Today, in the probation office, I met a cute girl and got her number. Her boyfriend came to pick her up so I sent her a text that said, “Boyfriend, huh?”
Her response: “Only until I get DL back. Ha ha.” (DL means driver’s license.) Some moments in life reinforce the feeling that you should hate the human race as much as you love the human race and this text was a written example of such a moment. Fucking bitches.
Hitting on a chick in a probation office is actually easier than you might think (assuming this is the kind of thing you’ve ever thought about, which I understand may be a bold assumption). The key is to get that phone number as quickly as possible because you never know when some lady will pop out of the office and whisk away your beautiful law violator.
To prevent her early dismissal from our conversation I used the following line, “Please give me your phone number as quickly as you can. I don’t want this to be the last time we meet.”
And it fucking worked.
I was as surprised as you probably are (again, I’m assuming here—I do that a lot).
When my newly appointed PO asked me where I wanted to do my community service hours, and I told her that I’m a local volunteer anyway, she looked me up and down twice and then said, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“You asking me out?”
“No, but I have a friend who always falls for the wrong kind of guy. You seem like the type that is just wrong enough for her, but not so wrong that you’ll empty her bank account and steal her car.”
“What kind of car we talking?”
Her expression turned to metaphorical stone.
“Kidding,” I said.
Thankfully, she laughed.
In the same building that houses my probation office, there is a soup kitchen. When I was a kid, my mother volunteered me to work in soup kitchens. And I’m glad to report that feeding the homeless is pretty much the same as I remember it. Except they don’t call it a soup kitchen.
They call it a hospitality center.
On the long list of things I really don’t want to understand, that name change ranks in the top five percent. I mean, I can’t even bring myself to think about why the name change was necessary, how it came about and who made it happen. I don’t want to. I’m not a particularly sensitive guy, but I can’t handle our culture’s forced self-deception when it comes to the nature of words. It makes me angry.
Maybe in a little while I’ll be able to think about this rationally.
Thankfully, I don’t have to. The All Star Game is coming on soon.
4 comments:
Loved ur observations.I've always wanted to read a piece about how u would raise a child 4 some reason.Im sure it would be great.... And i can comment here with my cell so i like this place.
I don't understand that PC renaming crap either. If they called it "Place where you poor bastards can eat" there would still be a line for soup.
Excellent work. I was where you are once, except my family kept calling it parole. VERY different situations.
And why in the hell don't you submit writing to magazines and the like? You couldn't make a living that way?
You're surprised/disappointed that the girl in the PO's waiting room was less than forthright?
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