What I didn't write about my Macaroni's experience was what happened to me earlier in the day. It all started after I left my accountant's office, where I had to file my business taxes. That in itself is worth mentioning, as I had to fork over lots of cash to the government so that corrupt senators could buy their fifth yachts while stating that they're using the tax money on the poor.
What a joke. I don't know why I went into the football-writing business when I could've just been a sleazy politician. I mean, writing about football is fun and all, but nothing beats collecting money from everyone and using it to buy yachts, mansions and Cheetos. Those guys truly have the life.
Speaking of corrupt organizations, I walked out of the office, got into my car and began driving toward the bank to deposit the funds I didn't have to fork over to the government. Halfway there, I got a call from my friend Body Burner, who sounded rather aggravated.
"I have a Jerk of the Week for you," he said. "These Abington people are absolutely nuts."
He then told me an amusing tale, which I'll convey to you from his perspective in italics. Some background before we begin: Body Burner works for a funeral home. He actually moved into one; he was effectively offered free housing, so he couldn't possibly turn it down. Body Burner is from Philly, but this funeral home is in a suburb called Abington, which is about 15 minutes away.
On to the story...
I was driving home last night and about to pull into my driveway when I saw that a shoebox was in the center of it, so I couldn't park my car in its place without hitting the shoebox. I was like, "What the f*** is this?" and got out of my car to investigate. I tried to open the shoebox, but because it was raining heavily earlier, the box was all moist and it broke apart when I picked it up.
But that wasn't the worst part. When I finally looked inside I saw a dead cat!
I couldn't f***ing believe it. I kicked it to the side and just figured I'd clean it up in the morning. When I woke up the next morning, I grabbed a shovel, but was able to get a better look at the cat in the box. First of all, there was a note on it saying "Do not open," which I couldn't f***ing see at night. Second, I realized it wasn't an ordinary dead cat. It wasn't someone's pet, or anything. There were tire marks on it, so it was obviously roadkill.
And here's the weird thing: The dead, roadkill cat was wrapped in an old t-shirt. Like, seriously, what the f***?
Who the hell would do something like this? Who would find some roadkill cat, wrap it up in an old t-shirt, stick it in a shoebox and drop it off at a funeral home? Like, why? I'm not going to bury it. I'm not going to have a f***ing funeral for it. Why the hell would they do this? Why not just pick it up with a shovel, put it in a garbage bag and throw it away?
I've lived in Philly for 27-plus years, and nothing like this has ever happened to me. I've lived in Abington for two months, and there are dead cats in shoeboxes showing up on my f***ing driveway. Abington people are f***ing weird.
Indeed. I have to wonder what this person's thought process was. "Oh man, I just ran over a cat - better go home, grab a shoebox and an old t-shirt so I can take it to the funeral home so they can have a service for it! Oh, and let me be a dick in the process and block the driveway!"
Hey, we're laughing about this now, but wouldn't it suck if a bunch of cats show up expecting a funeral for their friend, only to find out that he's been tossed into the dumpster? They'd be pretty pissed, and Body Burner would have to answer for it.
I eventually got to the bank. It wasn't busy at all. I was the only person in line, and there was just one individual at the teller's window, a middle-aged black woman with frizzy hair.
I figured I wouldn't have to wait too long, but oh how wrong I was. It became apparent to me that I wasn't going to be depositing my checks anytime soon when I heard the black woman screech, "I tryin' ta deposit eight thousand dollas, and I tryin' ta wit'draw one thousands of it!"
I focused on what was going on, moving my attention away from the lollipop jar at the teller's window. The black woman continued to shout at the poor teller, some cute girl with auburn hair in her mid-20s who looked completely overwhelmed. The last time I was at the bank, a few weeks prior, I overheard that she was in training, so she wasn't exactly equipped to deal with an angry customer.
The exchange between the angry woman and the poor bank teller escalated, and it was rather amusing. Here's what it sounded like...
Bank Teller: Can I please see your ID, miss?
Angry Black Woman: I comin' to dis bank er' otha week, and you askin' if you can see my ID? Dis crazy!
Bank Teller: I'm required to ask for it...
Angry Black Woman: Dis unexcusable! I do not undastand why you gotta see my ID!
Bank Teller: So I can verify who you are...
Angry Black Woman: How you not recognizin' me!? I comin' to dis bank er' week. Y'all should know me by now!
Bank Teller: I'm sorry, but I'm new here, so I don't recognize all the customers yet.
Angry Black Woman: How long you been workin' round hmyall?
Bank Teller: About three weeks...
Angry Black Woman: So you should be recognizin' me by now, lil' girl. You shoulda seen me three, maybe five time because I come in er' week, sometime twice time per week.
Bank Teller: I'm sorry, I'll remember next time.
Angry Black Woman: You bess rememba next time, or I'm gonna have to speak to your management.
Bank Teller: OK, I'll remember. Can I see your ID, please?
Angry Black Woman: WHAT!? Miss, we talk about dis already! I come in here twice time per week, how you not rememba who I am!?
Bank Teller: I can't just trust who you are because you say you come in here twice, I mean two times per week.
Angry Black Woman: Dis unexcuseable! If I not in such a hurry, I would have a big long talk wit' your management!
I'm not exaggerating when I say that this exchange lasted 10 minutes. The bank teller repeatedly asked to see this lady's ID, and the black lady continued to stall and argue despite the fact that she said she was in such a hurry.
I don't know how she did it, but the bank teller finally convinced the angry black lady to hand over her ID. The black lady finally received her "wit'draw" and stormed off, shouting, "You bess rememba who I is the next time I come in this estabishment."
It was finally my turn to step up to the teller window. I just had to say it...
"You bess not ask for my ID because I come in here twice time per month," I said to the teller.
She laughed, which is exactly what I wanted. No, I was not trying to game her. My goal was to distract her long enough so I could take one of the lollipops out of her jar without her noticing, and I was successful - I nabbed a cherry-flavored one.
Hey, I'm a fat man, and lollipops are very important to me.
Believe it or not, Angry Black Woman may not have been the dumbest person I encountered that afternoon.
My next destination was the gym, but I had two things to do there. In addition to actually working out, I planned to visit the spa right next to the gym in order to pick up a gift certificate as a gift for my mom's birthday.
I parked my car, and I immediately slapped my forehead for being so stupid. I forgot my money at home!
You see, I was only making deposits into my bank account that afternoon, so I didn't "wit'draw" any money. I also didn't bring any credit cards, since I didn't think I'd need to on my trip. I tend to carry emergency cash in my car - something I recommend everyone should do - and I counted up that I had about $80. Would that be enough? I prayed that it would be as I got out of my car and waddled over to the spa.
Unfortunately, the average-looking chick behind the front desk gave me some bad news. The cheapest package they had was $109, and the most-preferred one was $179. Thus, I was $100 short of what I wanted to purchase. I suddenly realized that I'd have to drive all the way home and back, and due to time restraints, I wouldn't be able to work out at all - which I desperately needed to do, considering that I hadn't done so all week, and I thought I was eating delicious macaroni and cheese later that night.
And then, it suddenly hit me: I had my checkbook in my car because I came from my accountant's office! I asked the girl if they accepted checks. She had to ask her manager, and sure enough, they did. Awesome!
I "sprinted" - I can't run, so by "sprinted," I mean walk somewhat fast - to my car and back. By the time I returned, there was another girl working the front desk. She was a short, chubby chick in her 20s. I wouldn't say she was hideous, but she definitely wasn't attractive. And her stupidity made her even more unappealing.
As she was processing my purchase, she began asking me questions...
Chubby Spa Chick: Do you know when the Super Bowl is?
Me: Sunday, Feb. 7.
Chubby Spa Chick: What time is the game?
Me: It's at 6:30.
Chubby Spa Chick: Oh cool, I get off from work at 6:15!
Me: That's cool.
Chubby Spa Chick: I don't even know who's playing. Is it the Patriots?
Chubby Spa Chick: Is it the Packers?
Chubby Spa Chick: Is it the Penguins?
Me: The Penguins?
Chubby Spa Chick: The Pittsburgh Penguins.
Me: Pittsburgh Steelers. And nope.
Chubby Spa Chick: Is it the Redskins?
Chubby Spa Chick: OK, who is it then?
Me: The Panthers and the Broncos.
Chubby Spa Chick: North Carolina Panthers, right? And the Detroit Broncos?
Me: Just Carolina Panthers. And Denver Broncos.
Chubby Spa Chick: Isn't like Tom Brady on one of those teams?
Me: Peyton Manning's on the Broncos.
Chubby Spa Chick: Isn't he like super old?
Me: He's 39.
Chubby Spa Chick: Eww, that's like super old. He should retire already.
I guess 39 is "super old" for football, and yes, Manning should've retired two years ago.
OK, so you might be wondering why I think this girl is dumb. Sure, she didn't know who was playing in the Super Bowl, and she thought the Pittsburgh Penguins were a football team, but that's not her fault if she's not a football fan. What she said next, however, revealed how stupid she is...
Chubby Spa Chick: Are you gonna watch the game?
Me: Yeah. I actually have to work during it. I run a football site and I'll be doing a live blog.
Chubby Spa Chick: Oh cool, you write about football on a blog?
Me: Pretty much, yeah.
Chubby Spa Chick: So what are you gonna be writing during the Super Bowl?
Me: I'll be writing about the game.
Chubby Spa Chick: Oh, you're going to be writing about football and stuff?
Wow. I told this girl I was a football writer, and that I was going to be writing about the game on my site, and yet she asked me if I was going to be writing about "football and stuff?" Not exactly the brightest bulb in the toolbox.
I paid for the spa package and left. As I was walking to drop off my checkbook in my car, it dawned on me that I wasn't too far from Abington.
And suddenly, it all made sense. She was one of these Abington idiots who puts dead cats into shoeboxes and drops them off at funeral homes. In fact, I'm willing to bet that she was the person who left the dead cat on Body Burner's driveway.