was parked on the opposite side of the mall. I went back in, passed the shit-show, and straight through to the parking lot at the other side of the mall. I drove around to the entrance on the other side of the mall where she was, and by that point, the actual police had shown up. Calamity Woman, two security guards, and two Police Officers were all outside. I was in hysterics. I had the window down. As I drove past, she had to have heard me laughing, and she offered the one-finger salute before continuing whatever tirade she was bestowing upon the Police officers.

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Stubbed toe and chicken


I shouldn’t have even left the damn house today. Unfortunately, having a premonition that you’re going to have a shitty day, or simply being too tired due to lack of sleep are not valid excuses for missing a day of work. Don’t you dare get the inkling that I did not sit on the edge of my bed considering doing just that; because that’s exactly what I did.

I sat there begging and pleading my dumb brain to come up with some sort of elaborate ruse, some on-the-fly, little white lie to get me off the hook. I needed something to excuse me from going once more into the poisonous abyss called my workplace. I stared straight ahead in my not-enough-sleep fog long enough for my alarm clock to jump out of its nine minute snooze schedule and fracture the fiberglass cobwebs taking up residence just behind my eyeballs.

I can usually survive with little incident by getting about five hours of sleep. Sometimes, though, it seems that the entire world is conspiring against me in such an endeavor during the day. The main offenders are my neighbors. I have no qualms about stating that some of the people that live around my apartment are some of the most self-centered, socially oblivious and rude bunch of bastards I have ever encountered. Note that I say “some.” There are a select few that will actually offer a greeting, and/or interact with me when I do the same in passing. That sub sect also seems to understand and respect the fact that people around them may work schedules outside of their personal understanding. Most others will simply shoot back a look that subtly says, “who the fuck are you?” Loud car stereos blasting out the latest in pointless rap & bass, people having no ability to modulate the volume of their own voices right outside my bedroom window, and their inconsiderate visitors pounding on doors all attribute to my insomnia.

The distance from my bed to my bathroom is roughly sixteen feet. Lumbering about in my sleep deprived state proved to be a bit of an issue, making the short walk seem like an infinite treadmill loop. I wasn’t drunk; I wasn’t hung-over. I simply did not get enough sleep and was slightly unbalanced and bleary. Everything in this early evening Waltz of the Blue Danube was moving in slow motion. It was the only pace I could comprehend at the time. One would think that I could gain control of my motor skills at such a leisurely gait, but no. Not possible. Viewed from the outside, I was moving along at a normal clip; perhaps a bit too fast given my state at the time. Inside my molasses brain I was but a passenger, observing the shell of my body dance its staccato ballet, all the while inflicting quite-avoidable damage upon itself. I could only watch in terror as the smallest toe at the leading edge of my right foot deftly swung through the air, mere millimeters above the carpeted ground. I could hear the little guy screaming for all Earthly mercy just before the inevitable sickening thud. A mid-air collision had taken place, toe vs. dresser; whereupon a red shock wave of pain instantly shot up through the system and connected me, mind and body. That did the trick. No need for coffee today. I was now fully awake, hopping on one foot, howling out a string of expletives that would make the drunkest of shore-leave Sailors blush.

Fully angered by the day’s experiences thus far, I was forced to carry out my hygiene rituals in the most efficient manner possible. Rinse, shampoo, rinse, soap, rinse, towel-dry, comb hair, clean ears, shave, brush teeth, clean glasses, deodorant, clothes, done. No time or patience for any other miscellaneous extraneous thoughts or theories. I was focused on the immediate task. All manner of random genii normally contemplated during the shower ritual was forced out by the seething cauldron of anger, physical pain and the desire to just get this shit over with. I shuffled into the kitchen and made the fateful decision to pack a chicken pot pie for lunch. Why did I do this? Chicken pot pies are fucking delicious. The combination of vegetables, poultry and a creamy broth in a pie-like structure is a welcome mid-shift treat on cold winter nights like tonight. Had I known that the thing would eventually turn on me and bring me further down into the hell of an off-kilter day, I would have left the fucker to rot in the freezer.

Now dressed and with lunch assembled, it was time to suffer through the day’s next agony. The commute was about to begin. The events leading up to this point fail to match the frustration that builds within me in dealing with the unholy idiocy of others on the roads and highways around me. My daily commute should consist of a thirty minute pleasure cruise, allowing me to gather my thoughts for the day and likely listen to the cornucopia of music I have at my disposal. More often, though, it becomes mired in stoppages, slow-downs and adrenaline-pumping reactions to deficiencies in judgment on the parts of other drivers. Much to my pleasant surprise, the predicted angst was eased as the drive was smooth and uneventful. A to B in one fell swoop. Things could be looking up!

My arrival at work was equally uneventful. No trumpets, no fanfare signaling the triumphant return of a tenacious adventurer. I placed my carefully chosen lunch fare in the break room freezer, looking forward to the lunchtime delight in the hours to come. After a quick nod and “‘sup,” in the direction of the other employee, I was back at my desk ready to take on the fantastic monotony of the day. I had just over ten hours, then I would revel in the beauty of a three day weekend.

I went about my regular routine, answering phones, answering emails, carefully crafting email queries to others in the company. Often my wit and witticism is lost on those that I email, but I continue on with the hope that one day someone will catch on and realize that this shit is not as serious as it appears. Bits and bytes, zeroes and ones, Excel cells and tabs, Word typefaces and margins were flying about in front of me on my digital canvas. The data I had been processing for hours had apparently been conspiring against me in their hypnotic prance across my glowing screens. After a few short hours of performing this corporate promenade, I was beginning to fade. Eyelids, cranium drooping, I was losing the already wistful grip I had on consciousness. Before I knew it, I was involuntarily jolting myself awake, with some nonsensical bullshit repeated over and over on the monitor in front of me. It was prime time for a break. Prime time for some god damned chicken pot pie, water, and a cup of coffee. The simple things really do keep you going.

I retrieved my luncheon pie from the chilly depths of the freezer in the break room. I already knew the drill on how to cook these things in a microwave oven. However, I did double-check the instructions on the box, just in case the natural order of things had changed since I last had one of these. I didn’t want to fuck this up. I had been looking forward to this throughout all the tiresome events in the last several hours. Nine and one half minutes would be the prescribed length of time in the eleven hundred watt microwave. Yes, I verified how powerful the device was. Directions on the box specified cooking the pot pie to an internal temperature of one hundred sixty-five degrees, as measured by a food thermometer. “Fuck it,” I thought, “real men don’t need a thermometer for a pot pie.” I was going to be nuking this thing for damn near ten minutes; that would be good enough for me. Although, “real men” probably don’t treat a chicken pot pie as the highlight of their day either.

Like Rafiki presenting Simba for the first time, I offered forth my frozen entree to the gods of electronic ingenuity at MagicChef. Calmly, I entered the required time and pressed start on the microwave. My short culinary journey had begun. Including the advised “cool down” time, I was to be forking my way through a scrumptious chicken pot pie in just about one quarter of an hour.

I again felt the nature of my sleep deprivation rearing it’s ugly head. I walked around the office in attempts to get the blood flowing and perhaps increase my state of awareness. On my second meandering loop around the cubicles, the phone rang. I had high hopes that it would be a quick resolution. Those hopes were soon dashed when I heard the voice on the phone. It was an individual with a vehicular problem. This meant that I would have to spend several minutes gathering his details, then relay them via another phone call to our fleet support company. I was on hold with said support entity when I heard the most disheartening sound in the distance. It was the familiar final “beep beep beep,” of the ending countdown on the microwave. I’d heard it many times before, but none of those instances carried as much weight and helplessness as right now. I was on a perpetual hold, suffering through someone’s cruel joke of assigning mediocre eighties music as the on-hold tunes. The music you hear while on hold is supposed to ease frustration and possibly make the wait time seem to go by faster. Lionel Richie’s “Hello,” was certainly detrimental in this capacity and only added to my anxiety. I could hear the intermittent beep from the microwave, reminding me that the cooking was done and I had yet to open the door.

“Hello… is it me you’re looking for?” the song on the phone taunted.

Indeed, I was looking for something. I was looking for this endless phone call to reach a terminus so I could go proceed with my planned luncheon bliss. All I could picture was my now fully-cooked pot pie, dying of heat loss, with its only guardian being an easily-opened microwave door. I could hear it crying out for attention, in unison with the oven’s reminder beeps.

I finally spoke with a human being on the phone and fulfilled my duties. I wondered if he could sense the urgent but distraught nature of my voice, but I decided I didn’t care, in light of the main mission I was already on. After it was all said and done, the process took up thirty five minutes of my precious time. It was a painful twenty minute extension to the fifteen minute venture I had pinned all my gastric hopes and dreams upon.

I hustled into the break room, fully expecting my lunch to be grey, cold, sweaty and with a forlorn look of abandonment as if to say, “I was your only begotten chicken pot pie, why did you forsake me?” Much to my healthy amazement, that was not the case. It was still steaming! It was still hot! O great praise and adulation for the glorious radiation waves! They had bombarded my peas, carrots, chicken and frozen pie dough into a state of warmth and delight for my enjoyment and nutritional fulfillment! This was my chicken pot pie. There are many like it, but this one was mine.

I put it on a plate, gingerly stabbed the top crust with a plastic fork, and gathered my other accoutrements in preparation for a nice relaxing meal at my desk. Each footstep became a quick cadence to carry me to the ultimate goal I had fought so hard for.

The “Oh shit” moment came as I set everything down on my desk. The fork I had previously inserted in the delicacy had melted slightly, and was now hanging off the plate at a ninety degree angle. I was astounded. Even with the extra wait time, the pot pie was still a crucible of hellish heat! I had apparently under-estimated the incinerating prowess of the microwave. It was able to heat the pot pie and included cooking bowl to the extent that it would remarkably hold its heat during an extended cool-down period. My next course of action would be to deal with the heat that had been so angrily infused by the microwave. Working through my impatience at this point, I surgically opened the top of the pot pie and stirred it around a bit, in preparation to allow another ten minutes of cooling off. It was a grueling ten minutes. The steam rising from the bowl of flavor filled the area of my cubicle with a very pleasant aroma, rivaled only by the savory home cooking I experienced daily in my youth.

After waiting through the extended delay, a new fork was ceremoniously inserted. I gathered as many ingredients that would fit on a single fork-full and brought it slowly to my mouth, depositing its contents. This cheap plastic fork was fulfilling its destiny in serving as a conveyance of the most important chicken pot pie at that moment in history. The immediate satisfaction was instantly overpowered by immediate pain. Even after waiting for what seemed like an irresponsible amount of time, the pot pie that I had so lovingly prepared and doted upon, WAS STILL HOTTER THAN THE FUCKING FLAMES OF HADES ITSELF. I quickly spat it out and doused the offending oral immolation with my bottle of water. I sat there with mouth agape, pot pie filling and chicken dribbling down my chin and beard. The former contents strewn in a haphazard puddle on my desk. What a pitiful state.

Shock gave way to anger. I wanted to scream out with all the baneful ire I could muster, but I didn’t. I held back, not wanting to seem like a lunatic to the coworker across the room. I could see the comments in the near future, “Yeah, he sat there screaming at a chicken pot pie for ruining his life and everything they had together, then he took it outside and ran over it a few times in the parking lot.” It probably wouldn’t bode well for any prospective interactions I would have with him or other office mates.

Calmly, I collected my thoughts, cleaned myself and my desk. I proceeded to stir the ever-loving shit out of the pot pie. I was not going to let this obnoxious bastard get the best of me. Stirring and fanning, pensively sampling here and there. I eventually got the nefarious entree to an acceptable temperature and ate the rest of it without complications. A full hour after starting this grand adventure, I was left with a full stomach and a burned mouth. Also remaining was the empty microwaveable bowl with some baked-on bits of pie crust. I had ruminating thoughts of embarking on a country-wide tour, educating the public on the terrors of consuming microwaved chicken pot pies. I wanted also to take the empty bowl and mount it on a lance, as a warning to all future pot pies and their mouth-incinerating contents. Then sanity set in and I just threw it in the trash with an extra little “fuck you” for flair and purpose.

Also without complications was the rest of my work shift. I finished the day and returned home to quietly reflect on the day’s events. I began my three day weekend by getting a haircut and doing some laundry.

In closing, I would just like to offer this advice: If you wake up in a haze, be mindful of where you walk. If you stub your toe, for christ sake, don’t go to work and make a chicken pot pie. You might still have a shitty day, but at least you didn’t embody a lunatic that had a day ruined by a bruised toe and a burned mouth.

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Strange Tuesdays: The Saga of Morty & Betty


It started out as a typical Tuesday evening for me. I was entertaining a group of elderly at the retirement home with my repertoire of simple yet catchy guitar tunes. Morty stood up, walked right up to me and said, “Hey why dontcha play some of them Christmas tunes?” Of course I obliged with the typical Silent Night, Jingle Bells, Handel’s Messiah, etc…. I was right in the midst of a robust rendition of the song from the Charlie Brown Christmas special when Betty performed a little concertus interruptus of her own. She stood up and began pacing back & forth like a black bear wondering what to do before lunging at it’s prey. “I can’t find my nurse and I just soiled my diaper!” she blurted out. And, sure enough, she had indeed shat her adult absorbent undergarment. “Ok, ok Betty, I’m sure someone can find your nurse. Now please quiet down so the rest of these fine people can go on enjoying the seasonal musac,” I replied. Fearing that she had just embarrassed herself to the point of no return, she shuffled out of the room as fast as her little arthritic legs would carry her. Looking back on it, the whole episode really made me think. Sometimes if you just get into the season and really get into and enjoy the music that accompanies it, you tend to forget about your problems, as they just don’t seem as bad.

Alas, the music had to come to an end. As it neared eight o’clock I realized that it was getting pretty late in the evening for this crowd. I finished up with a sing-along version of Christmas in Killarney and bid all the people that were awake adieu. As I was packing up my gear, I noticed a very concerned visage on some of the orderlies. They were searching frantically for Betty. It seems as though Betty left the room and, quite simply, did not stop walking. She walked down the hall and encountered the emergency door. This emergency door had another purpose in addition to sounding a piercing alarm whenever it was opened. It was the door that the staff would exit through in order to sneak a cigarette now and then. The problem with that was that in order to open the door without setting off the alarm, one had to use an allen wrench in the access port on the side of the alarm to disable it. This had been done so many times that the alarm didn’t always get reactivated once the person had come back into the building. Thus the reason no one heard Betty slip through the door, and into the night. I figured the staff was doing everything their protocol dictated in order to find a lost resident, so I packed up my gear and left.

On the way home, I remembered that I was in desperate need of some ointment for a rather wicked rug burn I had received on my taint days earlier. (more on that later) It just so happened that I recalled this right as my vehicle was approaching the particular street the store was on. I pulled in and was driving towards the building when I saw someone that I had never in a thousand lifetimes thought I would see right there at that very moment. It was Betty. She was walking into the store, still hobbling as if she still had the deposit in her night drop. After several “what the” and “how the” utterances I found a parking spot and hurried inside. Priority number one: geesh ointment. Priority number two (heh heh): find Betty, call the home and get the rapscallion back safe & sound. Pausing only briefly in the ointment aisle for the skin-between-the-marble-bag-and-the-balloon-knot cream, I rushed around the store with the style and grace any speed walker with runny butt syndrome would envy. I could not find the woman. Up and down every aisle. From eggs to kosher salt, I looked over what I thought was every inch of the store. I eventually gave up. I did need to pay for my crotch flap salve so I went to the check-out line. As I was paying with my officially licensed Muppets Mastercard, I asked the cashier if she had seen an old woman wandering around with a bag of poo attached to her hind quarters. She looked at me as if I had three and half penises growing out of my face. I took that as a resounding “no” and proceeded on my walk of shame out the door. You know the walk- the one where you’re slowly walking step-by-step, looking at your receipt and wondering, “Jesus Christ, what the hell did I just spend all that money on?” I had just tossed the receipt in the trash can and looked up in time to see Betty already half-way across the parking lot. “Hey Betty!” I yelled out. But it was in vain due to the fact that she had dropped her hearing aids in the men’s room urinal at the home a week earlier. I was going to run after the car and save the day but I stopped when I actually recognized it. It was a 1970 Ford Fairlane. It was an unmistakable pea-green in color and had most of the undercarriage rusted off. I recognized it because I had seen it every Tuesday night for the last seven months, parked at the home. I figured someone there must have tracked her down and taken her back.

I never knew who owned the monstrosity, but I felt assured in the fact that it did belong to someone involved with the facility where Betty belonged. Indeed it was someone tied to the home. It found out the very next Tuesday that the crusty land yacht’s proud owner was none other than our friend Morty. The guy with the flacid hard-on for the Christmas music. Confused? I was at first, but then it all started to come together.

It had been a very busy and eventful week and the old folks’ home. Not only had Morty and Betty not been seen and presumed AWOL, but a nurse was fired and arrested on DVD piracy and drug charges. This employee that had been trusted to care for and protect the elderly had actually been taking advantage of their innocence and robbing them blind. She would wait until the residents were asleep, then sneak into their rooms, and pilfer any money, jewelry or other valuables. The most disturbingly disgusting and heinous detail is yet to be told. She had a fetish for old people. Old people knocking boots. Doing the hibbity-jibbity. The horizontal waltz. The ol’ slap and tickle. The- well you get the picture. How does this come in to play you ask? This sick freak and aberration of nature had known about a developing relationship between Morty and Betty for a few weeks. She sunk to a new low – planting a video camera in the bedroom of Morty. If you’ve read this far, I assume you know what the video camera captured on tape. I’m not going to describe it, as it makes me want to bleach my eyes and pour sulfuric acid on my crotch.

And now on to the piracy and drugs. (it all ties together, I swear) The nefarious attendant had quite the home-based business. In true entrepreneurial fashion, she found out what the public wanted and supplied it. Abusing her rental privileges at Blockbuster video, she rented movies, took them home, and mass-produced copies of them. She sold them online via eBay, through family and friends, and even at flea market swap meets. She had even extended this distribution channel to places as far away as Japan. The piracy and marketing was not limited to dvd’s from blockbuster. She also sold copies of the privacy-invading Morty & Betty video. This explains why Morty and Betty are such huge porn stars in the disgustingly huge underworld that is the Japanese porn business.

Morty had found out about the embarrassing home movie in his favorite restaurant, of all places. It was a Japanese restaurant only two blocks away from the facility. A blind eye was often turned to Morty as he slipped out just for a short while to get some Japanese food at the aforementioned eatery. He was right in the middle of his okonomiyaki when he noticed two of the kitchen staff, obviously Japanese, staring at him and laughing a bit. “What’re you sons-a-bitches laughing at?!” he questioned. No reply, as they simply went back to working. The hostess felt a little confused at the situation and went to talk to Morty. He explained that they were laughing and making him feel uncomfortable. She went in the back and interrogated the two jovial Japs. To her horror, the story of the video was revealed. Turning more shades of red than a baboon’s ass, she returned to the table with a dvd. On the cover of the dvd, it looked like someone was stuffing a turkey in preparation for a big thanksgiving dinner. But Morty knew better. He immediately recognized the Ecuador-shaped birthmark Betty has in a certain spot on her body. The enraged Morty stormed out of the restaurant, hopped in his road hazard, and began driving home at a breakneck pace of 23 miles per hour.

The model employee that she was, the nurse always stepped outside the home to smoke. Crack cocaine. In fact, Morty had caught her smoking the rock one afternoon. She had just inhaled the toxic fumes when Morty’s Fairlane came roaring into the parking lot. He side-swiped two cars and bent over a lamp post before he finally brought the behemoth to rest in a parking spot inches away from the druggie nurse. “What the hell’re you doing with that pipe?” he demanded, you’re smokin that crap cocaine aren’t ya!” While she was mortified 😉 to have been caught feeding her addiction at work, she was also angered by what she perceived as an invasion of privacy. “I know what you’ve been doing around here all along! I kept my mouth shut outta fear that you’d hire some goons to rough me up or something. But now, I’m mad! I know all about that goddamn video you made too!” Morty hollered. He stormed into the building like a Viking on a raid. He went right into Betty’s room and told her everything. “You jackass, can’t you see I’m knitting?” she retorted. Morty, now even angrier, replied with, “Come on woman! Get it together! Our bedsheet shenanigans have been watched by thousands of people!”

That’s when they hatched their plan. They knew I was coming that night to play music for the residents. They also knew that that sort of event bored the staff to tears, so they wouldn’t be as attentive as they should be. It was a perfect opportunity to escape this lunacy. And escape they did. While it looked like some sort of senile episode, it was nothing more than a cleverly devised scheme to divert attention and slip away. While everyone was worried about where Betty was, Morty had a job to do. He snuck into the area that housed the employee lockers, armed with a crowbar and a camera. Upon prying open the nurse’s locker, he found the motherload of illegal paraphernalia. Copied dvd’s, crack rocks, tons of jewelry, and of course, copies of the wrinkleporn. He took pictures of everything, then closed the locker. Everyone was still running around like beheaded chickens, so it was very easy for him to waltz out of the front door unhindered by orderlies. He drove down the street and picked up Betty in the store parking lot that they agreed upon previously. That’s when I saw them.

Morty actually still owned a cabin that sat on about ten acres of land. It was only three hours away from what they had just escaped, so they drove straight there. He had decided to keep the property a secret from his family, as he didn’t want the “the money-grubbing dirt bags” bickering over it when he would eventually expire. It was his own private sanctuary, in which he planned on spending the rest of his life with Betty. A few days went by before Morty realized that he had the pictures of dumbass’s locker. He sat at the table in the middle of the cabin for several minutes considering exactly what he would do. Not quite as elaborate a plan as their daring escape was, but a simple letter would be written. Morty agonized over exactly what he would write in the letter for hours. Then a stroke of genius hit him and he wrote the most epic letter he had ever written in his life. The text of the letter follows:

Dear Pleasant Pastures Retirement Home,
Your nurse is a crook.
You should fire her and have her arrested.

Morty Carruthers.

P.S. See enclosed pictures.

Morty and Betty decided that they would both go into town to mail the letter, seeing as how their lives were screwed up together. The held each others’ hand as they both dropped the letter into the mailbox, in hopes of closing a chapter of their lives together. Morty purposely took the long way home, winding through the hilly back roads around the cabin. Feeling like they had just saved the world, they were both on cloud nine returning to the cabin. Betty settled back into her knitting. Morty picked up the book he had been reading, 101 Ways to Keep Kids Off Your Lawn. Under the book was something that sent Morty into a tirade of expletives that would make 2 Live Crew blush. The pictures of the locker were there, on the table, silently mocking him. So, a second letter was written:

Dear Pleasant Pastures Retirement Home,

Your nurse is still a crook.
I didn’t put the goddamn pictures in the first letter.

Morty Carruthers

P.S. See enclosed pictures

The second letter was mailed, and the nurse’s fate sealed. Upon reading (both) letters, the director of the home immediately called the police and did away with the criminal in his midst. While an officer was still in his office, the director handed over the envelope that the letter arrived in. Contained in the postage cancellation was the zip code from which the letters were sent. Upon further investigation, it was found that there was property owned by a M. Carruthers in the county that the zip code was attached to. Four days after mailing the letters, Betty and Morty heard a knock on the front door of the cabin. It was the local police, accompanied by the director of the home. Morty let the pair in, and all four sat down at the table. Apologies spewed forth from the mouth of the director as he tried desperately to convince the two elders not to sue the company that housed them and allowed them to be robbed of their valuables and innocence. Morty piped up and said, “Listen here, bub. It’s not about money. I couldn’t care less about money or suing you or your company. It’s true, you might have had some sort of accountability in this messed up situation, but that’s just no concern of ours. I just hope that you’ve learned a lesson through all of this.” A quick reply was given, “Oh, yes sir! This has shown us that there needs to be a monumental amount of changes made to our facility and practices. Are you absolutely sure that there’s nothing we can do for you or provide you with?” Betty tapped Morty on the shoulder and the two whispered to each other briefly before nodding and turning there attention back to the impromptu meeting. “Well, there is one thing,” Morty said, “how about you bring that nice young fella here to play his Christmas music for us?”

I was flattered when the director came to me with this request. He said he’d take care of transportation and everything; they just wanted me to play Christmas tunes for them. You know, it just goes to show you, sometimes if you just get into the season and really get into and enjoy the music that accompanies it, you tend to forget about your problems, as they just don’t seem as bad.

Stories Comments Off on Strange Tuesdays: The Saga of Morty & Betty
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