IF I Only Could I Surely Would

October 10, 2009 at 10:21 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  It’s about 930 on a Saturday night, and normally I would be working.
  But I got fired, remember?  It doesn’t bother me, not at all.  I thought it would bother me a bit–Christ, they were right to do it.  Not only for the reason they did but because of my attitude.  Certainly, it would have become a problem.  And I’m not sorry for any of it, either, so there you go. 
  The thing I am sorry for is the problems I’ve caused my buddy Mike, who I feel like…

  It was an intense firefight.  The battle had raged on for almost two weeks, both sides firmly entrenched as they tried to take this tiny hill on this tiny island.  It was only one of hundreds in the South Pacific, why did this *one* matter?  Because the Commander said.  Take this island, hold this ground.  It is of strategic importance.
  It was night now, and both sides were quiet.  The American encampment was at the bottom of the hill.  The Nips got there first, and they held the top.  A Jap pillbox gave the Marines no end of trouble.  The Sergeant came down with orders.  "I need two volunteers."  Bryan and Mike, the two grizzled veterans of the outfit, stood up.  Mike growled, "Let’s do this shit."
  The mission was to sneak up to the pillbox, create a diversion, toss in some grenades.  This would get the Americans up this side of the hill, on an even keel with the Japanese.  They were trekking through the jungle at night, snaking up an unseen path.  Sneaky and fun.  The fortification was insight.  Wordlessly, they signaled to each other.  Bryan went to create a diversion, and hopefully take out some guards while he was at it.  Mike went the other way, armed with grenades.
  Bryan never completed his objective.  It’s as though someone knew what they were up to.  Was there as spy?  Oddly, these were his last thoughts as he was cut down by automatic weapons fire.  As he lay there and bled out, he could see the stars.  But he would never see home again.  And he couldn’t warn Mike, couldn’t stop him, couldn’t tell him–it was all a big joke.  Just a joke, he gasped and choked as his throat filled with blood.  Dimly, he could hear other gunfire taking Mike out.  "It was just a joke," Bryan thought, as the lights went out on him.

  I guess I feel like it’s an invasion of privacy.  Do you have a warrant, mister?  Yeah, I know I post the shit on line, and yeah I know it’s public.  But instead of reading JUST the part you feel is relevant, you need to read the rest of this, to know the context.  And by the way, there is alot of it.  Did you read about my divorce?  My children?  My childhood?  My hopes and dreams?  Did you read about my past experiences with Domino’s Pizza, and how I always came back them, the faithful, loyal lapdog, ready to take it up the ass again for this completely misguided sense of duty that the corporate world has done it’s best to beat out of me? 
  To read this all is to not necessarily know the truth, because I don’t know the truth.  But to read this is to know *ME*.  To get a sense of what is in my heart and soul, for better or worse.  To know the demons I struggle with.  To know my pain and sorrow and everyday life.  To know my thoughts  and feelings.  To know that I’m full of shit.  To know that I mix truth with lies and fiction, as easily as you mix your anti-psychotics with your mood stabilizers.  Why do I do it?  Well, first of all I don’t need a reason.  Secondly, it’s how I am.  But thirdly, and the reason this whole thing started, is that I’m writing here to practice writing.  I want to be writer when I grow up.  I mix truth and fiction, trying to get a feel for *story*. I have novels that I want to write, I have stand-up comedy that I want to perform.  I *have* been on stage, you putzes, in case you didn’t know that.
  If you go back to the beginning and follow up to now, hopefully you will see an evolution in my writing technique.  I used to write like I talked.  Or worse, like I thought.  Slowly I learned to use tense more correctly, and also how to write a sentence more clearly.  Before, the last four sentences would have been one, filled with dashes, ellipses, commas, and a train of thought with no caboose.  I hope I’ve come a long way in terms of improving my technical skills at writing.  Of course, the creative part you can’t do much about. It’s rather like herpes.  Either you have it or you don’t, and if you do there’s not much you can do about it except wait it out or spread it around.
  Trying to incriminate Mike based on something I wrote here is laughable at best, and at worst it is the flimsiest sort of unsubstantiated rumor mongering there is.  You don’t know what really happened.  Your corporate guy was there, and he doesn’t know what really happened.  I could see it his eyes, the level of near-miss in his misunderstanding.  He almost, but not quite, knew what was going on.  (And I am speaking of course about the whole provel-cheese-on-thin-crust debacle, and not something more sinister as you would like to wish.)  Mike had very little idea what was going on.  And you, sitting there after the fact looking for clues in a ranting diatribe from a disgruntled former employee have *NO* idea whatsoever what is going on.  The role of supervisor is purely hindsight.  "You should have done that.  You should not have done this."  Come along after the fire is out, carefully analyze the situation, and then brilliantly say, "I’m going to call the fire department."

  There is a group of people whose job it is to monitor the internet for any and all references to their company, and I’m not even sure what they are looking for.  The shame of it is, as far as they are concerned, is that I’m not getting any money for this, otherwise–
  No, they still couldn’t make me stop.  It is still a free country, despite O-Fucking-Bama’s desire to control the airwaves and the internet and independent thought.
  But I’m wondering–and I’m talking to you, people at Domino’s Pizza Inc whose job it is to monitor the internet for any and all references to the aforementioned corporate entity–just how in the hell did you get such a lame job?
  And look, I don’t mind you reading it.  Enjoy.  But why not leave a comment once in a while, huh?  Let me know if you really enjoyed an article, or something like that, you know?  Don’t be a lurker.  Interact.  I need the encouragement.  Thank you and good night.


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