Surviving a disaster makes one stronger; even greater than the growth of rising to the challenge of adversity, surviving makes one wish hell found another place to loiter.

After most disasters, the media moans about the lack of prepartions. But, in all fairness, disaster planning is a tricky science. Every scenario implies countless actions and reactions. Today I salute the zookeepers in Tama, Japan.

Concerned about the possibility of a lion attack, the zoo staff conducted a simulation. A zoo keeper ran upright, and in full costume, wrecking havoc. A breakneck chase ensued throughout the park. The mad lion raced about, tail akimbo

Final score: zookeepers 1, faker lion hopped up on crack 0.

Outside came the roar of a great happening mobile, and the smell of tasty snacks. Reaching the street, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I took a closer look.

It was them! Scooby and the gang! Heading right for a snowbank. I shouted look out! And then….

The van fishtailed and Fred lost control. I shouted Oh no!

Rut roo. Too late. So I rhoned for a Medirac. The moral of the story: just because you have an SUV doesn’t mean drive hopped up on Scooby snacks.

Joe Armstrong wants to kick your butt. He wants to kick everyone’s butt. Not only that, he wants you to pay for such a service. Before pushing him down the stairs in a preemptive strike, consider that he won’t be the one kicking your butt – you will. Yes, you will pay him so that you can kick your own butt.

Mr. Armstrong is the holder of a breakthrough patent in sadism, a self-operated device that kicks the users buttocks. Capable of “repetitive blows” this device is sure fire hit at any family function or Best Buy company picnic. No word on pricing at Walmart.

Thank you Joe Armstrong for such comic relief this morning.

On the short story front, Editor person is revising. Since Master Buddhapuss speaks on Friday, I’ll post the story on Tuesday. Due to the length and my conviction that 8 out of 10 people won’t scroll on the web, it’s broken into smaller pieces that consist of three posts on three consecutive days. This will make reading and commenting more manageable. Once everyone speaks their peace, I’ll revise and repost as a single PDF available to all mailing list members.

Just before graduating college I worked at a convenience store and learned the true meaning of hell. A rundown affair, the store was dirty, cramped and smelled of bleach and bubble gum. The freezers busted every other week and no one cared that the ice cream melted and recrystallized. Customers paid with food stamps and dollar bills marked with hash stains. My coworkers smoked weed next to the garbage dumpster behind the building.

However, the experience was invaluable, because the job proved that there were worse tortures than high school. Truly, the gig wasn’t all bad – there were clerk perks. I showed up on time, didn’t steal, counted out correctly and never asked for a raise. In short – the dream employee. As a reward, Atul left me alone and unsupervised for days or weeks at a time. He also gave me several raises.

Such a “favored employee status” provided fine opportunities for taunting customers without fear of retribution. Atul never fired anyone who was honest. I abused this trust daily.

For instance, customers often lit cigarettes on the way into the store.

Sam ( takes a long drag and exhales then spies customer lighting up ): No smoking.
Customer: Oh excuse me, register jockey boy. You’re smoking!
Sam: And you are a customer. Until the magic conversion kit morphs this establishment into a bar or restaurant it’s illegal to smoke in here.
Customer: Why?
Sam ( exhales ) : ‘Cause its a danger to the employees health. You trying to kill me?
Customer ( leaves in a huff ): F****** Jerk.
Sam: And also are you. Thank you, come again.

And did someone ring the deli service button?

Sam: Deli is closed.
Customer: The sign says its open till six pm. It’s 10 am.
Sam: The slicer’s broken. Deli is closed. Thank you.

By the way, that slicer was the one piece of equipment that always worked. Gosh, there were just so many opportunities for venting at innocent strangers. Compare this advantage to an office job where customers rule all.

Customer: Hey, can I pay for a Playboy with food stamps?
Sam: Let me think about that. Gee, not unless theres some milk, bread, butter or cheese spread on those pages.
Customer: Is there anyway around that?
Sam: Sure, I’ll open the deli and cut you a few slices of Swiss cheese.
Customer: You don’t have to be rude.
Sam: And you don’t have to buy that Playboy and I don’t have to sell it to you. In fact, how about some ID?

Ah, the good times never stopped.