Pop in the Jaw (258 hits)
Category: NoneRating: -2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by morontian (View user info) at 2005-11-26 14:31:06 EST
In my ongoing struggle to avoid responsibility and maintain my Budda-esque life of virtue through poverty, I recently began working as a stock boy at the local supermarket. Years of serving the public had finally worn me down, and I figured that the best thing for me at this moment in time is to get myself an occupation where customer service would be at a minimum and I can just do my job in peace. It's been a month, and all had gone well until last night. Last night I was reacquainted with an old friend of mine: pain.
Third shift stock boys usually all fall within the same stereotype: mid-twenties, goofy, and at least 75% of the time just really out of place. You have a lot of college students who are just making ends meet with a low demand job while expanding their horizons; you get a bunch of guys who just haven't found themselves and have decided that the search would be a bit too troublesome to undertake, and sometime they... well, sometimes they just do belong there after all. Anyway, one thing they all seem to have in common (and this is more common among males than feamales) is that they love to show off. Whenever you get a few bored guys together with no supervision, there is always that chance that medical attention will have to be paid to one or another. It's called "fun." People should try to have more of it.
My aisles comprise the soda and water section of the store. This is a good thing, actually. I had been starting to get soft in my old age, and it never hurts to get a little more exercise. Nothing says 'exercise' like lugging around a two ton pallet of freaking Evian. Now, last night water wasn't the problem. No, that went off without a hitch. The problem came along when it was time to get 12 packs of soda off the riser above the shelves and stock them in their appropriate homes. The riser is about ten feet above floor level and it is cram packed with piles of these 12 packs, so you have the opitons of:
A) Climbing up and down a ladder god knows how many times to get all the shit you need, or
B) Having someone else help by dropping the cases down to you for you to catch and stack on your cart. Needless to say that this is the option most chosen by those with a little sense about them.
And all would be well and good if we were talking about sensible young men. But, no. If you have been paying attention, you know that these are not the type of people I am talking about. We are a rowdy bunch, we stockers, and sometimes we just want to get done with our shit so we can smoke a cigarette. So in that light, what could be even faster than dropping a 12 pack of Pepsi down to a guy 10 feet below you? That's right. Throwing it down. And what could be even more fun than throwing a 12 pack of Pepsi at someone ten feet below you? That's right. Trying to fuck them up in the process.
We flipped the coin and I lost: I was to be the catcher. Josh climbed up on the steel and started to drop cases down. We understand that it takes a few warm-ups to get into the proper frame of mind and to set the speed on your reflexes, after that all bets are off. It becomes a game to see who can show the other up. Cases are thrown in a spiral. I catch them all. He dares me to take five large steps back so he can really let it fly. I pluck each and every one of his carbonated missles out of the air. Everytime he tries to get the best of me, I am one step ahead. Not too shabby for an over-the-hill bastard like me. But I did fail, eventually. However, it was not my reflexes or hand-eye coordination that sealed my fate; it was the inescapable flaw of my gender.
The shennannigans had tapered off and we were back to the more laid back "light toss" method of freight movement. We were almost done when Josh, from his lofty viewpoint, spotted a female friend of his walking down the main aisle, which was to my left. He let loose the time-honored mating call of all us hairy-knuckled, Y chromosome types: the cat-call whistle. You know the one. The one so deftly mimiced by Steve Vai during the intro to "Yankee Rose." Well, being male, what the hell am I going to do when that sound rings through the air? You betcha. I'm going to take a look and see what the hubbub is all about. That was my mistake. And Josh should have fuckin' known better.
So there I am, looking off to my left waiting for this Venus to come around the corner so that I may drink in her beauty with my thirsting eyes. Little did I know that the next payload was already headed my way. He had of course tossed it based on the knowledge of the velocity and trajectory he had been using so far without actually looking to make sure the recipient was prepared for delivery. I was not. At all. There are not many words in this language that could define the pain that comes from having seven pounds or so of canned sodas smacking you in the face at twenty miles an hour. It hurts really fucking bad. I'll leave it at that. You can *shudder* ... use your own imagination on that one.
And it turns out that it wasn't even a hot chick after all. It was, like, one of his old teachers that he had a good relationship with or something. I mean she was cute for her age and all, but shit, she wasn't worth taking a lump for. I could have at least had the good fortune of getting a sympathetic blow job from some knock out trollop or some shit. Huh? Wouldn't you think? Fucking NO!
User Reviews
Submitted by foster (user info) at 2006-11-07 11:25:49 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
This sucked royally.