According to the Koran, it is strictly forbidden for a man to touch any woman’s hair, other than his wife’s.
One day Jama, the Somali fairy, approached me and asked if he could touch my hair. I let him, and he gave it a few quick strokes. He thanked me and walked away. He returned a few minutes later and asked if he could do it again. Odd, but I let him do it again. He didn’t touch my head, but he took the bottom portion of hair in both hands and began running his fingers through it for about a minute. Then he thanked me again and told me how very pretty it was and how much he enjoyed it, in an almost flustered way.
“That good, huh?”
“Yes, it was very nice.” He said, as he grinned and fanned his face. I snickered, and he skittered away, like a boy who had just stolen a kiss.
The next day, he came in with a broken finger. I asked him what had happened.
“I slammed it in a car door, it hurt very bad, I almost cried. I ask myself why Allah would let this happen, then I remembered that I touched your hair.”
“And what did you learn?” I asked.
“It was you! Your hair is a curse! You cursed me! I can never touch it again, or next time He will take my hand!”
I smiled as I waved at him with the end of my ponytail. “You want to touch me? I am soft and shiny!” I taunted.
“Oh! Oh! I have to go!” He spat as he scurried off.

Training Games 2nd Edition

Another entry about the Puerto Rican. They sent me out on routes with her twice and I swore her demise in the event of a third. So they sent her out alone. It was supposed to be 130 papers in Richfield, but she whined her way down to 50. Now this assignment was 2 streets, 3 blocks per street, almost every house receiving a paper. Sober math tells us that your average idiot could fill a sack with papers, and walk through the yards chucking a paper onto every porch you pass. A person of average health can walk a block in 5-7 minutes. A generous deduction would conclude that this would take less than an hour, with perhaps 20 minutes for the commute to and from work. Wait for it......3 hours later, she had 30 papers left. They sent me to find her. She had her dog with, which meant she went home to get it, which could only have added 20 minutes.
"You brought a dog?"
"Its dangerous out here, I need protection."
"You're in fucking Richfield! .....In any event, what in god's name have you been doing out here for 3 hours?"
"Delivering papers. By the way, can you tell them I'll bring back the cell phone tomorrow, I'm really tired and just want to go home."
I had to end the conversation, as I was dumbstruck. (Keeping the phone after the shift is serious company theft, but apparently she didn't care) So I saved her ass by taking the phone back myself, and refused to help her with the rest of her papers. I suggested she teach her dog to help. Anyway. Thanks to my scathing reports about her inability, upon her return to work she was escorted into Angela's office, with the door locked behind her. She survived this ordeal somehow, as I saw her walk out on her own two legs. What occurred in that room was not relayed to us, but we do know that she no longer works for the Star Tribune. I am the minority, once again.

Training Games

Who remembers the Saturday Night Live skit where Mango met J-Lo?
"Can you catch a falling star without burning your hand? No. Such is Mango." "Can you piss off a Puerto Rican and live to tell about it?"
Well I am here to tell you that I can now cross this one off my list. They are a fiesty breed.
Emily, the new Puerto Rican troubleshooter, (troubleshooters are the minions who clean or do the pariah work. I usually trick them into being my assistant so I can take more breaks) Anyway, it takes her 20 minutes to hand out 6 bundles of news, and I mean lift it out of the cart and hand it to the fairy. She refuses to do routes. "its cold, its too much work, its dangerous, I'm a woman, you can't expect me to do this blah blah blah" She is a whiny self-important bitch that doesn't understand that being paid means working for it. She just wants to strut around in her little cabbie hat and dark glasses complaining about how tired she is and how she can't possibly get her business started with these stupid hours.
Pete-master sent us both to uptown. That sadist. He wanted me to try to fix her, but uptown routes are more difficult, not to mention the crack heads that will surely be underfoot. I eventually got sick of her complaining about how she really wanted to be home by 6:30 and she couldn't believe we had to do this. And so after a certain point, every time we got out of the car I made her carry the bag with 30-50 newspapers in it, I locked the car so she couldn't get back in and pout. I had her running city blocks, up and down 4+ flights of stairs, and she had to keep up because I told her if I got to the car first I would leave without her. It was great. The look in her eyes was murderous, but she knew I was her only ride home.
In the latter point of our mission, she started complaining again about how tired she was and how she couldn't do the last few papers because she was falling asleep. So I floored it and ran three stoplights, the second almost broadsided a car; the third almost took out a pedestrian. She was hyperventilating and babbling, I asked her if that had woken her up. When we were done she leaped out of the car and ran to hers. Good times.

I woke up and turned my head toward the closet, just as a tall black man emerged from the bathroom. His head left my line of vision as he neared the edge of the loft bed. Then his long fingers wrapped around the edge, just inches from my face, and suddenly his eyes were staring into mine. He leapt on top of me, his knees digging into my chest, his mouth whispering into my upturned ear, while his long fingers tap-tapped on the upper corner of my skull, telling me to just be quiet, shh, just give me what I want. Had I locked the door before going to bed? Or were the nightmares just getting more vivid? I started screaming, he jumped off of the loft with a crash and ran back into the bathroom. I was paralyzed for about 20 minutes, waiting to either wake up or for him to come back. Finally I forced myself off of the loft. I went outside, crawled into my trunk and went back to sleep. Later, still in the trunk, I flipped a coin to determine whether it would be Canada or Mexico. I ended up in Mora. Good enough. I might keep going but I'm definitely going to wait a few days before I go back. In retrospect perhaps this wasn't the best idea. If he was real, he's probably already pawned all my stuff. If he was a dream, eventually I'll have to sleep again, though somehow I do feel a sense of accomplishment.

I spent 17 hours cleaning my house. Now that you can see the floor, it has become evident that all this time, I was not hallucinating, but in actuality, I have 10,000 roommates. I witnessed and documented the tribal wars taking place between the centipedes under the couch and the spiders in the dining room. I sprayed the floors and the furniture, and then drank champagne while I collected the corpses. Then last night I was sitting on the couch and I saw a spider coming down from the ceiling. I looked up at the picture rail along the top of the wall and noticed many webs crisscrossing the trim, all along the damn living room. Crafty swine. The toxic floor instigated a mass exodus. So I attacked the ceiling. A brilliant idea at 3 in the morning, when all the vapors float down to permeate the entire apartment and I'm about to go to sleep. But I was not to be driven off by the enemy. I would wait out the storm…… I was high as a kite for four days. The fog has since lifted, and as of late there has been no sign of them. Though now that I'm awake I'm hallucinating spiders everywhere and my apartment is foggy. A lesson to you all, do not fumigate your entire apartment and then immediately sleep in it. I'm at Pandora’s now, and my headache is going away with the fresh air. However, I've grown weary of supporting an ecosystem. If they do return, I shall petition the survivors to seek gainful employment.

So when we ordered the New York Times, they only sent half of them. I don’t know if Brian, my assistant, decided to take up a crack habit or what, but when he took his route he didn’t take any of the Times. So then my stash of Times goes to Gary, the other Supervisor. Brian comes back and I’m forced to give him Jama’s Times. Jama comes in and has none. Angela hears about this. I knew that the head of the beast was turning, so I hastily mentioned that Brian might be smoking crack, and also that the missing keys incident wasn’t my fault because Luis is drunk. She turns on me and starts screaming that it was all my fault and I needed to watch the fairies closer. These are all adults, mind you, and Brian is on the fucking staff. I called the bank to see how much money I had to see how long I could survive without a job. Jon was being nice to me for once, so I confided to him that if that troll yelled at me again, I would walk, and that he should plan accordingly. Gary started whining about how there were rubber bands all over the floor. Honestly. I finally get sent out. I run into Jama in a dark alley. He asks me how I am, I tell him that Angela is a crazy raving bitch, and that I want a new job. He says that I am such a sweet girl and its really too bad that they treat me this way. Very sweet. And Beautiful. So very beautiful, as he advances toward me with a strange look in his eye. In frustration, I shriek the word, “FUCK!” at him, and walk back to my car. He looks bewildered as I drive away. I stop off at 33rd and Blaisdell to check an apartment address. The main door is broken, so I wander in. Its dingy, dimly lit and trash is strewn everywhere, like the Brooklyn slum apartments you see in movies. On the second floor, I ran into two homies leaning on the entryway, smoking out of a light bulb. They gave me a visual once over and asked me how I was doing. I told them I wasn’t in the mood for this right now. The taller one said he could hook me up and I could repay him by sucking his dick. There was a folding table propped against the wall where they were standing. I asked him if it was his, he said yes, I said well its mine now, and walked out of the building. I called work so I could get punched out. Jon did so, and asked if they could expect me back on Thursday. At least I got my point across.

Burrito Stalker

We were supposed to have lunch. He came over with the food. He set down the bag and I began showing him around my house and making small talk. He lasted five minutes. He looked at me, his lip was quivering and he had a desperate and deranged look in his eyes. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” “What? I don’t know.” “Do you want to be my girlfriend, I like you very much.” “Well, you’re nice and all, but I don’t really know you all that well and maybe we could ju-“ and then he lunged at me. He started kissing me, and I went along with it for a few seconds, as I had to process what was happening. His hands went to my butt, I moved them and pushed him away. He grabbed me again, resumed kissing and his hands went up my shirt. I pushed him off and asked what the hell he thought he was doing. He told me how beautiful I was while taking off his own shirt. He tried to get into my bra and pants this time. I pushed him off and told him that this wasn’t what I had expected when I invited him over. He said it was ok because he really liked me, as he took off his pants. He pulled me onto the couch and laid on top of me, while attempting to go about his business, all the while telling me how much he loved me and how hot I was. I kicked him off and told him he was never allowed back in my house again. He jumped up and began apologizing profusely while pulling his pants back on. I was sitting on the couch staring at him in disbelief, when he walked up to me, his groin aimed at my face. “Please, honey, you make me so hot.” “Well that’s your own fault.” I said. I moved my hands toward his fly, he got all excited thinking that this was it, I merely zipped him up and told him to leave. Disappointment crossed his face. He pulled me up and then sat down on the couch, pulling me on top of him. He opened his pants again and kept trying to push my head down. When I protested, he asked why this was such a big deal, he watches pornography and the American women always beg for more. They love sex more than anyone. Sarcastically, I said that’s because they get paid for it. He then asked how much I wanted; $10, $20? It would start at at least $1000, you fuck, now get out. “$1000?” he asked, “nobody’s worth that, what are you talking about? Now come here, my love.” I told him that some friends were coming over, they’d be here in about 20 minutes if he wanted to wait, he could meet them. Oddly, that seemed to work. He told me he would see me later, and went out the door. He called me three times the next day, as I was trying to go to sleep. I wrote him a text message saying what he did wrong, why it was bad, and not to call me again. He immediately called back, which I ignored. He texted back about how very sorry he was, but it’s because he really likes me. I told him he had ruined his chances and to never call me again. He immediately called back. I wrote back asking if he couldn’t read Spanish. He wrote back asking me to please please answer the phone. I told him I was going to sleep, quit fucking calling me. After laying in bed for awhile, I finally had to turn off the phone. I had 16 voice messages when I woke up. Andy offered to break his arms for me, but then realized that crippling an employee would hinder productivity. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. On a lighter note, I got a burrito out of it.

Jama the Somali fairy and I have resolved our differences. On Sunday I went to tell him something and he told me I was beautiful and that I should kiss him. I told him he was an idiot and that I was his master. He repeated his demands. I told him I would be right back. I collected all the feminine perfume samples I could find. I then told Jama to place his hands palms down on the table in front of him. I instructed Cecil to hold him (it should be noted that Cecil is built like a Viking quarterback, and is also a former gangsta, covered with related tattoos. He has since found God and wears the corresponding t-shirts, all the while retaining the visible tattoos and doo-rags.) I then passed out the perfume samples to all of Team Ricardo and they were instructed to rub Jama down with them. They looked at me quizzically, to which I reminded them that that was a direct order and yes they were getting paid for this. Jama was so confused that he didn't put up much of a fight, (and 300 pound Cecil was restraining him, while spitting, “Girl, what da hellz wrong wit choo? Girl you crazy!!) When I had been appeased, I cackled and said "Take that home to your wife!" buwahaha

Rikki and I went to the '90's last Sunday. We met Nate, who was sporting the short, gelled wet look, eyeliner and a t-shirt that said, “I’d do me.” He dragged me onto the dance floor, and I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. He turned his back to me, gyrated closer, and then somehow made his ass vibrate for a full minute. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to stare or try to dance around it. We were then abducted by the fantastic flaming army and taken to "Gay Perkins". I have never seen so many queens all in one place. I had no idea there was a gay Perkins. I was there man, in the thick of it. Then there was a scuffle in the parking lot between a valley girl and a flamer. Afterward we were all subjected to a hilarious overdramatic lisping rant about how the cow got blood all over his brand new Versace. (They were only pinprick spots that you could barely see.)
And now I'm off to the falls for the noonish spelunking.

So. I decided to go to Hinckley again. I was going to visit that head case Melody and discuss with her the issues that occurred at my party, like bringing people in off the street, talking about taboo issues, and the like. Apparently she doesn't remember anything after the last friend showing up. All right. Well this, this, and this are things that you should never do.
5 shots later we're talking about life, and I was making an honest effort not to give my opinion because lately I just don't fit in at hick bars. Which is a good thing, but I always forget until I'm too drunk to censor myself. Anyway, I told her how it really was, she responded by ashing her cigarette on me, and I threatened to break her nose. She brushed all the ash off me and told me I could make it up to her by buying a round of shots. I told her to fuck herself, finished my drink and walked to my car. Well, she followed me, so I gave her a ride home.
She kept up the conversation and it was all I could do not to run that side of the car into a damn tree. I just don't have any patience for these fools anymore. I think I'm done with Hinckley for a while, at least until she moves to Duluth.

Our sad, ne'er do well rival depot had grown desperate. 11 fairies were unaccounted for and another had shown up without a car. Salivating at this irresistable chance to exploit us, they demanded help. I was chosen to find said depot and chauffer the fairy around his route. The depot in question was nestled in the heart of downtown St. Paul. You all know how inept I am at navigating that accursed vortex.

After driving in circles for awhile, I arrived. I was standing in a dimly lit, sub-zero parking lot when a man was directed to my car. This man, apparently less than educated, scurried to and fro loading his papers while keeping his head down and murmuring rapidly and incoherently to himself. Another story for the book, I thought.

There is not much to be told about our first few hours together, except that we barreled around over the ice and snow through downtown St. Paul as he educated me in heated ebonics about the perils layed down by the man to those who do not pay their child support. I recall such humorous statements as "How da ELL wuz I suppose ta know dat my license was suspended?! Man, I wuz ComPli-an wit my responsaBiliTeeZ!! But rightsa bout now I gots to do wut I gots to do. I went down to dat court, man and dat judge wunt playin, man dat judge ain't PLAYIN."

He had 300 papers to do. We had 100 left when he told me that no matter what, come 6:00, he was dipping out to his other job, because if he was late, he would be fired, and he needed to keep a certain income to appease child support. I told him he would need to finish this route before leaving. He reiterated, I retorted that he would lose this job if he left. The arguments continued, he eventually took some papers into an office building.

A car pulled up next to me and sat with its flashers on. I called the St. Paul depot but I got the machine. I told them that their idiot fairy was planning to bail, leaving me with 50 papers. I informed them that this was their problem, not mine, and I would leave them on the sidewalk of 7th and Cedar. If they had any further suggestions, none of which included me delivering them, of course, they could feel free to call me.

The fairy comes out of the building and talks to the other car. He then approaches my car and attempts to say his good byes. I tell him that if he wants his job to be done, he will do it himself. He starts yelling about how he needs to get to his other job. I inform him of my plan to leave the papers on the sidewalk next to the unconscious wino. He said he didn't care and got into the other car, which sped away. I called Andy with my plight, and the masters decided that I would be directed by phone to each address.

Is anyone familiar with the spider web of highway ramps between the Capitol and the Kelly Inn? Yeah, whatever dude. After an hour of driving in circles, I heatedly told Andy that it wasn't going happen, I wasn't doing it, and I had shit to do that did not allow me to drive around til noon or however fucking long this was going to take. I parked at the Kelly Inn and stole some bagels from the continental breakfast while he met with the council. He called back, the new plan was for him to guide me back to the St. Paul depot by phone. I was to leave the papers on their porch and let them do it.

When I arrived at said depot, .....wait for it...... THE FAIRY WAS WAITING FOR ME!!! "I been back here 3 times lookin for you! Where you been? I gots to deliver my route or I'll lose my job, gimme my papers, woman!" For god's sake. On another note, if his wife (who was driving the get away car) still had her license, could this not have all been avoided by having her drive him around instead of me? He and the wife started unloading my car, and as soon as the last paper was out, I hit the gas and was gone. I was almost home when the St. Paul master finally called me back. I unloaded this story on him, and let him know what I thought of his employees. He waited for me to finish, then asked where the papers were. I hung up on him. Pete-master bought me breakfast in appreciation that I haven't quit yet.