“What Meat Do You Want?!”: Free Food, Electrocution, Camping, and Other Things That Don’t Normally Happen But Are Occurring This Week

I was having some kind of out of body experience yesterday morning.

It all began at 5 a.m., when Soldier Boy texted me because he was sitting in Maine on a lay over on the way back from his latest stint in Afghanistan. At the time, I was all sorts of disoriented – I could comprehend that the text was from him, but for the life of me, I couldn’t read what it said. I groaned, rolled over, and started dreaming of Werebears and unmitigated violence against cubicles.

Then my alarm rang, because it was two hours later and time to get up.

In the shower, I was so distracted I couldn’t remember if I had shampooed my hair. There was something off. Someone had tried to contact me, and I suspected it was Soldier Boy, but I was kind of creeped out because dreaming about your exs is just not kosher. Finally, soaking wet and frustrated, I picked up my iPhone and discovered this:

Soldier Boy: “I know its early and I foot expect a response but boo!”

Umm. Well, I certainly felt better about not being able to read the damn thing. It didn’t make any fucking sense. Homeboy was either drunk, or more tired than I was.

I texted him back.

We ended up launching into a text message conversation that lasted the entire length of my before-work routine, and nearly caused my unfortunate demise.

See, while holding the iPhone in one damp hand, and the blow dryer in the other, I tried to plug in the blow dryer and somehow ended up with my wet fingers on the prongs when they made contact with the socket. I have never made this mistake before, no matter how disoriented.

OH MY HOLY HAIR STYLING.

I don’t think I’ve ever been electrocuted. Except for that one time on purpose in high school science class for a lab project. I had zero idea of what was going on, except that my right hand had acquired some kind of spontaneous disease in which it fell asleep and was stabbed a million times with a million invisible needles.

3.7527 seconds later, I was like, Oh holy fucking hell, I am a retard, I JUST ELECTROCUTED MYSELF.

Quite the Monday-morning shocker, if I do say so myself. (Haha, I just realized I made a pun. Go me.)

If Monday sets the tone for the rest of the week, than me electrocuting myself makes quite a lot of sense.

See, this Friday, I, Blonde Beyonce, and Culture are hitting the road to potentially be murdered on a vacant lot two hours away from Los Angeles. We know this totally awesome volunteer from work and she invited us to go camping on the property she and her husband own north of Santa Barbara.

We were all like, Hell yeah, we’ll go camping with you awesome volunteer lady whom we all adore!

And then, last night, The Source is like, Wait, who the fuck are you going camping with?!

And we’re like, it’s cool, she’s really bad ass! And she’s going to set up the tents beforehand during the day, so we don’t have to set up in the dark on Friday night!

Which means, of course, that we have to drive up there ourselves in my ancient Mercedes which hit an astounding 200,000 miles last night.

Why in my old car? Well, because Culture’s car is less powerful than my once-top-of-the-line Mercedes and more likely to get stuck when we DRIVE ON A DIRT ROAD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TO RENDEZVOUS WITH OUR VOLUNTEER BUDDY!

Plus, apparently, when we get there, the only cell reception we will have will be in the ocean.

So, in summary: We are taking an old high mileage car onto an isolated dirt road after dark to meet a woman we barely know, and the only way we can contact the outside world is by running into the ocean with our cell phones.

This is turning into another one of those serial killer posts.

It’s all okay though, I’ve got a plan. In the case our buddy turns out to be a murderer who has lured us unsuspectingly onto several acres of vacant property to stab us and throw us into the Pacific Ocean, one of us will grab the tent stakes, while I get the car – we will fight her off while we get into the Mercedes, lock the doors, and then floor it into the ocean, where we will call 911 and turn my car into a boat by using the tent as a sail – because her large four wheel drive vehicle will surely destroy us and beat us to the highway if we try to make a run for it.

[Obviously, I will be the first to die, since I am inside the halfway submerged vehicle. If your car is sinking, you have to wait until the pressure is equalized (aka, your car is full of water) before you can open the door to escape. Not my best plan.]

Brittany and Crew, 1. Serial Killer, 0.

Please, don’t doubt my ability to stay calm in the face of danger or take on serious missions. I have the determination of a college kid on Adderall the night before a final exam. In fact, today, I was so determined to eat breakfast that Culture and I sprinted out of the office while yelling, “We’re on a secret mission! Be back later!” and rushed to Subway because they were giving out free breakfast sandwiches and coffee before 11 a.m.

And, if there’s any fact you should know about my town of residence, it’s that the homeless population is larger than the population of people with homes. This means, when Subway announces free food, the place is instantaneously transformed into a mental health ward that smells of toilet-bowl moonshine and sweat.

Culture and I didn’t care. We stood 6 inches behind Smelly Toothless McGee and got our free breakfast sandwiches. When the Subway lady yelled, “WHAT MEAT DO YOU WANT?” to Smelly, he replied, “Ghhhharrrrg, myyantabal jusrter nuts!” and we nodded our heads like, “Yeah, get that dude some jusrter nuts! I’ll have sausage!”

[This is the part where you're like, wait, doesn't this blogger work in a homeless shelter and shouldn't she be nicer in her portrayals of homeless people? Okay, look, if you worked with homeless dudes, you would understand that I am being very fair and accurate. Plus, I have a true fondness for these smelly nut jobs because I've kept their shopping carts from getting stolen. That's more than you can say.]

And that, my friends, is why I’m not going to get murdered this weekend.

P.S. Thanks to Soldier Boy's cousin for telling me that "What Meat Do You Want?" would be a good blog title. Because, truly, it is.

My Poetry is Sexier than Your Old Smelly Chotchkies

Every other Friday, my keepers let me out of the windowless dungeon that is my office and send me off to make money for them by working in the local volunteer-run thrift store.

I used to hate thrift stores.

The thought of paying money to wear the nasty, smelly old duds of some (probably) diabetic crotchety old lady with head lice made my gag reflexes act up. Now days, people use the word “vintage” in the same way they use “designer label” – like it’s a good thing. These people need mind enemas. The word vintage makes me think of urine-colored lace that reeks of mothballs.

However, working at the thrift shop has become a tiny beacon of light in the shitty dark tunnel of lameness that is my work week. It’s like being Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean – you’re locked up in jail, and then one fine day you’re busted out and you take to the high seas to look for buried treasure. And while I don’t get to carry a sword, I do get to battle completely bat shit crazy people and hunt for interesting loot.

When I say interesting, I mean the funkiest crap on the planet. Some of the stuff I’ve seen makes me wonder not why someone bought it, but how it was even manufactured in the first place.

Even better, the store is often teeming with loonies.

Looney type number one is the type of customer who smells like death and tries to get discounts on things that were only a dollar to begin with. They mostly live under bridges.

Looney number two comes from the super old volunteers who are on power trips because they’ve volunteered longer than other people. These crazy woman have become dictators of thrift – they ask you ridiculous things like, “Do you know how to properly use a hanger?” Shut it, grandma. I’m not retarded.

Well, anyway, I realized the other day that I had quite the little collection of camera phone shots of weird thrift store merchandise. And, what better way to express their complete and undeniable lameness than through haiku?!

Hence, my photo slash poetry essay on the high culture of thrifting:

Oh! Michael Jackson
Mated with a French hooker
On polyester.

Bedazzled denim
Once met a pink tutu
And never let go.

High School Musical
Was not about teen trannies
Or girls named Ryan.

Fairy salesman
Goes leaf to leaf with products –
Angel dust and meth.

This rusted razor
Promises sunbeams on your
Wrists, emo slut.

Bozo the clown was
A custom shirt, but is now
On the dollar rack.

Fred, the gay cowboy,
Loved his sequined get up –
And zoophilia.

Creepy siblings
Assault your eyes and brain,
Assault each other.

Stop staring at me
Alligator brown bear thing –
You got a boob job?

Roasted Piranha, Bum Rushing, and My Reassuring Declaration About Murdering a Homeless Guy With a Shovel

Cast of Characters (In Order of Appearance)

CRAZED DRUNKEN BUM: A man who will never truly understand how close I came to murdering him with a shovel, and burning his body in a fire pit on Cabrillo Beach.

CULTURE: Office mate, and Americorps VISTA sister.

HARLEM: Americorps VISTA sister and murderer of innocent wildlife.

BLONDE BEYONCé: Roommate, office mate, VISTA sister, and dessert fiend.

THE SOURCE: Roommate who was nearly burned alive by Harlem, and who would have run over Crazed Drunken Bum with her car if my shovel skills proved to be unworthy.

HONEY J: Roomate, VISTA sister, and quietest injured person ever. Does not fraternize well with boulders.

And Our Tale Begins…

Last night, I, the roomies, and/or my Americorps VISTA sisters decided to resurrect our bonfire tradition and hit Cabrillo Beach in the dead of night. We packed and purchased the necessary supplies – which included but was not limited to – a shovel, lighter fluid, skewers, wood, beer, an open bottle of Barefoot wine, my very dead friend Sir FrankenFish, my Pentax K-X, marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, and a blanket.

What we really should have brought was some raccoon repellant and mace.

If you know anything about our town of residence, you know it’s a whacked out little port city populated mostly by the criminally insane. Or something. But if you’re looking to meet up with some drunken bums, the beach after dark is a good place to be.

Which is exciting, because, you know, we all always wanted to be in a horror film where everyone gets murdered by a sputtering, slow-walking and obviously inebriated loon. Except for me, because I was the chick with the shovel, and I definitely announced several times that I was COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY WILLING to knock our stalker’s face off with our conveniently murder-of-a-full-grown-man-sized shovel.

Even more convenient, I could use said shovel to bury our drunken bum friend. Or I could have just burned his body in our bonfire.

God, I swear I’m not a murderer.

Anyway, upon our arrival to the beach, Culture, Harlem, and Blonde Beyoncé were immediately assaulted by a pair of bear-sized raccoons. Which was a pretty fitting start to the evening, I must say. However, I definitely would have put my money on Harlem in an all out raccoon battle, considering that she followed up the incident with the most disturbing raccoon-death story ever. This is the kind of story that makes me reevaluate our friendship.

See, Harlem and her brother found a raccoon in a trashcan one day during their childhood. And instead of running away like normal fucking children, they became convinced that it had rabies – because raccoons are nocturnal, and the only possibly explanation for the raccoon scavenging during daylight hours was rabies. Of course.

So Harlem’s brother tossed a cinder block in the trashcan on top of the poor creature. But it didn’t die. So like any normal children, they decided to put the animal out of its misery – by DUMPING A POT OF BOILING WATER ON IT.

And suddenly it becomes very clear that the drunken bums aren’t the problem. The problem is that I’m a friend to serial killers. Because I’m pretty sure cooking live raccoons is a sign of future homicidal tendencies. And I think this might be a little much for Bob the Pink Deer to handle.

Well, anyway, I decide to be extra cautious when it comes to Harlem. Which turned out to be an excellent decision when she mistook my roommate, The Source, for a vagrant and almost “bum rushed” her and threw her into a fire pit. Because, once again, the only solution to rabid bums is a horrible death by fire. Clearly.

It wasn’t all murder and mayhem. We did make s’mores, and Sir FrankenFish pulled up a chair, downed a bottle of wine, and snarfed up some charcoaled marshmallows.

And then he tried to go for a swim, but that was interrupted by Honey J tripping over some rocks and ending face down on the ground. Which was funny, because she took so long to get up – and didn’t respond to our inquires about her health – so we all thought she was kidding and started laughing. We are some SICK FUCKERS. She could have been dead, but I was too busy thinking, how funny, she looks like she’s mountain climbing horizontally. THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT REACTION TO INJURY, PEOPLE. I AM FRIENDS WITH SERIAL KILLERS AND ASSHOLES.

Anyway, this is where shit starts to get creepy – we are all enjoying the fire when a male figure in dark clothes starts wandering – no, stumbling – toward us.

I realize that my buddies are backing away from the fire, so I too begin to leave. The figure comes closer, and we all start screaming and running across the beach. He yells, “WHAT THE HELL!” at us, and we basically fall all over ourselves trying to collect our things and make a quick exit.

We escape to street level. But it was too easy.

The Source, Honey J, Blonde Beyoncé, and I get into our vehicle (shovel and booze in tow) and drive slowly next to Culture and Harlem as they walk to their car, so that we can defend their lives if any shit goes down.

And then we see him.

CRAZY STUMBLY DRUNK BUM IS STANDING DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FOR CULTURE’S CAR!

And we start screaming our asses off.

Sadly, because we are assholes and nobody ever believes assholes, Culture and Harlem told us to shut up and stop fucking with them. The Source had stopped her car between theirs and the deranged bum, and I informed everyone that it was no big thing, because I was totally and completely willing to get the fuck up out the car and smack the homeless bitch with my fifty-pound shovel. Meanwhile, The Source was preparing to run the fucker down with her car if he took a step closer. In hindsight, my shovel antics were unnecessary, because she totally would have gotten to the bum first. And promptly killed him, without all the bashing and skull cracking.

But, anyway, Culture and Harlem are taking a damn long time getting into their car because they think we are messing with their heads here, but I’m sure they wouldn’t have felt that way if they had seen the mutha fucking death grip I had on that shovel!!

And, from across the street, comes a startling yell:

“GIVE ME A RIDE!”

Culture and Harlem’s eyes bug out of their heads, and they fling the doors open, leap inside, and – I’m sure – hit all the locks. Both cars of scared shitless girls go flying around the corner onto Pacific Avenue, and a collective sigh of relief is heard.

And that, my friends, is how we cheated death.

I Swear to Prevent the Decapitation of Giraffes and Provide Sandwiches to Those Who Lick Crack Off Dirty Socks (and You Should Too)

Today at work we were holding a homeless census count – which basically means that you bribe a bunch of bums with sandwiches, socks, and McDonald’s gift certificates to fill out paperwork. Some of the staff even went so far as to drive around town picking up homeless people in their cars and bringing them back to our office. To me, this seems a little dangerous and unnecessary. I’m all for giving hungry people sandwiches, but it doesn’t mean I want to put a possibly unstable ex-crack addict in my passenger seat. But that’s just me being prejudiced against people without houses. Which is stupid, considering I need 3 roommates to afford my apartment. Hell, I’m practically almost a homeless person. I’m just a few snorts of blow away from living under a bridge – wait, do you snort blow? What is blow? Cocaine, right? – so I really shouldn’t judge. But you should really give me a sandwich and the census (in that order) if you see me licking crack off a dirty sock. Because that would make you a good friend and a decent fucking human being.

And just to prove that I, too, am a decent human being in the face of people who lick crack off dirty laundry and think they can talk to aliens, I babysat the grocery cart of a homeless man while he filled out the census and collected his sandwich. (Well, okay, I stood where I had been standing for the past hour, and casually glanced in the direction of said parked shopping cart every so often, because really, who is going to steal a cart full of smelly plastic bottles? I mean, there was a higher chance than usual of that happening – we were inviting bums off the street to partake in our festive census activities. So there. I kept a homeless dude’s cart from being commandeered by other homeless people. I’m a good person, dammit.)

Well, anyway, during the defense of the grocery cart against an army of unfortunates, my office mate decided to tell us a little story about a field trip she once took.

And I cannot get it out of my head, so I thought I’d share it. Because holy shiz, it could have been so much worse.

So, said office mate played chaperone to her much younger cousin’s school field trip a few years back. The school sent a group of 4 year olds on a “safari” through a wildlife center – Wild Animal Safari in Pine Mountain, Georgia – which apparently supplied the children with cups of animal food. The kids sat on a bus, which drove through the park, and were supposed to be feeding the animals out the bus window.

First of all, this whole premise sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen. Toddlers? Wild animals? Food?!

I can tell you first hand that the aggressiveness of animals in captivity when they are surrounded by tourists with food is often traumatizing to children. I still love telling the story of my family’s last big road trip – to Arizona, to see the Grand Canyon. On the way back to California, my brother and I grew ecstatic upon spotting a “Deer Farm, Next Exit” sign. My sap of a father was dumb enough to pull off the highway and buy us each a cup of deer pellets (for some astronomical price, I’m sure) and send us in to meet the deer.

As a smaller-than-usual elementary school student, facing down a herd of ravenous deer became immediately terrifying. They literally charged in our direction. My theory is that these deer had only a sole source of sustenance – the pellets brought in by idiot tourists. I let out a scream, and my younger brother – who was equally terrified – threw the contents of his deer pellet cup into the air and ran, full tilt, out of the enclosure. I followed – hell, there was no way I was going to get trampled by a squad of antlered beasts – and we quickly locked ourselves into the main pen, which was conveniently full of hungry goats.

Believe me, getting our shoe laces eaten by goats was preferable to feeding a herd of starved deer.

[ This is a photo from The Grand Canyon Deer Farm website, and it is a BLATANT LIE. They probably shot this deer with a stun gun before this picture was taken. The site states, “At the Deer Farm you don’t just look at the deer, you walk among them, you touch them, you let them eat right from your hand.” Yeah, and you let them MAUL YOU.]

Well, anyway, I always thought that was a good child-versus-animal story until I heard my co-work’s safari tale.

Apparently, the 4 year olds were completely horrified by the safari as a whole. But the panic came to a raging head when a giraffe stuck its head inside the bus.

As a small child, I believe that having an animal with a tongue about the length of my body take food right out of my hands would be horrible enough in and of itself. But the inevitable trauma does not stop there.

No, in fact, it was near the end of the tour, and the bus driver was blatantly unaware that the giraffe that had its whole fucking head inside the vehicle. He probably mistook the stunned silence of children close to terrified tears as the silence that comes with contentment. But if he were smart, he’d know that 4 year olds are never quiet!

So he stepped on the gas.

This was the point in the narrative where I was all like screaming, NO HE DIDN’T DECAPITATE A GIRAFFE IN FRONT OF A BUS FULL OF 4 YEAR OLDS!!

Well, relax. Release that breath you’ve been holding. He didn’t.

Luckily, my office mate is a kick ass chaperone, and she started yelling to the driver to stop chopping off the head of the giraffe with the bus window. Or something shorter and more urgent sounding. Apparently the giraffe uttered a few disgruntled choking sounds (it was behind a gate and couldn’t follow the bus – yes, that’s right, it totally would have been beheaded. As in, its fifty pound noggin would have totally fallen on some kid and knocked them unconscious. Can you imagine being the kid who got knocked out by a bloody giraffe head?! I’m pretty sure that shit stays with you the rest of your sad, animal-hating life) but no permanent damage was done to the giraffe (I don’t know about the children).

So, kudos to my kick butt VISTA sister who saved a bus full of children from severe emotional distress, their parents from paying thousands of dollars in therapy bills to repair the damage, the bus driver from losing his job, and the giraffe from losing its head. Because a giraffe without a head would be super awkward looking.

You’re an American hero.

This dramatic retelling is completely my work and I take full responsibly for any errors or gross exaggerations.