Gray Sunday

Adidas catches me at a weak moment. He'd popped his swollen hawk face into the room and said they were cutting us loose, 'right now'. 
A twelve hr furlough just became 12hrs and 45 minutes, something about chronological chaos and the hours trading places - daylight whatevers and in my jubilation I agreed to XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The questions and commentary are non-stop as they fall out of his constantly gaped mouth. He doesn't actually form words but allows some type of verbal flatulence to escape his pie and junk food hole.
He won't shut up.
He won't shut up.










He won't shut up.

 It's like waking up and soon coming to the ugly hangover that's just about to kick in as the last bit of buzz leaves you naked and shivering. 
This will not be a habit (XXXXXXXXXXX) and I'll express as much to him tonight when he is sure to think that somehow we are peers or comrades or...

He insisted on giving me five bucks if I'd allow him to run in the house and make change, I won't allow it, I just want to get the fuck away from  him XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He's a big shot, he says him and his brother own a lot of properties, in fact they're now about to 'invest' in a dozen, who knows, maybe more, 'upscale homes' - he's talking 60-70k, estates no less - he says he can get me some work, cash work, he'll square it with the jail staff, he went to school with a bunch of them , he's been here 8-9 times etc vomit. 
He says that his brother knows me and that I have a 'solid reputation'. 
Obviously his brother is lost in ignorance.

He tells me he has 17 guys working for him, he's got this and that and XXXXXXXX because, you know, his mom wasn't coming until 8 o'clock because that's when we we're supposed to get cut.

Get out of my head you pile of urges.

No such luck.
Earlier he was shoveling generic cocoa puffs and 2% with his face 12"s from the screen watching kid-you-fucking-not Soul Train. 
It's on every morning he says.
 I'm not usually up and just hanging out. I (usually)get up 4 minutes before it's time to leave for work but I'm caught up in the vortex of time-change and so I've showered, had a decaf green/white tea and  cherry Poptarts (not my favorite but I've made my bed and now must lie in cherry Poptart crumbs). Steak and eggs is for the elite class. Then it pops in my head for just a minute out of nowhere - Jeff Foxworthy is blue collar? What the fuck does JF know about...never mind.

Anyway, the whole mornings been a whirlwind since I was interrupted in pod 2, busily scribbling what was somehow morphing into pseudo-poetry 
 (what poetry isn't pseudo-something better? poetry is a writers way of saying, "I can't get my shit together, see what you make of this.") 

- inspired by the abomination that is infomercials which is really all for the most part everything on the fucking...

 [Except the other night I caught a documentary about banjo, 'Give me the banjo" to be exact. Woody Guthrie is mentioned and happens to be (WG) one of only five biographies I ever read(unless you count a bio on the Marx Bros collective and then which there have been 3 more and I never count the 'other' bros because you know why) by the middle of the Guthrie bio I despised him and by the end I was him.
And I also caught in the WG book the first notion that Dylan was more of an opportunist then people might think (actually this is the second, the first being his crooning for Victoria's Secret several years ago and so the following second was actually the third) the second was from Dylan himself in his auto-bio wherein he also relates that all that cowboy shit he cranked out in the seventies was indeed 'shit I flung against the wall and stuck, then went back scraped the floor and imprinted the really bad watery stuff' (paraphrased, but more than less the exact quote) he didn't want to be apart of a revolution (meet a few 'revolutionaries' and you won't either) he just wanted to make music. The honesty was appreciated and so I kept him]


Jail Update: 
Bleacher is gone, outta here. 
New guy (boring, so you know, not mentioned earlier) got walked (sent over to the main jail. Friday night) for some violation I'm only casually interested in knowing and therefore have no idea.

Three more came in . 
I don't think I have to tell you, this is not pleasing to myself but at least I have somethings more to complain about. 

Cedric The Oxygen Tank Inhaler was walked as well, something about him being a loud mouth. There is sanity amongst the rank and file after all.

One of the new guys asks another if he wants to play pool. Yes, there's a god damn pool table in here.
 I'm trying to take in the history of banjo and the new guys think it's time to start cracking balls.
 In my twisted interpretation they're exactly right. 
Fortunately they have not four quarters between them . Tweedleduh stands gape-mouthed while Tweedledouche is inspired to interrupt me for a quarter.

"Do you have a quarter for two dimes and a nickle?"

I look up and say, what? but like, you are not asking me to help you two retards play cocks and balls are you?
  Game aborted.




oN tHE jOB:
Jeffery-Jeffro-Jimmy-Joe-Jackass-Jr. 
He prefers 'Jr'. This is his truck window.

I mention to Dick(in name and character), one of the sales people, that if I were a person of a certain hue and pulled into the parking lot and looked up to see 'Jr' the new warehouse guy's ford truck with a gunless rack I'd put it in reverse and spend my floor covering money anywhere else that has enough sense not to let a moron employee park his piece of shit rebel-yell next to their carpet store.

Dickard (yet another bastardization of Richard) launches into the weak but well worn ass-vomit about the flag 's 'true history' I say it's entirely bullshit, that I bet all the booze in his cabinet at home (it's all he spends his money on, he drinks like a scary hermit with tell-tale hearts beneath each floorboard) that dumb fuck Jr is not interested or even aware of the 'history' and is wholly unprepared to be engaged in a conversation pertaining to states rights.

 He says it's just a flag, a flag can't be racist. I say a cross is just a cross it can't save the world I don't care what you nail to it and if I set it on fire in my yard I couldn't say well, I like a good vertical  fire in the fall.

 I tell him I can't put a swastika on my hat and walk around claiming that I'm just a big fan of  Greco-Roman antiquity and I can't show up at the Hillel with my 'historical' interest symbol and expect the folks to let me in to measure for new wall to wall.
 I tell him it's okay, it's not a crime to be a racist, then walk off.
The old goat stands up  and hollers, "you don't know the history" and I shout back across the showroom that I do in fact 'know the history' and that you don't need to be as old as dirt to know history and if he hassles me about irrelevant details in my measures for his customers I'm going to bury him in historical detail of the entire place.,


The manager pulls me aside the next day, says we need to go over a few things about my measures and Dickards (feigned) confusion when it comes to certain details, no big deal he says, just so 'we're all on the same page'.

Full detail:

This is the page we are all on now.