Sunday, March 13, 2011

Maybe You Should Have Been Sniffing the Glue

I'm a creature of habit. I stop at the same convenience store everyday before work to grab a cup of coffee, maybe some smokes, whatever. As a result, I'm on a first name basis with most of the cashiers. This is always a double edged sword. On the plus side, I never have to go through the hassle of getting carded for cigarettes by some moron I'm probably old enough to have fathered. The down side is, of course, that this means I'm a regular customer and have lost the privilege of having them censor their conversations while I am at the counter fixing my coffee.

Today, as I was going through my routine, I was treated to a conversation that took place as one cashier screamed from the register to the other cashier that was in the office:

"Did you get it yet?"

"No." Very Long Pause. "Uh...I think I just super glued my fingers together."

"Oh my God! This one time, I super glued my hand to the floor and had to wait hours for someone to come home!"

First of all, any story that starts with "this one time" should be required by law to be followed with "at band camp". Because, your story, much like it's narrator, is a loser. Drain your spit valve and call it a day.

Secondly, what the fuck did you just say?

I spent the vast majority of my 8 hour shift pondering the physics behind gluing one's self to the floor. I have to be honest, I can't make it work.

Here is a bit of a personal aside about me; I hate to be sticky. Hate it with a phobia-like quality. When my children ask me to make pancakes, the only thought running through my head is that I will eventually have to touch the syrup bottle. You can have sex with whipped cream all you want...I'll pass. It sounds like something that requires a shower directly afterward, rather than laying in each others' arms.

So, I have to wonder, how do you cover your hand with the amount of super glue sufficient to glue yourself to the floor and not notice that your hand is covered in such a sticky substance? Even if you don't share my aversion to stickiness, how do you not realize you have a handful of glue?

Even better, how did you wind up with a handful of glue? This shit comes in the same tube as toothpaste. What the fuck does your bathroom look like after you brush your teeth? I mean...if you can't master the fine art of squeezing a tube and getting the fluid inside on the object you are aiming at...

Which brings us to: location, location, location. Why the floor? Who sits on the floor with a tube of super glue to repair an object? Don't you have a table and chair(s)? There wasn't a counter for you to stand at?

And, the mechanics involved in this operation... How did you leave your glue covered hand pressed against the floor long enough for super glue to set? I mean, that shit has a disclaimer on it to be used in a well ventilated area for a reason. Super glue will get you high, jackass.

And really, super glue comes in a tube about the size of your average asian guy's dick. What the fuck were you gluing that required the entire tube, most of which, obviously, landed on your hand? Because, it would take most of a tube to cover your hand sufficiently to allow you to glue yourself to the floor.

Now, don't get me wrong, I've done my share of stupid shit. Prior to shipping out for the Marine Corps, I got so drunk that I allowed a girl to hold her hand on my head as my friends (note that that is multiple) shaved around her appendage. The result was a haircut that would have made any mother scream. I still cringe when I recall the incident, and considering that I currently sport a mohawk, that's probably quite the statement.

Yet, I can't say that I've ever done anything as fucking retarded as gluing myself to the floor. In fact, if I had done anything that vapid, I doubt very much that I would publicize the information willingly. To be honest, such a story would likely require a massive amount of alchohol and some after-sex glow.

At any fuckers were lucky to get a blog tonight. I mean, we're losing an hours sleep tonight, for the sole purpose of boosting our failing economy and I have to work early.

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