Sweet smell of death

I am hunter. 

I am killer.

I am genocidal.

I am man. 

What makes me such?

This does

Do I feel bad about murdering thousands upon thousands of innocent spiders in my garage?  Hell no.  They brought it upon themselves.  And if history's any indication, my wife's not willing to root out and kill all the eight-legged-freaks herself, so it's on me.

What brought this up? 

A little backstory...

A few years ago, I found out I was going to head out west and go to film school at USC.  Awesome.  What's not awesome?  Traffic.  I used to commute 45 minutes to work and 45 back - this was back when I worked at that god-awful, two-bit Fox TV station - and covered about 70 miles round trip.  Trying to get 70 miles in a DAY in Los Angeles is generally considered suicidal. 

The thought of spending vast amounts of time in my car not going to a wrestling show, sounded like kind of a bummer.  So, I did the only logical thing I could think of. 

I manned up by proving I have a small penis

I picked up a 1998 Yamaha Virago for a few thousand bucks and started putting rubber to the road.  Lane splitting, ocean air, and year-round operation way outweighed the fact that I would have been zipping around the second largest city in the country on a donorcycle with about three months experience. 

Of course, when we got out here, it took about six months just to get used to navigating Los Angeles, let alone figuring out the traffic patterns.  But that didn't seem to matter much, since the Virago's engine seized up three months before we moved. 

Crap

What does this have to do with spiders, you ask?  Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Impatient. 

Before the Virago stopped a-runnin', I gave it a real good wash-down.  The whole shebang.  Wash.  Wax.  Leather treatment.  That saddle was as slick as the Gulf of Mexico.

This was when I found it.  I pulled the pillion (passenger seat, pile-on seat, bitch seat) and found the world's biggest spider nestled in the world's biggest spider's nest. 

Like this, but in nightmare form

I wasn't even aware that spiders nested.  I thought they just spun some webs, talked to the occasional pig, and sometimes tried to take over the world after nuclear explosions.  This particular spider was a potential world destroyer at, perhaps, the size of a quarter. Obviously just a few days into its nuclear reaction, this little pest was using my Virago as a growing ground, feeding on the random bugs that liked to crawl all over the newly treated leather seat. 

And, now that I think about it, that little jerk was probably biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to kill and eat me.  He was like a farmer, but four times as effective (because spiders have four times the arms).  Maybe that's why I put on so much weight after I quit wrestling. 

Or it could have been the gallon a week...

In the most man-ish, high pitch squeal I could muster, I reached for the only weapon I could find.  A full bottle of Windex, which I unleashed with a terrible aggression.  Half a bottle later, the man-killer had either been poisened to death or drowned.  I was OK with either.  Had I been able to find the remains, I'd have mounted that sucker for the world to see.  Sever its head and mount it on a toothpick, warning others to stay away from my ride. 

For all I know, that spider enjoyed his bath, and just ducked under the main seat, waiting to absorb the Windex as a super-grow nutrient formula.  Maybe it was for the best that the bike broke down. 

But nowadays, I have another mode of transportation.

Bigger engine means even smaller penis

And this Suzuki Boulevard C50 sits in my garage with a very inviting pillion just beckoning to the black widows and brown recluse and all those other creepy crawlies to hitch a ride down the 405 just to snack on my liquefied insides.

Not on my watch.

I finally took the time to clean out the garage properly.  I uncovered so many spiders, my skin's still crawling after two weeks.  I can't believe I'd let it go so long.  Who knows how many time I've cheated sure death on the interstate.  If one of those guys crawled on my hand going 70 mph, I'd be tempted to dump the bike just to try to squish the sucker against the center barricade. 

So I set off the bomb. 

And there's nothing left to worry about. 

Shit

What happened to customer service?

This week's update is going to be a short one, as I've not had a lot of sleep lately, and I'm getting some medications zeroed in.  Long story... 

But this has to do with said long story. 

Is customer service a thing of the past? 

There used to be a time, really, not so long ago that one could walk into a department store and be asked by some brat kid with a mohawk "can I, like, help you or something?"

Now, they're just creepy looking

Now, you're lucky to even have a cashier at the grocery store.  I know this is a reach for the spirit of this blog, but it's my blog and dammit, I'm gonna reach around until I find something manly in here...

My story begins at the Rite Aid down the street from me and my mission to refill my Class B drug of choice: Adderol.  This is a very taboo drug in Los Angeles.  Everyone is on it, but no one really needs it.  We're all really ADD but it's because work is boring when it's beautiful outside and we're surrounded by ridiculously good-looking women all the time.

Ridiculously good-looking

But my journey into normalcy created by said Class B drug has had a lot of speedbumps along the way.  First...the pharmacies are on to all you doctor shoppers.  No one in the greater LA area carries Adderol's generic.  They carry the brand name and the Extended Release, which is close to $200 a month for 15mg without insurance.  Thank God for USC's anal insistence that students carry health insurance, else I'd have to take out some student loans to pay for all these obscenely high costs...

Maybe they should require college insurance.  Because man, if I could get away with just a co-pay for this 6-figure education...awesome...

I'm stuck on money... I need a positive USC distraction...

That's better

So, it turns out the only place within helicopter distance to my pad in the Valley that carries my particular prescription, dosage, and amount was the Walgreens in Tarzana.  Yes.  Tarzana.  The town named after the jungle man that happens to be situated in the desert.  Fair enough.  But this whole idea of driving (or riding) 15 minutes up the road to drop off my script, then wait the obligatory 20 minutes that inevitably equals out to 40 minutes worth of roaming the aisles, then the 15 minute ride back seems a bit silly when I have a Rite Aid 45 seconds from my pad. 

So I finally took the plunge and dropped off my script with what has to be the most inept bunch of medical folk I've encountered.  By law, one of them is supposed to have a Ph.D., right?  I can't imagine which online college the lady in charge graduated from, but my guess is it was an off-brand DeVry.

Study to be a doctor, a lawyer, and a basket weaver

I was under the impression that Rite Aid was world renowned for their customer service, answering prescription questions, and helping people escape the clutches of the automated blood-pressure machine.  But this place is different.  I immediately got the stink-eye for handing them my valid prescription. 

"Let's see:

Student?  Check.

Motorcycle?  Check. 

Cheap haircut? Check.

This guy's gotta be a pusher."

I know that's the inner monologue bouncing around in her melon.  "This guy's gonna cash in selling little blue pills to his classmates at $5 a pop.  I bet he's staying in school with the sole purpose of banking the possible $700+ a month this particular prescription could be worth."

Never mind my schooling is costing me $40k a year, my potential income as a screenwriter is somewhere between nothing a year and a few million a year, depending on how awesome I am...and if I have access to the medication that's gonna keep me thinking about words on paper instead of wandering from shiny thing to shiny thing.

Or shiny things...plural

 So, here I am, in my head, defending my need for a doctor prescribed medication to the pharmacist.  When I'm not in the mood for it, I don't deal well wih confrontation.  I tend to get walked all over. 

Maybe that's the man thing I need for this blog to be relavent.  Real men stand up for what's right, no matter how hard it is, or how uncomfortable you may end up feeling For instance...check out my facebook debate with Rebekah about gay marriage. 

Ha, I knew I'd find something if I reached around long enough.

Anyway, so it turns out, that they're going to fill the script.  So I ask a general, no harm question.

"Since I'll be a returning customer with a particular prescription need, will you keep this medication in stock, from now on, so that when I have to come in and get a refill, I don't have to wait 2-3 days?"

"No, we need a prescription."

"But you have one... in your hand."

"We don't carry medications without prescriptions..."

... I tried to fish for a smart ass response, but she literally turned and walked away.  Literally. LITERALLY. No thank you.  No I'm sorry.  No nothing.  Just walked away. 

I'd be inclined to believe her, since she is a Ph.D.  But there are (again) literally hundreds of bottles medications sitting on the shelves in my eyeline.  I know they carry the non-generic Adderol in smaller amounts.  Why would it be that difficult to carry my prescription? 

I wouldn't get an aswer, because she literally walked away.  This Rite Aid's customer service is balls.

That's right.   End on a high note.