I’m one of those people who is a weird shit magnet. If some weird-ass, fucked-up shit is going to go down, it’s going to happen to me. Due to this anomaly, I have a plethora of fairly amusing stories of bizarre shit that’s happened to me over the years. Since I’m blogging anyways, and several of the few people who actually read this have asked me when the next blog’s going to be, I thought tonight I’d give you guys a bonus. If you enjoy it, I may make True Stories From My Past a regular series. Well, without further ado…
This fucked up story takes place about 3 years ago. I lived in Davenport, Iowa at the time and worked in Bettendorf, Iowa. Those of you who know me at all, know that I tend to be a creature of habit. I stick to the same grocery stores and gas stations, I watch the same shows every week, I order the same thing from the same places on the same days every week. You can set your watch by my bowel movements, I kid you not.
Anyways… Every Wednesday afternoon I would leave my apartment, drive through the East Village of Davenport, stop at the Kwik Shop, Buy a fountain pop, some corn nuts, and a pack of cigarettes. Every Wednesday I did this for over a year without a mishap until one Wednesday I was in Kwik Shop, and I had just began pouring my pop when I noticed a midget walk in. (I know you think I have an obsession with midgets. I kinda do. I want one. I want to keep one to play with like Mary Tudor did while she was having Protestants, Jews, and witches burned and disemboweled throughout England. She was a bitch to cook all those people, but she was fucking cool to have like 15 munchkins as pets.) So this little guy walks over to the fountain drink machine, pours his drink fine, but the lids for his sized drink were out of his reach. The fucker starts jumping at them to no avail. I’m just sanding there watching this shit. Part of me wants to push him off-balance when he jumps, but instead I ask, “I’m sorry, do you need some help?” I was polite. Unassuming. Just what your average bleeding hearts and little people want from us “average” folk. Well… The tiny, little prick snaps! He yells at me, “What? Do I look fucking crippled to you, bitch?!?! Stupid c&%$!” Yeah. He went there. He called me the C word.
*I can handle most anything. You can call me bitch, whore, slut, fat ass, anything you want, just DO NOT call me the C word. I, like most women, will turn into a T Rex, rip open your guts, and eat your entrails for breakfast if you call me that.*
I looked at that 3 and a half-foot little dickhead, grabbed the rest of the stack of the lids he needed for his drink, held them over my head and said, “Jump for them, Tattoo! Jump for them!”
That was the day I was verbally assaulted by a midget. It was also the day that I finally got to call someone “Tattoo” without saying “De plane, Boss!”. That day ranked an 8.5 on my Weird-Shit-O-Meter