Dear readers,
It's been a little over a week since our contest started and we're getting some awesome stories!
Regretfully tomorrow is Monday and it's back to the grind for many of us. However! This Monday we have selected three submitted stories that we enjoyed and are sharing them with you. Hope you have some laughs and a little better Monday!
Keep sending those good stories!
Argh! Monday again!
Baad Dog!
By Rodger Matthews
I was required to attend the home of a client to interview her. As I walked up the garden path I noticed a large German Shepherd Dog running around in the front garden. I rang the bell on the front door and as the client opened the door the dog brushed past me and entered the hall. The woman invited me in and offered me a seat in the front room and she sat opposite.
We were completing a questionnaire when I noticed that the dog had squatted down on its hind legs and was performing a toilet function in the corner of the room. I continued with the interview not knowing whether I should draw her attention to the pile of material now deposited on her beautiful cream carpet. With the interview finished I made my hurried excuse and left the room. I opened the door and somewhat relieved stepped out onto the path, when I heard her...
"Don’t forget your dog" she shouted.
McSplat!
By Eric Scot Tryon
Baseball. Apple Pie. Sparklers on the 4th of July. Americana, right? But along with these whimsical Rockwellian images, there lies the rank underbelly of our grand country: Working retail. Better yet, working fast food. And even better yet, what says good ol’ US of A more than working the cash register at your local McDonald’s? I had the privilege of working for clown-faced Ronald when I turned sixteen and fell into capitalism’s Catch-22: No one will hire you without experience, and you can’t get experience if no one will hire you. Luckily, McDonald’s is the gateway (ah, those golden arches) to the teenage dilemma of how to pay for gas and movie tickets.
In the summer of ’94, I traded in my flannel and Luke Perry haircut for a thick magenta (“it’s not pink!” I repeatedly told my friends) polo shirt and crooked-billed baseball hat. Each day, as I was forced to turn down slip-n-slide parties and bonfires at the beach, I asked myself what I was getting out of this. Sure, they gave me a whopping $4.25 for each painful hour, but where was my reciprocity for the torture I endured? Where was my tiny moment of revenge on the fast food world? It certainly didn’t come when I had to crawl on my stomach on the slimed bathroom tiles under the stall because miraculously the flimsy door was still locked from the inside. And it certainly didn’t come every Sunday at 5 a.m. as I battled frostbite, stuffed in the giant freezer for an hour, an angry delivery guy with a handlebar mustache throwing 50 lb. boxes of frozen French fries at me. And lord knows it didn’t come when a large older man couldn’t retrieve his overstuffed wallet from the back pocket of his denim pants that were easily as old as he was. In the middle of a packed lunch hour, he turned around, stuck his butt towards the counter and asked me to “give an old guy a hand.” What else could I do but reach my tiny fingers in the crusted back pocket of his jeans to yank and dislodge the wallet that had not seen daylight since the summer of ‘47. But through all of the humiliation, I gritted my teeth, gained a few zits, and collected my four and a quarter with a smile.
Until one afternoon, when with the help of my McCo-worker Eddie and his inherent clumsiness, I finally got a day in the sun. I was just finishing the order of a frazzled, frumpy woman in sweatpants who studied the menu as it were a 10th grade geometry problem. “Where are the tacos?” she asked. After I politely told her that this was McDonalds and we didn’t sell Mexican food, she proceeded to get upset. “But I came here yesterday and got a bean burrito!” And it wasn’t until I gave up and told her “Oh, sorry, we just ran out of tortillas” that, disgusted with our inadequacies, she resigned herself to a Big Mac, large fry, and super-sized Diet Coke.
As I handed the woman her change and thought to myself how another Big Mac was exactly what she needed, Eddie, a lanky awkward kid about my age, went out to refill the ketchup dispenser that sat alongside the napkins and straws on the counter in the middle of the lobby. As the podgy woman left with her Big Mac, still mumbling something about Baja tacos, an older woman, small and frail, stepped to my register. She was maybe seventy, and wore a thin white blouse, purple polyester pants, a string of pearls, and her cumulous cloud of white hair made her look like everyone’s grandmother. Americrandma.
As Eddie began to take apart the dispenser to replace the giant plastic bag of ketchup, the old woman ordered a filet-o-fish and a small coffee. I could have punched in her order before she even opened her dentured mouth. There was something about fried fish, too much tartar sauce, and hot coffee on a ninety degree afternoon that had all senior citizens drooling at the mouth.
And just as she was fishing through her small embroidered purse to find the exact change – “I know there’s one more nickel in here somewhere” – I spotted Eddie fumble the enormous bag of ketchup; it repeatedly escaped his open palms like a slippery stubborn trout and finally landed with a Smack! as it hit the cheap, slick tile. I flinched as a wave of red came flying towards me, but yet I felt nothing. Something had shielded me from the blast. Eddie cried out, “Oh shit!” and the three of us froze.
The old woman looked to the floor and saw what I’m sure was a splattering of ketchup about her. She then glanced over her shoulder to investigate what had happened. “Oh dear,” I heard her say to Eddie as if it was he who required the sympathy.
It was in this next moment that the woman went from just another grandma ordering a fish filet and coffee to becoming a Hall of Famer in my retail career (her inquisitive face forever encased in oak and glass with soft direct lighting and an engraved plaque). She ever so gingerly turned around, giving me her back. Her back was completely covered in red. Ketchup dripped in gobs down the frail shoulders of her thin once-white blouse, saturating it so much so that it stuck tightly in clumps to her skin underneath. It was a real Wes Craven special effects job. As I stood astounded at the slasher-film condiment carnage she was showing me, she turned her head back towards me over her shoulder, not an easy maneuver at her age, and with the innocence of a young child asked, “Did any get on me?” She asked as if it were a yes or no question. She asked as if the answer was probably no, but she was a thorough woman and just wanted to make sure. She asked as if it was her favorite blouse and even the slightest hint of ketchup might upset her.
But before I had the chance to answer, this perfect moment – the goopy red blouse, her look of innocent curiosity, the overpowering stench of ketchup, and Eddie, quiet in the background, half stunned, half fighting fits of laughter – was interrupted with chaos. The manager, now hip to what had happened, came storming out from behind the counter firing out apologies like a over-zealous gunner on the back of a military jeep. He was shooting her every the-customer-is-always-right cliché in his manager’s handbook. And at just about this same time, her seventy-five year old nerve endings were finally sending signals from her back to her brain. I imagined she could feel the coldness of the condiment soaking through her shirt, now pressed against her skin along with the new weight of her blouse. And with this new found knowledge came the transformation. She was no longer the sweet little old lady who wanted to bake oatmeal cookies and knit Christmas sweaters. She became a woman scorned, demanding immediate restitution! “This is unacceptable!” Her voice was no longer soft and airy, but throaty and mean, and she kept repeating that word over and over, “Unacceptable!” as if we could reverse what had happened. “I won’t stand for this! This is unacceptable!” Yet, all I wanted to do was point and arch my back in a belly-aching laugh. The meaner she got, the funnier it was. How could anyone take her seriously with a back full of processed tomato paste? It stank and dripped and flew off like red beads of sweat in her fit of unacceptableness. Our branch manager, Reed Walcott, a petite sensitive man, went straight into damage control. He sent poor Jessica, a shy girl who hated the job even more than me, into the bathroom with the woman to… well, I don’t know what could have been done to that poor woman’s back, while he began filling out the numerous gift certificates, coupons, etc. He even resorted to adding free Happy Meal toys. (Nothing says “I’m sorry I doused your back in ketchup” like a wind-up plastic hamburger that spins in circles.) As for me and Eddie, we got the best job of all. We were given her keys and a pound of napkins and told to go protect her car seat.
The sun was out, the air was sweet, and a breeze trickled by every few moments to remind us that we were in fact outside and not under the florescent lights and greasy heat lamps. Eddie sat in the passenger seat of her old red Toyota Corolla, while I kneeled beside the open driver’s door. We meticulously lined her seat with the half-sized, single-ply napkins that sported the happy golden arches. We took our precious time, and between laying down each napkin, we swapped turns reenacting what had happened, acting it out with loud voices and flailing histrionics. It got more and more hilarious each time we told it: the splat of the bag, the flying wave of ketchup, the look on her face, the droop of her blouse. Eddie and I never really hung out, but for those fifteen minutes, we were the best of friends. And being in the parking lot, laughing under the sun, reliving the incident, more than made up for that entire summer of hell. After all, nothing says America like using the plight of others to feel better about yourself. For every time I had a heckling friend or burrito-craving customer, all I had to do was retreat to my happy place and hear that soft unassuming voice: “Did any get on me?”
Grocery Bag Blues (and Browns)
By Garrett Calcaterra
I've always lobbied my bosses to make the day after St. Patrick's Day a holiday. It just makes sense: everyone is hungover and worthless after drinking green beer and Irish car bombs into the wee hours of the night, so why not give them the day off? Makes sense to me, but not to bosses, apparently, because they never go for it. In fact, they seem to find sadistic pleasure in making employees work even harder the day after St. Patty's. Case in point…
A couple of years back I was working as a building inspector of sorts, and got sent out to inspect this home in the California high desert out past Victorville. It was a new home in one of these brand new housing developments that are sprouting up in the middle of nowhere beyond the Los Angeles basin because people can't afford to buy houses anywhere else. It was about a two and a half hour drive from my office and I had to be there by 8 am, which meant I had to be on the road by 5:30 in the morning. The day after St. Patrick's day.
I was not happy, and—thinking I was somehow punishing my bosses, I guess?—I got plastered the night before. I drank Guinness and Bushmills whiskey with a fervor that would have made the stoutest Irish drunkard proud. I didn't even make it past 10 pm before passing out. I didn't vomit, but in a mystery that has still yet to be solved, someone urinated on my work cellphone during the course of the night while I was incoherent. The forefront theory is that I myself pissed on the phone as an act of rebellion, but I certainly have no recollection of doing so and am not entirely convinced.
Regardless, when my alarm went off at 5 the next morning, I felt like certified, Grade A, ass. I didn't bother showering or even brushing my teeth; I merely changed out of my beer-stained shirt, shook off my piss-sodden cellphone, hopped in my car, and hit the road. I was fairly well famished, yet at the same time a little woozy and there's not a lot of quickie breakfast options at that time of the morning, so I stopped at a 7-Eleven. I wasn't thinking clearly, because it seemed at the moment a perfectly good idea to buy a package of little chocolate donuts and a bottle of V8 fruit juice for breakfast. The attendant tossed them in a plastic grocery bag with a wad of napkins for me, and off I went.
Off I went through Riverside, and up into the mountains on Interstate 15, munching my little chocolate donuts and sipping my juice like a fool. I blew by Victorville and exited onto some two-lane highway. It was desolate. There was nothing but tumbleweeds and an occasional ramshackle home.
Twenty miles out from I-15, the toxic concoction brewing in my belly grumbled, like a long dormant volcano suddenly awakened and about to blow its top. Half-digested bratwurst, sauerkraut, Irish whiskey, and beer, had churned with the little chocolate donuts and fruit juice into a violent exothermic reaction. A surge of loose, fiery stools pounded against my sphincter. I gasped. I started to sweat. I put the gas pedal to the wood, hoping to make the last ten or so miles to my destination before crapping myself.
It was touch and go for a while, but finally I crested a hill and before me was this brand new community of homes, nestled in the desert like an oasis. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing I could hold out for another minute and make it to a gas station. As I approached, however, I realized the town was still too new. There were hundreds of tract houses already constructed, and a new mall that was under construction, but nothing was complete—nothing was open yet.
I swore. I gave my sphincter a few encouraging words, and tore ass through the empty town to the home I was supposed to inspect. I didn't like crapping at client's homes, but I didn't have much choice this time—I could already feel myself starting to crown—and besides, I knew the owners wouldn't be there because they had given me the code for the lockbox. I skidded to a halt in the driveway and fast-waddled to the front door and inside. The bathroom was thankfully right off the entryway, but when I kicked up the toilet seat cover I saw there was no water in the toilet.
Nooo!!!
The plumbing had yet to be inspected, of course, so the water wasn't turned on yet. I knew I couldn't crap in the dry bowl and just leave it there. The owners would find it and I'd get fired. I sobbed a little and spun in a circle trying to think what to do. My butt hole quivered. I dashed to the backyard thinking to crap outside and bury it, but the landscaping had already been completed with a well-manicured lawn. Again, foiled.
The torrent of turds were coming. I knew I had about fifteen seconds to impact, and somehow I suddenly became very calm. I recalled my morning's travel: my stumbling through the dark to my car, the streetlights blurry in my eyes, the greenish tint of the fluorescent lights in the 7-Eleven, the trip through the desert, the little town glittering like fool's gold in the distance, and those goddamned little chocolate donuts—those little chocolate laxatives and the fruit juice in their stupid 7-Eleven grocery bag. The grocery bag! Of course.
I bolted back to my car, grabbed the grocery bag and napkins. I hustled back into the bathroom, dropped my pants, spread the bag handles over the toilet seat, sat down, and let loose.
It was the Mt. St. Helens of bowel movements. Small towns outside Seattle and Portland felt the ground tremor. Tears welled up in the eyes of children in Iowa because of the stinging fumes. Russian satellite images detected the smoke plume from space.
I gasped. I filled the bag up, and when it was all done—when I had patted my undercarriage dry with the wad of 7-Eleven napkins—I have to say, I felt pretty damn good. I'd come through when it counted, made due with the resources at hand, and everything came out just fine. I was pleased with myself (and a little hungry again), but not so much so as to forget why I was in the predicament in the first place: my stupid boss sending me out the day after St. Patty's.
I tied the grocery bag up and contemplated it. Do you suppose I'll get fired if I put this on my boss's desk?
BEST STORY CONTEST! (UPDATED)
To get our story collection started, we're holding a contest! The way it'll work is: think of your funniest, craziest, and most scandalous work-related story, type it out, and send it in to diemonday@gmail.com. If your story is one of the best, you'll win some awesome prizes! (Actually they're just cash, but cash is up there on the awesome scale.) We'll be posting up the stories as we get them, so check back often!
All stories submitted up until the deadline will be automatically entered into the contest.
Submission guidelines:
1.) Your entries must be in English
2.) You may enter as many entries as you like
3.) Stories could be of any length
4.) Be wary of using actual company or personal names
5.) No pre-published work
6.) All personal information will remain confidential
UPDATE: The ideal length is 1000 words or less; however, all stories will be read and considered. Also, please indicate whether you would like your name publicly posted with the story or not.
Deadline: May 9th, 2008 at 11:59 pm PST
Prizes: 1st place: $200 dollars, 2nd place: $100 dollars, 3rd place: $50 dollars, 4th place: Nerf Gun (N-Strike Recon CS-6)
Cash prizes will be mailed in Visa Gift Card form.
Judging: Selected entries will be posted on diemonday.com throughout the contest. After the deadline, the top 10 will be re-posted on Monday, May 12th, 2008. On the same day, you can begin to vote for the top 4 winners. Voting period ends on 12:00 am PST Monday, May 19th, 2008. Winners will be contacted by email.
*By submitting your entries, you are giving us permission to use the stories on diemonday.com and nowhere else without your permission View more...
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