“Don’t You Judge Me!”

I like how in this picture, which took way too long to take, you still can't see the pants this whole blog starts off with.

After years of procrastinating, I’ve finally bought a pair of pants that fit.  Once I had them on, I had to fight the urge to immediately remove them.  I could feel them on me!

“No!,” I shouted to myself, “you’re supposed to be able to feel the pants on your hips.  That’s how normal people dress.”

Soon came the rush of elation at not needing to wear a belt.  I am freed from their artificial constraints.  Today, if I choose to wear it, it will be purely decorative.

Unfortunately this “proper dressing” also means that I would have to dig out an actual shirt too.  It wouldn’t do to have on classy pants and an ill-fitting tee shirt that stinks of apples (or even pears!).  So I found a polo that stinks of cucumber instead; mission accomplished.

All dressed up.

It feels strange to be dressed appropriately.  The last time this happened I was offered work.

Some (obviously desperate) business woman accosted me in Manhattan; asking if I wanted a job.  According to her I had “the look” she was looking for.

Naturally I immediately checked my pockets to ensure that my wallet was still there.  I might be a South Florida bumpkin, ma’am, but I’m knowledgeable of the ole pickpocket distraction tricks.  

Reassured by the presence of all of my 30 cents, I answered her query with a firm, “No.”  I did not want a job.  “I’m just here to stroll around New York listening to noise bands.”  Then, always prone to inappropriate conversation, I followed up with the classic, “Do you like pizza?” line.

It’s funny.  There’s all these people looking for work, yet it always seems to fall into my lap, the one guy who doesn’t want it.  I’m much too young at heart to be gainfully employed.  I’d rather chew off a finger than fill out an application.  

Clearly those in need of employment need to start dressing neatly and aimlessly wander the boroughs of a megalopolis.

Even funnier is the simple fact that I had a look she liked, while her own look made me uncomfortable.  I was, after all, there to spend three weeks watching noise bands.  

This was the fateful trip where I was “immortalized” in the Aa parking lot photo.  Finding new bands with which to annoy my own (equally) annoying seventh-graders was practically a(nother) full-time job.  This trip turned out to be a goldmine, providing me with all types of scuzzy audio perversion. Except for the Twink album, The Broken Record, which I also received on this trip. An album which is beloved by children and carny folk throughout this great land of ours.  (That album, and my adventures with it, seriously need to be written down.)

Later, upon returning to the couch I was crashing on, my friend’s (soon to be ex-) roommate offered me another chance at work!  Forty bucks to help him move his stuff to the house he had just bought.  As we now all know, I’m naturally inclined to sloth, and by no means did I want to sully my silken hands by carrying around his strangulation porn collection.  So I declined employment for the second time that day.  

Yet unlike the pleasant businesswoman from earlier that morning, this businessman then became incredulous: 

“What!?!  It’s an easy forty bucks!,” he shouted.  “Who cares if the girls are being choked as they perform fellatio?  So what?  Don’t you judge me!”      

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