I am always surprised and excited when Jeff asks me to participate in something. It’s like getting called up to the big leagues and I always want to create something of the highest quality. I want to write something that people will remember. Something that will make people laugh and cause them to forward links like crazy. Unfortunately, I usually end up writing about porn stars inserting produce into their rectums instead. Considering the fact that I am fully animated by sugar-free Red Bull at the moment, I think more of the same is the best I can hope for. Besides:
Things are weird for me right now. A month ago I was the City Administrator of a small Kansas City Suburb. I had the power to hire and fire…everyone who worked there pretty much had to do what I told them or else. I had both hands on the checkbook and enjoyed command and control of everything the municipality owned. I drank from a coffee mug given to me by the Glock Corporation as a token of their gratitude after I purchased a cache of weapons from them. I recommend buying things in the cache if you have the opportunity. Yes, I realize that cache means “concealed or hidden” and that no one really ever sold me a cache of anything, but it’s way more fun to order stuff that way. They’ll still deliver it, so go ahead and order a cache. You’ll feel like a third world dictator – only with functioning utilities.
By contrast, last night I worked from 10 pm until almost noon returning lost airline luggage to angry passengers. I no longer have any money. I have no power and the only cache I have is filled with porn. The weird thing is that it was totally voluntary. I chose to make this switch.
Like I said, things are pretty weird in my life right now – but I am getting used to it and parts of life are pretty cool, especially the things one encounters while delivering lost luggage in the middle of the night. I could write a complete book about the experiences I have had after just doing the job for a few weeks. Too bad my friend Marsha Clark has already called it. It’s probably better that way, she’s been delivering lost luggage for 30 years. If you happen to be a literary agent, email me and I’ll give you her number.
I do, however, have one simple request to make of the general public on behalf of all the lost luggage delivery drivers everywhere:
Put your fucking address on your house, asshole! Seriously, it takes like ten minutes. It is required by law in most communities and OH MY GOD YOU’RE A DICKHEAD!! Even with gps, I can’t tell exactly which house is yours, jagoff. I have spent more time walking around strange neighborhoods in the middle of the night than any person should. In the poor neighborhoods I am afraid I’ll get shot by the residents and in the rich neighborhoods I am afraid I’ll get shot by the cops. I walk briskly from house to house, trying to see if your neighbors are decent enough people to put numbers on their places so I can triangulate your fucking location. Every time I actually find one of these houses they should give me a damned orienteering merit badge, you selfish cock knob. I shuffle through your dewy grass praying that someday psychotic, sexually deviant clowns will kick in your door – giving you just enough time to call the cops before tying you up and repeatedly sodomizing you with menacingly-painted clown genitals and laughing maniacally while the cops drive in circles for hours searching for your numberless house, you lazy prick.
So anyway, when I finally do find your stupid house, you think you have the right to be a jerk about it because the airline lost your luggage. Guess what asshole? I didn’t lose your luggage. I returned it to you after completing your scavenger hunt of retardedness. You should a) tip me for bringing you your shit in the middle of the night and b) thank me for not hitting you with a sucker punch karate chop to the throat after you open the door. After all, you were the one that made me walk all over the neighborhood because you were too lazy to drive eight stupid nails. Remember this – I am the gold standard of lost luggage delivery drivers. I have an advanced degree, years of customer service experience and a clean criminal record. Very few of us can say that. So when you open the door, you might want to take a second before you step out into the light. And just for the record, if I come to your house and find you naked and sobbing from underneath psychotic, sexually deviant clowns – don’t expect me to help you.
Other than the realization that I am evidently borderline homicidal, I have also learned a thing or two about the human body. For example, driving a car for several hours straight for several days in a row does weird shit to you. Maybe I’ll get used to it after a few months, like getting one’s sea legs, but right now it is a crazy feeling. A few days ago I found myself 200 miles from home at 5:00 in the morning and I had been driving since 4:30 the afternoon before. Suddenly, the car felt like it started to go backwards. Going down a hill felt like going up. I turned on the radio and actually enjoyed the band Incubus. It was like bizarro world. I stopped and splashed some water on my face. It didn’t really do any good. I tried to get used to it and I let my mind wander. I was delirious.
I started thinking about a book I had just finished. It was Switch by Chip and Dan Heath (2010, Crown Business) – specifically the story of the Fataki campaign. Briefly, the Fataki campaign was aimed at young women in Africa (young like schoolgirls) who found themselves seduced by rich old men who provided things the girls couldn’t afford in exchange for sex and companionship. The campaign was designed to create the “creepy old man” (called Fatakis) phenomenon that exists in the United States in order to stop these women from falling prey to the AIDS-riddled African Hugh Hefners. I wondered why we didn’t take these touchy subjects head on in the United States. I quickly wrote an anti-pedophilia jingle while traveling in my floating car through rural Missouri. It went a little something like this:
Don’t stick anything in kids,
They generally dislike it and your cellmates hate it too.
Don’t stick anything in kids,
You’ll probably regret it when a biker’s fucking you.
They’ll tear your butthole out.
I thought it was pretty original until I realized that the first four lines were sung to the music of John Work’s 1907 spiritual “Go tell it on the Mountain” and the last line was from the Hokey Pokey (as in “that’s what it’s all about”). I loved it. I thought that it was simple and catchy enough that every pedophile might sing it before deciding to commit a crime and think better of it. I was going to produce it for you guys so you could hear it, but I got embarrassed and didn’t have enough time to do it properly.
I knew that this jingle was going to help kids across the country. I couldn’t forget it, so I kept singing it was I drove. Eventually, I adopted a Bozo the Clown voice with a Krusty the Clown laugh. I sang it over and over the rest of the way home. I stumbled into the door of my house and sang it to my wife. She looked down, slowly shook her head and said, “Oh my fucking God.” and walked away. I now know why a lot of single long-haul truckers are so nuts. Have a great day.
metten is a long-time friend of the Surf Report, and my former partner-in-crime at mockable.org. He and I have a lot of the same “issues” and tend to bond over them. I’ve known him for years, consider him to be one of my best friends, and yet we’ve never actually met. Weird, huh? -Jeff