Not Red Dot, Feather!

As many of you know, my stop-gap occupation at the moment consists of supervising the handicapped through various odd jobs. Due to the nature of the company that owns me (No Chicken George), there's a handful of other ventures operating under the same umbrella that occasionally need to borrow labor from one of the other ventures, in order to reach their objectives. None of the above explanation is terribly interesting, but it's also helpful to aid one in understanding just how I spent Monday's work day playing cribbage and eating pizza at "The Center". "The Center" is kind of like "The Max", from Saved by the Bell, except for Zach Morris and Kelly Kapowski have been replaced by about two dozen mentally ill people from Appleton, Wisconsin. So I'm stumbling through my first day as social director for the deranged, getting acclimated to my surroundings, and I strike up a conversation with one of the members, a 6'4" Indian guy I'll call "Godfrey". Motherfucker was straight out of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest", wearing a Canadian Tuxedo that really set off his aviator sunglasses and his neck brace, presumably making me, the mouthy honky, Jack Nicholson. Seeming relatively funny, and not particularly dangerous, I gravitate to the man, and accept graciously when he challenges me to a game of cribbage. Hours pass, laughs are had, chips are eaten, iced tea is drank. As the day ends, one of the other members asks why he wasn't on the bus today.

Godfrey: "I ran out of passes."
Random: "Oh, did you forget to call in for new ones two days in advance?"
Godfrey: "Nope, called in on Thursday."
Random: "Then why weren't you on the bus?"
Godfrey: "No mail delivery today. Columbus Day. (Takes long drink of coffee). I just keep getting fucked by that guy. (Walks out door)."

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That anecdote was brought to you by the Cleveland Indians, your future American League Champions.

To justify you all reading my long awaited return blog post, here's a comedy bit from Doug Benson, a man far more hilarious than I.