In Which Dr. Woofers Works for a Pyramid Scheme

I would like to apologize for the immense gap between my last post and this one. I would like to say I'm sorry and promise to post more regularly in the future. But honestly? I've been busy. And am often lacking in the motivation department. So, I'm not really that sorry. But I hope you enjoy this post, and maybe (if you don't do bad things at night) I'll write some more posts at some point.

I'll know...

Nearly a year ago, I moved my primary residence to Louisiana (a move completely unrelated to a malpractice suit involving a certain chew toy allegedly being "misplaced" in the operating room), which was a bit of journey from my native land of North Carolina.

An "incredible" journey? Maybe? Okay.

Anyway, so since most of the things that we need in this life require some form of money or a sketchy goods/services barter system, I set about finding employment. Many of you might recall from an earlier post that I had briefly herded large groups of human adolescents (while attempting to indoctrinate them with historical knowledge and the "hidden curriculum") in exchange for payment. 

Not the hidden curriculum you were thinking about... Pervert.

Sadly, the great state of Louisiana was fresh out of education jobs. Because clearly they had done all the educating they needed to get done that year. So what's a dog to do? Turn to the interwebs for help, of course! 

After checking a few scary sounding websites (and Craigslist) I stumbled across a job opportunity that promised me everything I never knew that I always wanted. It had performance rewards, leadership training, entrepreneurial opportunities and they were looking for college graduates. I was a college graduate! It seemed like a match made in heaven.

And 100% fact based, just like "Space Jam"!

Well, of course, being the lovable scamp that I am, I got the job. The job being in something called "direct sales" representing the small business branch of Staples, known as Quill. And that's how I began to work for a pyramid scheme version of Dundler Mifflin. For the sake of the story, I'm not just saying Dunder Mifflin because I want to make some references to "The Office". I'm saying Dundler Mifflin because I literally sold Dunder Mifflin paper. If you don't believe me, check this link to the company's website.

Dunder Mifflin Paper

Also, I'm not in any way trying to bad mouth Staples, Quill (or even Dundler Mifflin) in this post. I'm just letting you know that my actual employer was a supplier of cheap door to door salespeople for hire, and our particular branch was currently being paid by Quill. Where it gets to be a pyramid scheme (maybe even cult?) is where the rituals and hierarchy were concerned. 

Yes, I said rituals. Creepy, huh?

Essentially I was getting paid next to nothing (working on commission) to traipse around southern Louisiana during August while wearing a shirt and tie and being told "No", often in a rather rude tone, for ten hours a day. No, we were not compensated for gas spent. No we were not given a base salary like waitresses. There were days where I made no money while spending ten dollars in gas to have people tell me that they didn't want any office supplies. Sometimes the sales I made didn't even get me a commission, because the business didn't "Quill-ify" for the promotions. 

And yes, I was supposed to say "Quill-ify"....

My co-workers were an interesting group of ne'er do wells. They ranged from the fresh out of college with a communications degree types to the sixty year old used car salesman that was trying to strike it rich. I even worked with a member of the LSU SEC championship team from the previous year. He was actually probably the most thoughtful and articulate person I worked with. Go figure. Almost all of them were drinking the Koolaid and were sure that they would be millionaires in a few years. And who knows? Maybe one of them will. But I very much doubt it.

Our boss was a bro in every sense of the word, but he meant well, and was only perpetuating a system in which his hard work had paid off, netting him some of the pyramid's benefits. Those benefits being that once you've made some sales, you start recruiting a team, and once your team has made some sales, you get to be an assistant to the regional manager.

Okay, fine. I had to work in one reference.

Then once you had been doing that for a bit, you got to become the manager of your very own new branch, making a cut off the top of whatever capital your branch produced. But the person who promoted you also gets a cut of what your branch produces, all the way up the ladder (or pyramid rather) until the CEO of the company is just diving into a swimming pool filled with money like Scrooge McDuck. 

And no, I'm not going to include a picture of that, because you all know damn well exactly what that looks like. And if you say that you don't, that's what our benevolent overlords at Google are for.

I would have to say that the only redeeming aspect of this job was that it helped me land my current job. One sweltering, sweaty, sunny, summer day I was going through my shtick and the manager I was speaking to basically interrupted me and said that she didn't want to buy any of these office supplies, but she was willing to offer me something else...

Again, not THAT hidden curriculum. Weirdo...

She offered me a job. A real job. As in, I would come in to work every morning and sit in my air conditioned office and make lots of work related motions and sounds in exchange for a paycheck every month. 

Fun fact: I don't actually need glasses. I wear them to look smart.

I didn't even really wait to see how much the pay was before being like, "Yes. Yes I'll take that job. I'll take that job so hard. No. No, I didn't mean that to sound desperate and/or sexual." 

And I worked there for the rest of my days. Or at least until I stuff all my belongings in a sack and start thumbing my way back to North Carolina.

Cat Noises

For anyone who might know my room mate, you probably also know that he is that not so rare combination of a good looking guy and a shameless flirt. However, I'm using the word "flirt" in a rather vague sense of the term. Normal flirting involves things like smiling, making eye contact, physical touch and humor.

Pictured: typical flirting.

My room mate incorporates those things into his game, but his favorite method is the ridiculously over the top flirt. So flirty it's almost not sexy.

Pictured: my room mate flirting.

Cat noised included. Hence the title of this post.

In all seriousness though, his patent pending signature seal of approval is a combination of a growl and a claw hands motion thing. I really can't describe it, but it is quite possibly the most ridiculous expression of interest ever to grace a member of the opposite sex. I'm not going to include any pictures because a google search consisting of any combination of "meow", "growl", "sexy", "claws" or "flirt" came back with retina scarring things that nobody who isn't either Japanese or a complete weirdo would enjoy. Let's just leave it at that.

Horrible, horrible things that can't be unseen.

Seriously. Don't google those terms together unless you're willing to gouge your eyeballs out with the nearest sharpened implement that you can get a hold of.

Now, as a small disclaimer, allow me to once again mention that he can flirt like a normal human being, sometimes he just chooses not to. He's attractive, intelligent, funny, has life experience, and is kind of jerk. All things that ladies go for. In fact, there are only three things that he feels his game really lacks. All of which are summed up by Taylor Lautner.

Really tan skin, tattoos and lots of muscles.

But I don't think he's going to become part Native American any time soon, or even get a tattoo, so the muscles is really all he's going to work on. But those will help him out when he hits on girls whose boyfriends have muscles too. That sentence can be interpreted either as it will make him more attractive or that it will help him avoid an ass kicking. Take it how you want.

Two factors contribute to his ridiculous flirting: his ability to shrug off shame and his natural chemistry with nearly any girl that meets him.

Come on. I quite clearly said "nearly any".

Any time that you're with him and there are girls either nearby or even being discussed, the odds that he will make some sort of unsubtle flirtation range from certainty to inevitability. And no, I don't really know which term means it happens more often. It's just that if the sun rose that morning, he will embarrass you by occasionally not even bothering to do a double take. He might just pause and watch somebody walk by. Then act like nothing happened.

It's almost to the point where I think it could very well be reflexive, like a frog catching a fly.

Or the T-Rex from Jurassic Park.

I can't count the number of times that we've been walking or driving somewhere and his attention is diverted by a girl. He usually makes a comment along the lines of "I want to go to there." And unfortunately for him, fortunately for your amusement, I like to ride with the window down a lot, like a dog. So that means a lot of these girls overhear his comments.

As do their fathers.

If you take him to the mall, or Sam's Club, or wherever you go to find attractive women, be prepared to be embarrassed. He won't be. And you'll laugh nervously as the rest of the store watches him do the cat hands at some hot middle aged woman, then continue shopping for his biscotti like it's no big deal.

*Disclaimer*
The entire store does not actually witness the cat hands, but it feels like they should. Perhaps that's just my natural paranoia/self absorbtion thinking that the entire world is constantly watching me and the people I'm with.

And yes, I wear snappy blazers.

However, much like your average guy, he is naturally intimidated by attractive girls that are complete strangers. So he normally doesn't go up to the girl in the mini skirt and tell her that she can call him Fred Flintstone.

He used to drive a clunker. What did you think I was going to say?

When this happens he points out to whoever is with him that the object of his attraction is indeed a pretty girl, and then he quiets down for a bit as he constructs a first impression and fantasy future based around said girl. Sometimes he'll share fantasy mode with you, but usually only if it's a humorous, over the top vareity.

Frequently involving him dunking.

Recently we were in the student center eating lunch with some friends, and at a table about six feet away there was a very attractive girl sitting across from some guy. The entire table agrees that the girl is disparately more attractive than the guy she was with. Naturally my room mate is intrigued by the girl, and goes into fantasy mode. Since there were three other people at the table, he narrated his over the top ridiculous introduction strategy.

He would just walk up to the table, face-palm the boy into the window and say "What up girl? You can call me T-Woww. That's right, with three W's." The boy starts to say something, so my room mate would turn to him and say, "Don't make me defenestrate you right here and right now." Turns back to the girl and says "Back to you."

Smelly pirate hooker comments optional.

There's no way that strategy could fail... Okay, there's a lot of ways that it could fail, but that's neither here nor there.

Obviously he didn't do that, but it was funny. So we sat there well within ear shot of the two complete strangers alternately debating how old the girl was, if the guy was attractive, if they were dating or not, and making up back story for these two random people. I'm pretty sure that they heard all of what we said, because there were several times the girl looked right at us with a mixture of disbelief and bemusement.

Luckily for those of you who are confused by what the word bemused means, that's exactly what it means.

Congrats!

Don't get the idea that I don't notice or approve of the vast numbers of attractive young women that come along with living in a college town. I notice. I approve. Since I'm not as bold as my room mate I just make use of my peripheral vision and an excellent memory slash imagination.

I feel that if a girl is attractive, and dressed to show that off, she should not be offended when people check her out. But I don't make a show of it. The subtle once over, side glance or general direction gaze ending with eye contact are my weapons of choice.

Also, sunglasses.

Hide the Broccoli

This next tale from the near side comes from the early part of last autumn, when I had just recently moved into the apartment where I live now. Now, I had known my room mate beforehand, so this wasn't some sort of random room mate match made in hell as described in Aziz Ansari's latest stand up special.

If you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about.
If you haven't, you need to get on that. Pronto.

However, I met him two years ago when we were both R.A.s during our undergrads and didn't really know him super well. I never really paid attention to how he lived, ate or did whatever things that typically get on room mate's nerves. Also, I hadn't actually seen him in about half a year and all our communications had been over the phone or email. Who knows how he might have changed over that time period?

Tragic acid accidents are more common than you'd think.

I had the pleasure of meeting all three of the people with whom he had shared the apartment with at some point during the previous year. All of them had left for various reasons ranging from graduating, transferring or just personal differences. So I was just a tad apprehensive about living with him. I've had room mates before and they had turned out great, but there's only so long that I cared to trust my luck.

Well, not to spoil the ending, but living with him has been great so far. We get along well, have fun hanging out, and most importantly, he hasn't become my nemesis yet. In fact, he's one of the people who pushed me to create this blog and spread some of the humor we share to the rest of the interweb, or just preserve it so that we can laugh about it later.

So, as a result of him having three different room mates over the past year, and all of them having different tastes in food, there was a wide variety of food in the cabinet and refrigerator when I showed up. He was away for a while and wouldn't be back for a few days, so I had the place all to myself. Stop thinking what you're thinking. Nothing of the sort happened. I in no way used the entire apartment as my own personal ball pit.

2.7 children a year go into ball pits and never return.

Back to the food. So there's a bunch of food in the fridge, and I kind of have to assume that a fair amount of it is his. So I wedge some groceries in around all the different things. Soon enough though, it became obvious that some of the food would have to go. We couldn't have three different types of peanut butter taking up all sorts of space.

After one particular grocery store trip, we returned with mass quantities of frozen foods, one of the staples of any college aged chef's menu. As we opened up the freezer, it quickly became apparent that there was no way that all the food was going to fit. And so, like the occupants of a sinking zeppelin, we began to think about what we would jettison in order to maintain altitude.

"What do you mean we threw out the parachutes?"

It was at this point that my room mate turned to me and said, "Well, I think that we just need to throw out your giant fucking bag of broccoli. Then we'd have more than enough room for these new things." And I was like, "I thought that was your huge bag of frozen broccoli! I hate cooked broccoli. I figured you were just into eating healthy, based on the organic almond butter that's in the fridge." He was like, "No, no, no. Homie don't play that uber healthy stuff. You couldn't pay me to eat that." It turned out that it was just a great big sitcom style misunderstanding.

Oh. It was all a big misunderstanding...

After we realized that neither of us was the original owner of the monstrous bag of frozen vegetables, the decision to chunk it was easy. However, the trash can was pretty full at the moment, so we just set it down next to the trash. My room mate says, "In a little while, that bag of broccoli is going to smell pretty rank. You know what would be funny? I'm going to throw this in your room and let the stink get you." And I answer, "Well, I'll just put it in your room next." He laughed and said, "It'll be a game of hide the broccoli."So he takes it and chucks it right inside my doorway. "Tag, you're it. I'll see you in broccoli hell!" I chuckle a bit and then we move on.

Later that night, after we get back from playing some basketball at the gym, I realized that it was the perfect time to put the ball in his court. And by ball, I mean broccoli. And by broccoli, I mean a ticking time bomb.

Like this, but more difficult to disarm

One habit that my room mate has is the tendency to take really long showers. And often. Like, he will take a twenty minute shower, with the accompanying body wash, conditioner and luffa-ing before he goes to the gym. So he looks good for any of the ladies who happen to be there. Anyway, the point is: he's going to be in the shower for a good while. That gives me time to plant the bag of broccoli somewhere in his room and still take a shower before he gets out, none the wiser. It is so on.

Not wanting to make the initial escalation too big of a step, I merely lift up the edge of his bed curtain-thing (whatever it is that drapes down off the bottom of his mattresses and hangs to the floor) and place the bag of broccoli right there where he keeps some of those under the bed rolling storage containers full of shirts or something. Feeling good about a solid move in this dangerous game of one-ups-manship, I proceed to pretend like I don't even remember that the broccoli was in my room to begin with.

The next day, I had class pretty much all day. I knew that he was alone at the apartment, and if he got out of bed before noon or so, he definitely looked under his bed. Knowing this, I get back and don't ask him if he found the bag. If he hasn't, I'm not going to tip him off. Later that night we go to the gym again to play some basketball or something. Same deal as the previous night. I hop in the shower, am done in like ten minutes. I then proceed to tear apart my room looking for that bag of broccoli.

Artist's simulation

I noticed that my pillow looked a little bit flat. So I investigated. That sneaky bastard had taken my pillow out of it's case, and replaced it with the bag of broccoli! That's how big that bag of rapidly decaying organic matter was. The size of my fucking pillow! Who even needs that much broccoli? Was that previous room mate trying to make the world's largest shepherds pie or something? Honestly. There's no need to have that much broccoli. Ever!

Thankfully, my room mate had decided that he didn't want to mess up the pillow case with a sweating bag of broccoli, and had placed the veggies inside a trash bag. I'm rather partial to that pillow case as my mother made if for me. It's a Batman pattern, so that way I never forget it at a hotel or some friend's house. I instantly know that it is my pillow, because it is equal parts awesome and lame, but always identifiable. I take the bag-in-a-bag of broccoli out of my room and think to myself, "Where can I place this that it will not be easy to find?"

Like if he was hiding in a barber shop pole factory.

Across the hallway from his room, my room mate has a small closet. Within that closet, there is for some inexplicable reason, a filing cabinet. "Eureka!" I exclaim. Not really. I don't think I've ever actually used the word "eureka" until just now. Anyway, I place the bag inside one of the drawers of the filing cabinet, inside the closet, which is at the junction of his bedroom and bathroom. I think to myself, "This will be perfect! It will take a longer time for the smell to get out, but as it does, it will be all the more potent for the delay! He'll have a tough time finding this not so little bundle of joy." And that's exactly how that shit went down.

The next evening, I'm in class. We went to the library for some reason. I guess graduate students need to be told how to find books and articles in a library. Anyway, I get a text from my room mate that says the following: "When are you getting out of class? I've been looking for that fucking broccoli all day. It smells like a there's a dead body in the apartment." I text him back that I'm in the library and will be done soon. Turns out he was in the library already, probably because he actually likes to study or some sort of lame excuse.

How my studying normally ends.

He doesn't bother with small talk when I walk up to where he was sitting. "I looked everywhere for that bag of broccoli. Under my bed, in my shower, in the oven, on top of my wardrobe. I can't find it anywhere. I even checked the freezer just to see if you put it back there to fuck with my mind" he says. Laughing, I tell him that he should have looked under "S" for "Stinky Ass Vegetables" and tell him I'll get rid of it when we get home.

So we go home. I'm under the impression that he was exaggerating the smell. He was not. As soon as I opened the front door, it hit me. Hit me like a wave of fetid, decomposing, nostril burning pungency. Choking back a little bit of vomit, I quickly remove the bag from the cabinet inside the closet and proceed to throw it out into the dumpster near our apartment building. "Well, I'm glad that's over" we proclaim as we dust our hands off and start plugging in more Glade air fresheners. Sadly, much like seemingly every horror movie ever, it wasn't over.

Seriously? What the hell were they thinking?

Over the next few day, we noticed a distinct lack of non-stink in the apartment. Mostly around his room, but I could still smell it if I was sitting in the living room. Just to be sure that it was coming from the broccoli residue and not an actual dead body, we enlisted the help of one of our neighbor's dog. We let Neighbor Dog inside, took him off his leash and watched him sprint to my room mate's bed room. He proceeds to sniff around the base of the bed, scratch at it some and promptly lie down right where I had placed the broccoli the first time as if to say, "I know why you brought me here. This shit smells terrible! Here's where it was." Well, our course of action seemed pretty clear. Simply put, we had to cleanse that particular stretch of carpet. Easier said than done.

After several days, and several attempts to scrub out the smell, vacuum out the smell, absorb out the smell, pretty much everything short of setting the room on fire, the smell is still there! It smelt so bad that it stunk up the vacuum cleaner when we used it. We had to wash out the insides of the vacuum with bleach just to get it to stop smelling and buy a new filter to boot. We nearly ruined a vacuum cleaner just by attempting to clean where this broccoli had been. Now we're worried. We begin googling for "toxic bacteria in broccoli" "deadly broccoli mold" and other such search topics.

We wish we had some HAZMAT suits laying around.

Finally, we manage to find some sort of super cleaner at a hardware store. The description says that it will neutralize mold, bacteria, viruses, mildew, stains, rust, etc. This product was essentially a tactical nuke in a spray bottle. And get this, it had the audacity to proclaim "Safe for Children!" How can something be safe for children when it can kill or remove anything smaller than a large tabby with a few sprays? Whatever. It was war. We did what we had to. And that stuff worked, thank God. Again, we dust our hands off and say, "Glad that's over."

A few weeks later, I decide that it doesn't need to be over. While my room mate is back home over the weekend, I do a little shopping. Halloween was about a month or more away, so of course all the stores have 10 lb bags of candy for sale. Now both of us love candy, and both of us also appreciate a good joke. However, my room mate would not be in on the joke, which made it even more hilarious to me. I buy a giant bag of mixed candy, design and print out a fake broccoli label to put on it. I hide in the exact same spot as the first time, and sit back to await my room mate's return to the apartment.

Not what he wanted to see hiding under his bed.

He gets back that Sunday, and I'm sitting in the living room playing some video games or something. We say all the usual "How was you weekend?" stuff and then he begins unpacking. Suddenly it gets really quiet in his room. After about a minute or two, he comes out, nearly shaking in rage/shock. "You mother fucker! I'm going to kill you for this shit! Don't you realize that I had to wait this long just to get my heart rate down to merely startled?" After he calmed down a bit, he explained what happened.

He reached under the bed without looking to grab the rolling container, when he felt his hand grab something crinkly. As quickly as he could, he drew his hand back, but like a snake bite, it was already too late by the time he felt it. He said that the first thing that crossed his mind was, "I'm going to miss that hand." He knew in his heart of hearts that the only way to get the smell of broccoli off that hand would be with a saw or a blowtorch.

What he imagined his future to be consigned to.

Surrendering himself to his fate, he grasped the suspected bag of death with both hands and withdrew it from under the bed. Upon seeing the fake broccoli label, he just leaned forward and sighed, thrilled to be uncontaminated, but unable to get his survival instincts to lessen up just a little bit. He had never been that happy to have a bag of candy. And that is the story of "Hide the Broccoli". And as my facebook says, "Never, under any circumstances, play a game of Hide the Broccoli. There are no winners."