insights into the world of caffeinated monkeys
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| javamonkey insights into the world of caffeinated monkeys |
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Thursday, June 12, 2003 Don't Write "Fuck-Job" In The Memo Line Of Your Checks I hate Meter-Bitch. He is the nemesis to both of your Mercersburgian heros--SuperBitch and Boobzilla (and their respective superhero vehicles--Milo and Carrie). I found out about his secret evil army--the Borough Office and District Court. Our story begins when your superhero, Boobzilla, gets a phone call from her father. Three phone calls, actually. Yesterday. I find out that he has received a summons by the Committee of Mercersburg Rat-Bastards (aka, Meter Bitch and his evil cohorts) regarding the status of parking tickets that Meter-Bitch had stuck to Carrie (I think that she throws some of these away without telling me about them). I stop by, pick up this summons, and go on my way. My plan was to invade their laboryinth of evil by showing up instead of my father. So, today, I, Boobzilla, disguise myself by wearing pants, and sneak over to their lair. I entered stealthily, so as not to alert them to my presence. But alas, one of their guards, Desk-Jockey, spotted me, and attempted to hold me hostage. I decided to confuse her by paying a single parking ticket. But she could sense that something was amiss. Her antennae were quivering. She attempted to start torture rituals on me, starting first with an interrogation series. But I was wise to her plans. I channelled the power of the Boobs and tried to crush her. But she resisted my boobage, being a woman and immune to such things. Drats! So I started to talk about the weather and snow and how the snow must have eaten the letter that I had sent the office regarding notices of outstanding parking tickets. She pretended to listen and started doing some weird motioning thing. I knew what was going on. She was about to hit the supersecret button under the desk that opens the trapdoor of the floor to try to drop me into the dungeon below (because all evil lairs have such a button). So I thought really hard (making a very constipated face, which, kids, is the secret to releasing your inner superpowers) and flipped out. I started doing a crazy javamonkey dance and ran away upstairs, which is where all evil villians store their evil powers. I broke into the fortress of evil upstairs, and showed them the summons. They ignored me. Even though I had the magic key to enter. Finally, someone lurched over, Beehive Queen, with really poofy hair, to try to thwart my entrance. She tried to argue that the summons was not mine and that I couldn't do anything about it. I countered that I had money, for the summons said to bring money. She argued that it wasn't the money of the original person summonned. I argued that money is money, and if the borough had gotten my letter saying to send all communication regarding Carrie, vehicle of the Boobzilla to me instead of my father that I would be there anyway. She tried to argue with me, saying that since Carrie, vehicle of the Boobzilla, was registered under my father's name, that he is responsible. Oh. I channeled the power of Lawyer-Boob (yes, one of my boobs, the left one, is a lawyer). Lawyer Boob searched through the Boob-Files and told me to use the following arguements: 1. If I parked the car in such a manner that Meter-Bitch saw fit to use his Meter-Bitch like judgement to decide to ticket me, then the blame shalt fall on Meter-Bitch for judging my parking jobs. (If this argument fails, move to argument #2.) 2. If I parked said car, knowing indeed that Meter-Bitch would use his Meter-Bitch judgement to deem the parkage of the vehicle inappropriate, then I shalt be the one responsible for the ticket. 3. If they counter and say that the person who has the vehicle registered is the person responsible then I shalt argue that they, the Committee of Mercersburg Rat-Bastards, is essentially giving me permission to borrow a vehicle registered to someone else, commit whatever evil-doings that I want with said car, return it to the person to whom the car is registered to, and person that the car is registered to shalt be responsible for my evil-doings, despite my own admissions of guilt. 4. Do they really want to see where this is going? Beehive Queen was wise to my game, and couldn't resist me on her own. So she brought out Judge-Evil, the enforcer of Meter-Bitch. Very tall man. I was slightly impressed. I cut to the chase, said that I was the mighty Boobzilla and declared the arguments that Lawyer-Boob had set forth for me. He countered that none of my arguments mattered because for me to use them, I needed to be my father, which I was not. He did agree though to spare my father from a bench warrant and let me pay the fee announced in the summons. Okay, a small victory, but a costly one. So, Judge-Evil is standing there, waiting to receive my check for $81 (told you it was costly). I wrote out my check and wrote on the memo line "Mercersburg Borough Fuck-Job." Judge-Evil takes my check, reads it over, and hands it back to me. His complaint--apparently I can't write the term "fuck-job" in the memo line of my check. I blew up. Boobs flew, arms were in the air, the javamonkey dance was in full I'm-flipping-out force. I just started yelling at Judge-Evil that I could write whatever the hell I wanted in the memo line of my personal check and that it doesn't affect the processing of the check or the fact that the bank will indeed give him cash if he presents it to them for payment. I screamed at him for about 10 minutes before he sighed and accepted my check. With the words "fuck-job" in the memo line. Boobzilla once again wins the battle for truth, justice, and lots of cleavage. And thus ends the tale for today, folks. posted by jaime | 4:01 PM 0 comments |
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