This week completely bit ass in every possible way that an ass can be bitten.  It bit ass with giant mutated walrus vampire teeth like it was a Fat Camp escapee diving into a ten-pound steak for the first time in three months after smoking a truckload of weed and watching Wendy's commercials for a half-hour straight.  It sucked like Jenna Jameson syphoning gasoline out of your car and using it to fuel the Mega Maid from Spaceballs, which is turned on full blast and aimed at your pubic hair.  Somehow I don't even think my colorful and unneccesarily complex metaphors begin to describe how much I loathe back-to-school week and how this week in particular has been probably the worst week in recent memory.  Just to give you an idea of the bullshit I've been subjected to in the past four days, here is a top five list of things that sucked about this week.

1. It's Back to School Week at the Office

   I've already complained about the students and all the fucking bullshit they throw at me in another article, but it really goes beyond anything words can adequately describe once you see the fucking monstrosity of a diploma meat-grinder that is the university during back-to-school week.  Everyone from the dumbass LaRouchies to the militant housewife anti-abortionists to the religious freaks with giant flaming wooden crosses shooting out of their arms and signs proclaiming "The end of televangelism as we know it" are staked out somewhere on campus, pissing me off and chucking pamphlets at anything that stands still for more that five one-thousandths of a second, as if they were the overweight redneck (or hippie) handlers on those ESPN dog frisbee throwing competitions -- half expecting you to be so psyched up about the awesomeness of whatever retarded ethos they're attempting to feed you that you leap into the air, catch the pamphlet in your teeth, read their propaganda bullshit for ten seconds and then immediately convert to whatever dumbass fucking ideology they believe in.  On top of that you've got all the fucking students wandering around like dumbshits and packing out every single car in the greater Boston subway system like a fire ant infestation in your underwear, cadres of professors scrambling to get their shit together at the last minute because they spent all Summer jerking off instead of preparing for class, and a handful of staff and administrators who are about two fucking retarded questions away from flipping out and beating the shit out of people with baseball bats like they were Raphael Palmiero after he accidentally took Crack, PCP and Acid instead of his regular Steroid dosage.  It's an insane environment to work in, and it's a safe bet that out of every ten people you see wandering around campus like dumbfucks, nine of them actually have no fucking clue what the hell they're even doing or why they're even here to begin with.

   On top of this mountain of stupid-ass bullshit, I'm also apparently the contact guy for all the retarded shit that pisses people off within a twenty-five mile radius.  Professors and staff and other fucktards keep coming to me with their inane, unsolvable problems like, "Oh my God, I've had all summer to look at the course room assignments and never said shit about it but all of a sudden I realized I'm too fucking inept to walk half a block down the street to my classroom... can you switch my room assignment at the last minute because I know it's a major fucking inconvenience for you and doing shit like this makes the people in the Dean's office want to slowly choke the life out of you while cursing the name of your family?" or "Oh my God, the fucking Anesthesiology Building just collapsed, caught on fire, exploded and released toxic gasses into the atmosphere... see what you can do about acquiring gas masks for the entire population of the United States except for those people with Athsma because it's survival of the fittest out there", or even something as impossible as, "Oh my God, I'm really really fucking lazy and hate walking to the bank next door... can you get Payroll to fax me a Direct Deposit slip?".  It's fucking irritating.  I'm here to work on my website and get paid to sit on my ass doing nothing... not solve every single one of your stupid-ass inconsequential problems that I don't give a crap about.

   
   
   "Uh, Ben, will you see what you can do about this?"
   "Yeah, sure, I'll look into it for you."
   
   
   

2. I Am So Fucked in My Chinese Class

   Yeah, so over the summer I took a four-week intensive Chinese class and then spent ten days in China, walking around being awesome and asking Chinese citizens such mind-bogglingly intense questions as, "Where do you live?", "How are you?" and of course, "Are you prepared to die?", while doing fake Kung Fu moves and pretending I was a classically-trained ninja assassin.  It was all very excellent, so I decided to take full advantage of my free tuition benefits and take the subsequent Chinese course this semester.

   Mistake.

   First off, about eighty percent of the people in my class are actually Chinese.  And they're not just ethnically Asian-American or whatever, I mean that they actually fucking speak Chinese at home so what the fuck are they doing in a second-semester Chinese course.  The majority of them just don't know how to read or write it or some shit.  Maybe they're just looking for an easy "A" or something, but I think that if I was that desperate for a GPA higher than an inanimate uprooted tree stump I'd rather take something more along the lines of "Ping-Pong for the Elderly" or "Computer Basics I:  How to Turn It On" than "Beginning English for Non-Speakers".  Either way, I'm basically just like the stupid-ass white kid in there who apparently has some sort of freaky Asian fetish and laughably stumbles through sentences like, "I'm a fucking dumbass", or something else that these kids have been able to say for about twenty years now.  Plus, the book we're using took out all of the romanized subtitles of the Chinese Characters so I of course have no fucking clue how to say any motherfucking thing in the entire book.  Basically, whenever it's my turn to read something I just make a lot of Mandarin-esque ching-chong sounds really fast and hope nobody notices how abysmally I'm butchering their language.

   My teacher is also totally nuts in a Lo Pan way.  He's like a cross between Jet Li and a really dorky middle school math teacher who's spent too much time in the janitor's closet huffing paint thinner out of a calculator case or drinking industrial-grade cleaning products.  He over-exaggerates all of the Mandarin tones, so whenever he reads stuff off to us he sounds like a mix between a really really pissed off wet alley cat and an old-school 70's subtitled Kung Fu movie villain who's in the process of explaining the twenty-seven different styles he will use to destroy Bruce Lee and his entourage of cannon fodder bodyguards.  I'm never sure whether I should pay close attention to him or prepare to defend myself and the honor of a Shaolin Temple.  On top of that, he gets really pissed at us whenever we don't know anything in the book, which is pretty much all the time.  One of these days I honestly believe he's going to smash one of those small wooden desks to splinters with a well-placed hammerfist and then glare menacingly at me while the camera zooms in on his eyes.

   
   
   I can read one character on this mushroom trash can.
   
   

3. Staples Orientation

   Ah yes, the wonderful and exciting world of retail bitchwork.  There is truly no better place to go where you can demean yourself unnecessarily while simultaneously cultivating a bitter hatred for all of humanity.  I once again entered this prestigious and time-honored foray this week, offering my services to a local Staples office supply store.  "But why, Ben, WHYYYYYYYY?!?!?!", you may or may not be asking yourselves (depending on how much you actually give a shit... which is probably not much).  Well, this may come as a huge fucking surprise, but I'm actually broke.  Hot Andrea and I are currently saving money for a wedding that is going to cost us roughly seven country fair-winning prized cows, thirty-eight goats and seventeen giant self-animated chainsaw-wielding autonomous Golems made out of solid gold with diamond encrusted eyeballs and huge sparkling rubies for testicles.  This is mostly because we've really got our hearts set on on having a full regiment of Imperial Stormtroopers attend the reception and set up a three story tall robotic marble fountain shaped like F. Scott Fitzgerald that shoots milk chocolate and Xbox 360 games out of its eyes while finding hot chicks to give you handjobs.  Compare this massive economic undertaking with my bank account, which was about $31.05 as of last week, and you have a recipe for a guy who needs to find a job and stop being a lazy asshole douchebag.  I figured Staples was as good a place as any for employment, mostly because I was lazy and there's one near my house that was reportedly hiring fools like me with no relevant experience or skills.

   Mistake.

   Who would have thought that working at an office/school supply store would be so crazy around back-to-school time?  This was completely new information to me!  Anyways, they basically hired me on the spot when I dropped the application, pretty much because I was wearing a collared shirt and put together one single coherent sentence without drooling on myself and they were way too busy to try and formally interview me like some sort of regular respectable business.  I'm just kidding about the respectable business thing.  I LOVE Staples, it's management, vendors and subsidiaries, just like the good little brainwashed automaton droid that I'm supposed to be.

   Anyways, the orientation process there is pretty much inane.  You watch a couple of training skits, music videos and dumbass commercials where a creepy molester-looking guy and his band of over-excitable and delightfully ethnically-diverse associate friends let you know how WICKED AWESOME Staples is and you "You too can become a superstar with a career at Staples oh my God you'll make millions of dollars and love your job forever provided that you have no brainwave activity, are easily amused by bright colors and really enjoy getting yelled at and talked down to by bitchy soccer moms, half-broke yokel trash or inbred high school kids with their parents' credit cards and a more expensive car than you'll ever own in your entire life".  Then you have to take some tests in order to "certify you".  Whatever the fuck you're being formally certified for is anyone's guess, considering that the questions basically just seem to make sure that you're capable of spelling your own name correctly and sitting in one place for at least a five-minute span while clicking a mouse button.  It might help to also have one single shred of common sense or at least half a neuron firing in your vacuous skull, but that's about it.

   Here's an example of some of the inane fucking questions that they ask you on your completely fucking retarded certification tests.

   
   

   1. When a customer asks you for assistance, you should:

      Assist them
      Not assist them
      Choke them
      

   2. When you see blood, body parts and acid splattered all over the sales floor, you should:

      Use a clean-up kit to clean it up
      Ignore it
      Lick it
      

   3. Groping your co-worker's tits while she's assisting a customer and not paying attention to you is:

      Good
      Bad
      Funny
      

   
   

   
   
   Turns out that this is a "big no-no" in the workplace.
   Who knew chicks didn't like being fondled at work?
   
   
   

4. Actually Working at Staples

   So far I have only worked two main positions at Staples, and they both continue to suck my will to live.  Luckily, I'm only on as a "Temp Hire", so in about twelve weeks I'll be eight dollars an hour richer and none the wiser for getting the fizzuck out of Dodge.  Anyways, here's the breakdown of the AWESOME work that makes me really feel like a fucking Staples team player.

   • Cashiering

     Cashiering is the lowest form of life in the retail world.  There is virtually nothing worse than ringing up dumbass customers, unless of course you're the guy whose sole duty it is to pick up broken glass, blood or severed limbs and stick your hand in the toilet on a regular basis.  The sad thing is that sometimes diving into the toilet is preferable to dealing with the public because people in general are complete fucking assholes with no sense of courtesy or decency and I would rather punch myself in the face with rusty tetanus-infected spiked brass knuckles than talk to them.  They're like fucking animals, and as a cashier it's basically your job to get yelled at all day for "holding up the line" by people who oh my god are in such a gigantic rush that they got in the back of a line that had twenty people in it and were completely fucking shocked that it took them fifteen minutes to get to the register.

     Another pitfall of working a register is that you have to deal with stupid-ass scanners and technology you're largely unfamiliar with, and if you take more than three-tenths of a second to scan one particular item the customer tends to respond by rolling their eyes and sighing deeply.  Guess what fuckbag?  I don't see you ringing your own shit up.  If you're in such a big rush why don't I just jam every fucking lame-ass lavender-scented pastel colored pencils in this box straight into your esophagus and then you'll be able to get out of here real fucking fast.  In a motherfucking body bag.

     Here's a short list I wrote down while I was working the other night:

     Five Things I Would Rather Do Than Work a Cash Register
     
     

     1. Smash myself in the face with the claw end of a hammer.
     2. Have a car door slammed shut on my nutsack.
     3. Asphyxiate on a plastic Staples bag.
     4. Throw a vial of acid in a customer's face.
     5. Eat a dragon.

     
     
     
     "Would you like a bag with that sir,
     or should I just shove it directly up your ass?"
     
     
   • Office Supply Person

     The other retardedly awesome job I do at Staples is what my manager likes to refer to as "An Office Supply Kind of Person".  What this means is that I pretty much wander around the store restocking items, trying to look busy and helping customers figure out what the difference is between a scientific calculator and a package of college-ruled notebook paper.  "Can you tell me where the pens are?", I hear about twenty times in a five-minute span.  "Um, right there in aisle three underneath the big fucking sign that says 'The Pens Are Right Here, Jackass' in size 72 boldface font you inbred hick", I tend to respond.  It's most excellent, as are many, if not all, things involving the retail world.

     Now don't get me wrong, being an Office Supply Type Person is definitely prefereable to Cashiering, but only in the same way that having your face burned off by by an enormous fireball is preferable to being stabbed in the heart by a fifteen foot long spiked poison dildo.  The fact that you can spend the better part of your shift sitting in one of the Men's Room stalls with your feet up on the seat reading a magazine without anyone really noticing is definitely a bonus, but then again you still have to show your face on the sales floor every once in a while and that of course means having to talk to people who don't know shit about shit.  You really haven't lived the full Staples experience until you've spent four straight hours with someone asking you how to properly use a three-ring binder or what the difference is between a pastel colored highlighter and a wooden doorstop, just to follow it up with a three-hour session of listening to your dumbass co-workers blast Avril Lavigne songs through the store intercom while you try to make sure that the sales floor is completely stocked with light purple plastic pencil boxes that have stencil designs of butterflies and fairies on the top and trying not to murder anyone no matter how much they may or may not deserve it.

5. The Grand Finale

   Once upon a time, it was Midnight on Friday night.  Over the past seventy-two hours, I had spend fifty-four of them working at one of my two jobs and three more sitting in class pretending to be able to speak Chinese.  I had dealt with several thousand crises during the week, been unsuccessful in helping out my bosses several times, and had also failed to get my website updated on Friday afternoon (something that really pisses me off when it happens).  On Thursday night I had spent three hours cleaning out my room so that we could take in a Tulane student who had been displaced by Hurricane Katrina and give her a free place to live during the Fall semester.  To say that I was tired and/or exhausted would have been like saying that all great NFL running backs were black or that Michael Jackson may have actually molested a kid at one time or another in his life.

   Well as I headed out the train stop just outside the store, excited about being able to go home and sleep for the next forty-eight hours straight, dreaming about lopping people's heads off with a giant set of Hedge Clippers +4 and not being at a job where I have to pretend to give a shit about customers who piss me off.  However, as I turned the corner to go wait by the train stop, I was greeted by a mildly retarded MBTA employee who politely informed be that this train station was out of service and that I was going to have to walk about ten blocks through downtown Drunkville on a Friday night in September in order to catch a train that would take me home.  This was awesome news, especially since I was now locked out of Stapes and unable to call Andrea and order her to pick me up in the car.

   Well the final ignominy of the week came in walking through Barville and Assholetown at an hour where McDonald's was closed and the only people on the street were hookers, college chicks that looked like hookers, and drunk frat boys barfing vodka and Cheez-Whiz on the sidewalks or yelling unintelligible bullshit at people for no reason at all.  When I finally got to the subway, I had the righteous experience of packing into a fucking wicked awesome train packed out Auchwitz-style with irritating bitches and slack-jawed baseball cap-wearing besandeled jock bitches who smelled like they had spent the past four hours rolling around in a pool of stale booze someone left on the sidewalk while chewing on chaw and onion-flavored bubble gum.  I was overjoyed when the overweight blonde bitch who somehow managed to wedge her fat ass into the 4"x4" square next to me loudly asked her friends (who were standing on the other end of the car) "Do you want to hear the most annoying sound in the world?".  It was only in the next few seconds that I realized the most annoying sound in the word actually wasn't her voice but was in fact the sound of her Mooing loudly in a high-pitched voice.  This Mooing, however fitting it may have been for her, was completely fucking irritating and continued for the next several minutes, causing myself to begin fantasizing about grabbing her fat heat and slamming it repeatedly into the train's coin deposit box.

   What seemed like ten years later, I finally managed to extricate myself from the sardine can I was lodged into, smashed between The Bovine Blonde and a guy who reeked of B.O. whose freaking cell phone kept stabbing me in the kidney for the entirety of the thirty minute train ride.  I got home at about 2AM, which is late for me because I'm totally lame and also because I had been at work since 7AM that morning.  Basically, this week bit giant monkey balls.

Bush talking about Katrina.
Or is he?