Wheres My Cow?

Watching: My grades slip under the radar.
Listening to: Metalocalypse (I'm actually not watching it, but I've seen every season anyways I think).

So, let me start by saying, work is bad. It's very bad. It's a super bad influence especially when certain individuals are thrown into the equation and my insanity is allowed to rear its misshapen little head. I ended up in tears from laughter twice tonight, and really, I can't remember what was funny either time. But it had to have been awesome.

Given that, one of my coworkers, was explaining a series called DiscWorld to me tonight and the book, Where's My Cow came up. And then up, up, up again and twenty-two minutes later twice more. Because she's determined to force me to read this children's book. The series is English (as in UK) written, about forty books long and seems filled with a fantastical array of wonderful characters. I may be getting into this soon. So that's why the title.

I'm easily influenced, obviously.

A few days ago at work I was left (rightfully so) in charge of filling up a four-way with 3.50 tees. We had eight colors and four bars, so I decided to layer them in specific color scheme. We had black, white, grey, purple, blue, yellow, green and red. Naturally, I mixed them to symbolize things I care about. I mixed black and yellow, because come on, who doesn't love bees? They give us honey, they dance to communicate, and if you keep your heart rate low, they don't overwhelm and kill you with their thousands of soldier bee stingers.

Next came purple and green, and oddly the box had the perfect shades for this, to represent our favorite preschool dinosaur: Barney! You say Baby Bop and I'll kick your ass, I swear it, because she always annoyed me with her little blanket and big head and being a different species from Barney but somehow still being related. Then, there was blue and grey. Sorry folks, but seeing as how my dad's from Texad, I've always held a special place for them Cowboys.

The best one of all? Red and white. You know. Colorful vomit, like when you ate a bunch of fruity pebbles for breakfast and spun too fast on the hand-turned little go-round thing that was far too dangerous for children but too much fun not to be on the playground? You know the one. You flung your friends off of it sixty times a week until one of you broke your arm. My favorite about this is: This one sold first! Haha. Yeah. Go me and my marketing genius.

Also, given that I work in coastal Virginia about a hop and skip away from Norfolk, I meet interesting people who know even more interesting things. For instance, we were discussing gangs tonight (not like Maple Street or Butter Cream, guys). Now, one of my exes claimed to be a 'Blood', which I found ridiculous that a white kid from San Diego would be initiated but whatevers, so I thought I'd heard about everything I could on gang formatting.

Apparently not.

There we are at eleven something, straightening our hearts out to get the fuck on out of that soul sucking fiasco of a store, when one of my coworkers talks about bangers and texting. She went on about how annoying it was to get a text from a gang member because it took so long to decipher what they hell they were saying, since they have banned letters.

At this point, I was like, wait. What? Seriously? What does that mean?

She explained that Bloods can't use C, due to it being associated with their rivals Crips. So instead of saying something like, Chilling with my cousins, it's be Billing with my bousins.

And I thought there was no lower point for society to sink to. I seriously thought she was fucking with me. No. This shit is for real. That banger down your street that acts like he'll cap (I'm sorry, bap) a cop (bop) speaks in a code written by a fucking third grader passing notes in math. I mean seriously. I look around the world and point to a random country and their gangs are gonna see ours and piss themselves laughing. You think the mob speaks pig latin to confuse rival thugs?

And there are codebooks for this shit!

Anyways, so we keep talking. She goes on to say how she wishes they'd spend their time doing something useful if they have the time to be making these mind-bending codes. She mentions how there aren't many successful gang members in the world. You don't see them graduating from college or getting promoted or anything.

I said "Of course not. They can't fucking write. I mean, they go to college, take an intro class, have to write a report on Canada. They turn in a paper names Banada and they flunk out because the teacher can't take them seriously at this point."

Seriously, America? The Russians have the mob. The Italians have the Mafioso. We have the Brips and the Cloods. I never thought I'd say this, but heavens, I'm disappointed in our gangs. Can't we put them in some sort of code-breaking class so they can at least learn something cool? Because I think if I was at gunpoint and they started up with that letter switching crap that I'd die laughing. Seriously.

I have thirteen year old fan girls who are scarier than that. And I mean that. I've been threatened three times. Once with the rabbits and twice with clowns.

So I mosey home (at 1 am. Again. God I love my job.) check my email, as is my routine, and smile. Because I know the night will end well when my sista from another mista sends me something titled "You Know I Don't Troll, but...". Sarah makes my heart sing haha.

Also, bought girl scout cookies. Will be sending some to lil bro for him to enjoy while nursing his shank wound.

Lastly, my buddy boy Nico graduated from Basic and is at his school in Mississippi, ready to learn some awesome skills over the next couple of months! W00t! Super proud of him.

Alright, so, I'm spacing out.

Peace.