P-Mobile

I came home Friday and found a FedEx package had been left on my patio. It was from the HR Department of a local corporation. I opened the package to find a job offer – an offer that greatly exceeded my current salary, and included a $5k signing bonus. There was just one problem – I never interviewed with the company.

I had applied for a position with the company several weeks ago, but not for the position of Validation Engineer. I don’t even know what that means.

After consulting with several drunks over the weekend, it was decided that I should accept the offer. Yeah, I know most people would have called the HR contact whose business card was included in the packet. But I’m not most people. And besides, I still held a glimmer of hope that the offer was based solely on my application.

The offer stated that I had to return all paperwork by today, so I signed the contract, and completed the tax forms. I walked into the company this morning and asked to speak with my HR contact.

I introduced myself as she walked into the lobby, and told her that I had decided to accept their offer. She began to fumble through my paperwork with a blank stare on her face. I got the feeling she had already noticed her mistake, but decided to stick to my game plan.

“When do I take the drug test?” I asked.

“Did you speak with Tammy?”

“Who’s Tammy?”

“She’s out of the office today, but leave your phone number and we’ll get back to you.”

“Okee doke,” I said as I handed her my phone number on a sticky note.

I received a follow up call within 30 minutes.

“I think we have a serious problem here,” she said.

“How so?” I asked.

“It seems we sent this job offer to the wrong person.”

“You mean I don’t have the job?” I replied.

“Did you ever interview with us?”

“I can’t really remember. I’ve been through so many interviews lately.”

“Do you even know what an Validation Engineer is?”

“Not really, but it’s probably something I can learn.”

“One of the job requirements is a Master’s Degree in Engineering.”

“Man, you would think the job would pay better.”

“Well, I’m sorry. But we made a mistake.”

“I’ll say. I just gave my 2-week notice to my current employer this morning.”

“I can call them if you want.”

“That’s not going to cut it. I’m without a job now thanks to your mistake. You need to speak with one of your superiors to see what can be done about this. In the meantime, I’m going to contact my attorney.”

“Okay,” she said, and hung up the phone.

I had an email waiting when I got home tonight with ‘Formal Notification’ written in the subject line. She had obviously gotten their attorney involved because the message contained words that someone who sends job offers to the wrong people wouldn’t normally use.

I have no plans to reply to her email.

If ya give this man a ride, sweet memory will die.

When I first discovered internet gambling, I got the same feeling Crowe Dog did after hearing Lance Bass was gay – “So you’re telling me there’s a chance.”

I would rush home from work, make myself a White Russian (I had just watched The Big Lebowski), print out the Daily Racing Form, and click the horse racing tab on my favorite gambling site.

One night, I was watching a race from a live feed, and noticed the same race was still open for betting.

So I decided to test my theory. I watched the next race finish, and then placed a $10 exacta with the winning numbers. The website accepted my bet, and fifteen minutes later, the winnings were added to my account.

Jackpot!

I placed small exacta wagers the rest of the evening after watching races from around the country. All of my bets were accepted – and paid. I went to bed with my account balance over $2,700.

I came home after happy hour a few days later to find the site had left the last five races open from Louisiana Downs. I quickly went to another site that provided horse racing results. I wrote down the last five at LaD, and placed $10 straight trifecta bets with the winning combinations.

For those not familiar with horse wagering, a trifecta is a bet in which the bettor must select the first three finishers in exact order. In other words, I have a better chance of a snagging a threesome with Jessica Alba and Jennifer Anniston than hitting five trifectas in a row.

I went to bed (passed out) after placing the bets, and awoke the next morning with a huge boner. Don’t kid yourself about the reference to my penis. It had nothing to do with horse racing. I wake up that way every morning, and just like talking about it.

My account balance was now over $13,000! Okay, I admit that did cause a boner. I tried placing a bet on a football game, but received a message that I needed to call customer service.

When I called I was immediately transferred to a manger. I think his name was Lou.

“Looks like you had some kind of night,” he said.

“Yeah, I was on a roll,” I replied.

“I think we both know what happened, don’t we?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you hit five straight trifectas in row?”

“Like I said, I was on a roll.”

He paused for a few seconds as I listened to clicks being made on a keyboard in the background.

“Are you on our website right now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Can you see your account balance?”

“Yes.”

“Hit your Refresh button.”

And like that, my balance of over $13,000 was reduced to $0.

“Do you have anymore questions for me?” he asked.

“Yeah, what time is the first post at Keeneland today?”

I got the horse right here. The name is Paul Revere. And here’s a guy that says that the weather’s clear. Can do, can do, this guy says the horse can do.

30-pack abs

I can sometimes be a bit immature. Shocker. Late one night, I took a few complimentary candy bars from the gift shop at a local hotel. And by one night, I mean the statute of limitations has expired.

I had a long walk home – I was hungry – and there wasn’t an employee in sight. Well, at least there wasn’t when I walked in. But there was one waiting for me when I walked out.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yeah, I need to charge these to my room,” I replied holding a handful of goodies.

“No problem. What’s your room number?”

“212,” I quickly responded.

“What’s your last name?”

“Johnson.”

She typed the room number into the computer and said, “I’m sorry, but that room number is registered under a different name.”

“Oh, it must be under my buddy’s name.”

At this point, I thought about running out the door.

“That’s okay,” she said as she put the receipt on the counter, “Just sign here.”

“Okee dokee.”

I scribbled ‘Tim Johnson’, walked down the hall and exited through a side door – leaving a trail of wrappers in my wake.

Who can take tomorrow, dip it in a dream.

Several years ago I had a landline telephone number that was nearly identical to that of the Dodge dealership across the street. I think they were the same except for the last number.

By the way kids, people used to have telephones that were connected to a jack in the wall. You can Google it if you want, but I’m going to include a chapter on this topic in the book I’m writing: Electronics for Dummies – How to get your TV to work without plugging in that cable thingy (and more do-it-yourself tips).

Anyway, I was constantly receiving wrong number calls. One Saturday I received a call and decided enough was enough.

“Is this the Dodge dealership?” asked the man when I answered the phone.

“Yeah, how can I help you?” I replied.

“Can you transfer me to the service department?”

“No problem.”

I took a few sips from my pork chop in a can, altered my voice, and said, “Service department, can I help you?”

“This is Bart Bishop, and I’m calling to see if my car is ready.”

“Hold on,” I told him.

I held the phone in the air, scratched my nuts, and after 30 seconds or so, replied, “Nope.”

“But you told me it would be ready today,” he explained.

“And now I’m telling you it’s not.”

“This is total bullsh*t! We’re supposed to leave on vacation tomorrow. Let me talk to the manager.”

“You’re talking to him, big guy. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about your vacation because we’re ass-deep in alligators here. But we do have a rental car desk in the lobby if you’re interested.”

“I’m coming up there right now and you better have the keys to my car.”

“No problem, meat smack. Make sure you ask for the service manager.”

I thought about walking over there to see what happened. But I was watching college football, and rooting for a back door cover on a 3-team parlay.

I’m beginning to think, Baby you don’t know.

Happy Birthday, Tom. 

I received a call around 10:30 on the night of December 18, 2004. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t answered it because drunk Tom was on the other end.

“Benny Boy, meet me at my place in five minutes,” he said.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“We’re going to the Bottleneck Blues Bar at Ameristar.”

“Giggety, giggety, giggety. I’ll see you in five.”

His call couldn’t have come at a better time. I was trapped in some whacko chick’s apartment at Melrose Place. She was spinning vinyl records, and trying to convince me to play backgammon. Nut job. I pretended the call was an emergency, and got out of there faster than Jesse Jackson leaving the set of Fox News.

When I got to Tom’s, I met his girlfriend, but there seemed to be some tension in the air. They had spent the evening at his company Christmas Party. She hadn’t had a drop to drink, and agreed to drive our drunk asses across the river.

As we got on the road, Tom turned to her from the passenger side and said, “I just don’t understand why you’re so mad.”

“I’m not having this conversation in front of your friend,” she replied as she gave me a quick glance in the rear-view mirror.

Five minutes of silence passed when Tom went at her again. ”Why don’t you just tell me what I did?”

“Fine,” she responded. “If you want to have this conversation now, let’s do it. I don’t appreciate being invited to your company party, and then watch you hit on the bartender.”

“I handed her a 20-dollar bill for a tip.” 

“You wrote your phone number on it!”

Akward.

I bolted from the car once we got to the casino. I turned around to find Tom still arguing his case. He looked like he was going to be there for a while, so I ducked into a bar.

Almost an hour passed, and no sign of Tom. No phone call. Nothing. Suddenly, I heard my name being paged over the loud speaker to meet my party in the poker room. “Tom doesn’t play poker,” I said to myself.

“Where’s your poker room?” I asked an employee.

“Take the elevator to the second floor, and it’s down the hallway on the left.”

I walked off the elevator, turned left, and saw Tom sitting in a wheelchair with two security guards standing behind him. I would later learn that he found the abandoned wheelchair next to a slot machine, and started pushing himself around the casino. He eventually got tired, passed out, and accepted the security guards’ offer of assistance.

They were at the far end of the hallway, but close enough that I could see the smirk on Tom’s face. I decided that I didn’t want any part of whatever he was up to, so I turned around and started walking back to the elevator.

“Sir, don’t you want to help your friend?” one of the guards yelled.

I just gave them a half-hearted wave good-bye, and went downstairs.

I decided to give Tom five minutes to get his act together, and waited in an open area on the main floor between the gaming tables and the elevator. A few minutes later, the doors opened, and here came Tom – still being pushed in the wheelchair by security – and still smirking.

The guards gave me a look like I was the worst person in the world. “Do you think you can take care of your friend from here, or is that asking too much?” one of them inquired.

“Leave him here.”

An argument ensued when Tom tried to convince me to push him to the bar. After I refused, he hurled himself out of the wheelchair and started yelling, “Benny, Benny, help me up!”

I stood there stunned as he began pulling his body towards the chair using only his arms to propel himself across the floor. Now the casino patrons were looking at me like I was the worst person in the world. I left the scene, but saw a few people helping him back into the wheelchair when I turned around.

I walked outside to the valet, and asked him to hail a cab. It took a few minutes, but I noticed the red and white colors of a County Cab on the horizon coming towards me. As it got closer, I heard a couple of loud crashing noises. I knew I shouldn’t look, but couldn’t help myself. Tom had straightened out the right leg of the wheelchair, and was trying to push himself through the revolving doors.

When I got into the cab, he left the chair stuck inside, and jumped into the back seat of the cab next to me.

“The cab ride’s on me tonight” he said.

“Ya think?”

Won’t you fill up the tank, let’s go for a ride.

Google is no longer providing advertisements to the SOB website. Their decision is explained below:

As stated in our program policies, AdSense publishers are not permitted to place Google ads on pages with adult or mature content.

As a result, we have disabled ad serving to the site.

WTF?

SOBs don’t click on their links anyway. What we need are actual sponsors - like Chico’s Bail Bonds in Bad News Bears.

But their email reminded me of a funny story from college.

I had only known my roommate a few hours when he took me to my first fraternity party. He was a sophomore, and was catching a lot of grief from his buddies because it had been a while since he got stinky on his pinky.

I left the party with a voluptuous Gamma Phi whose name escapes me. And by escapes, I mean I probably didn’t know it that night either.

We got Funky Cold Medina behind the bushes outside her sorority house. When the deal was done, I hopped up, and ran back to the dorm because I couldn’t wait to tell my new roomie about it.

He was asleep when I got there, so I strategically placed my fingers in a closed peace sign position underneath his nose and said, “You recognize that smell little fellar?”

“WTF are you doing?” he asked as he raised his head off the pillow.

“Just letting you know that everything’s going to be alright.”

My baby she like to rock. My baby she like to roll.

My coffee cartel was exposed this morning. You see, I’ve been using the hotel down the street as my own personal Starbucks for years. A few times a week I would enter the property through a guest entrance, take the elevator to the lobby, and grab a complimentary cup of coffee and a USA Today.

And three times a week I will require a cannoli.

But this morning the manager noticed a golf shirt I was wearing from a course in Las Vegas, and started a conversation about how he once played there. Unless I somehow convince him that I’m Howard Hughes, I’m going to keep it on the DL for a while.

I devised a similar plan to get a free continental breakfast last Sunday. I set out on foot and stopped at the same hotel since I was familiar with the surroundings. They offered a pretty nice spread, but charged for the buffet. I walked a half-mile or so to the next one – same story. I tried yet another, but the only food they offered came in a vending machine.

I had walked over two miles in search of a free meal, without success, and finally decided to get breakfast the old-fashioned way – I went to McDonalds. But I had forgotten that I don’t carry my wallet during these excursions. If I’m ever asked to identify myself by the po po, I will be known only as “Crowe Dog.”

When I got home, I jumped into the car, drove to the store, and bought a 12-pack. My breakfast ended up being a few potato chips and an InBev Light.

- Janers shot this video of a guy sitting next to her in a coffee shop in NYC.

I’m a loser, what a joker. I’m playing my jokes upon you.