MisterYuck

    From now on, I will answer to nothing less than "Jesus 'The fucking Martyr' Bring-the-Pain Christ".  Quiz time: Which is more likely to get you fired: a) saying your manager is a hefty lip-flapping, potato chip eating moo-cow, or b) asking which one of your geriatric co-workers has knocked back the most man-chowder? The answer is c) I got fired from Fabric Depot for both of those things. That's absolutely correct, ladies and gentlemen: My last blog got me fired from Fabric Depot. In my own defense, if The Grandmas are reading Mr. Yuck, then they have probably done things that warrant my public inquiry into their sexual lives. Also in my own defense: What, they can't take a joke? I'm sorry, I thought we got Saddam Husein, but no, he's alive and well, and working at Fabric Depot. Doesn't an employee have the right to rail mercilessly on their co-workers and bosses in their free time and put it in public for all to see? Well I call it a fucking infringement. I want the mo' fuckin' ACLU, The Supreme Court, and Johnny Cochran in this bitch. Also, I've hired a witchdoctor to summon George Carlin from his grave, because he needs to be in on this too. Old people must be evolving, because last I checked, they didn't have internet capabilities. Although, I should have known something was up when they hired me for the website department. The Website. Department. Because that's where I worked. The dick-suckiest part about all this is that I didn't even get to use my discount. And there's still things I want to buy there! But can I show my face in there? NO.  Here's what I'm thinking: Since I pretty much monetarily died for y'all's yucky reading sins, you guys basically owe me. And as Jesus needed you to believe that he existed as the son of god in exchange for his sacrafice, I'm going to need a mule. I send you in with some cash, you go in, you don't say a word to anyone, you buy that $7.99 corset pattern I want, smuggle it out in your stomach or ass hole, and I'll meet you around back wearing a mustache and trench coat. Then I'll give you some ipecac until you throw up the pattern. I might have to gut you to get it out, because it's pretty big, but you're right next to Fabric Depot, and they have needles and thread out the wazoo in there, so I don't want to hear any sass. I also want some vinyl, lace, and some passion suede, so...you might want to go to clown school and learn that trick where they pull all the handkerchiefs out of their throat, because it will help with me not gutting you. As for the rest of you, who won't be swallowing sewing paraphernalia and throwing them up for me, a simple middle finger to the man will suffice to repay me. So next time you're in Fabric Depot (or anywhere else that hates America, and everything that it stands for) scoot around on their carpet with your asshole. Take a long morning-after-New-Year's piss in their cash register. Use their candy aisle to shoot your own bukaki film. Tell 'em Alex set you. And tell 'em you're doin' it for good old Uncle Sam.

-Alex

    Someone told me about Blakroc shortly after the Black Keys hit single, "Tighten Up" came out. He said that it was the Black Keys and various hip-hop artists. It caught my interest and eventually it was on my Ipod. 
    Here's the story, as I understand it. Damon Dash, co-founder of Rock-a-fella records heard a few songs and fell in love with the Black Keys sound. He reached out to them while in Atlanta to record a song with Jim Jones. Somewhere along the lines, Mos Def interupted them and ended up on the song. This worked out so well that they decided to do a couple more tracks. They ended recording for eleven days and ended up with eleven tracks featuring Ludacris, ODB, Raekwon, and others. One of my favorite side projects ever.
    Now, that was released in 2009 and I bring it to your attention now not only because it's fuckin rad but because I hear there's a follow-up coming. On said follow-up, artists such as Wiz Khalifa, Curen$y, and the Cool Kids are said to be involved. It's definitely worth keeping an eye out for and who knows, it could be amazing.

-N. Sanders

^^They also have a series of webisodes to take a look at^^

Guess what? I have a new job, that's what. I don't know if you've ever heard of it, just a little place called FABRIC DEPOT. That's right. The place where your grandma and gay friend go to buy their bra extenders and stretch metallic glitter mesh (respectively). It's just a job, I'm humble. It's not like I get my own desk and am in charge of all the faux fur orders-OH WAIT YEAH IT IS. Not only that, but if you place an order on line with us and get one. Just one. Single. Fucking. Digit. ONE wrong on the credit card number you give us, I will find your address and phone number, you son of a bitch. I will fucking call you. I call my phone Thunder, and my dialing finger Lightening. Let's just say you don't wanna get struck. In case you are a simpleton, and you're not impressed by the prestige my position holds, maybe you'll be impressed by a little thing called 40% off all store merchandise. Yeah. I got that. The animal print vinyl section is scared of my first paycheck. Now I know you guys are asking, "But Alex, what about all the designer savvy fashionistas you must work with? That's what we really want to know about!" I know you do, darlings. And I will tell you all about them. I will tell you tales of over-sized cardigans and beaded spectacle chains that your wildest dreams never dared depict.
FIRST is my manager. We'll call her Debbie. Because that's her name. If you saw Debbie walking down the street, I guarantee that your (and indeed, anyone's) first thought would be "Damn. That bitch look like she eats hot dog flavored potato chips." And you'd be correct. She offered me some one time. The salty greasy meaty after-taste is simply delectable. Debbie can usually be heard throughout the entire department flapping what is anatomically known as her huge-ass mouth hole to anyone who will listen on how she brought her snot-nosed son to a park and a dog barked at him, whereupon she courageously put herself between the dog and her son, and proceded to tell the dog owners that it's just wrong to bring a violent dog like that to a park where they KNOW children are going to be. The nerve of some assholes. I would have given those dog-owning-park-going sons of bitches a piece of my mind too. Debbie is a veritable wealth of moral information and wise food choices. MOVING ONWARD TO....Cindy, so far my favorite of the millions of people that work in that store/underground city. Cindy is an Asian of the Chinese sort (as I soon learned) and I am an Asian of the Cauc persuasion. But sometimes silently knowing isn't enough to clear perceived racial tension in the work place. Here's how it came to be that she's forced me to think of her solely as "Chinese Cindy": I'm sitting in the lunch room, just be-boppin' along, and a little Asian girl comes up to me and asks, with vaguely broken Engrish, what my name is. I tell her I'm Alex and wait for her to introduce herself, explain why she walked up on me in such an abrupt and awkward manner, or at the very least give me some info, tips, or suggestions for a newcomer to the workplace, none of which she did, so I looked at her name tag and said "...And you're Cindy?" and she says, "Yeah, you can read that on my name tag." Like she assumed I was psychic, but wanted me to know that there were much simpler ways of ascertaining that kind of information. So from here on out, I'm not really sure where the conversation is going, or what this chick wants from me. But being uncertain doesn't prepare you for whatever may happen, and I'm at a bit of a loss when the next thing she says is, "I'm the only Chinese here. Working here, I mean." I'm not sure if she was expecting me to be like, "WHAT THE FUCK?!" or what, but all I could think of to say was, "...Are you sure? I mean it's a big place. There's not even ONE other Chinese person working here?" And here is where it gets a little sad because I had to inform the poor girl (who is herself Chinese) that not all Asians are the same damn nationality, because her reply was an astonishing, "Well, there's one other girl, but she's Thai." to which I quickly got indignant about this girl's obvious lack of education on Asian cultures, and said, "Well, that's different...isn't it?" And I swear to you that was the end of the conversation. She said bye and left because her break was over. At the risk of surpassing your daily recommended intake of boring old lady descriptions, I'm just going to lump the rest of the people at my work in the "Grandma" category. Granted, there are many subdivisions in that category: The Fashionable Lipstick-Wearing Grandma, The Red-Dyed-Hair, Stripey-socked Funky Grandma, The Long-Haired, Ex-Hippy Cigarette-Smoking Grandma, and any other kind of grandma you can think of. But they's all grandmas. That's why one of my favorite games to play throughout the work day is "Who sucked the most dicks in her day?" If you are someday around this many old ladies, and it doesn't force you to wonder what weird freaky sexual shit these saddle bags got into when they were in their prime, then I guess you just don't think of grandmas as real people, and I just feel sorry for your narcissistic ass. But for the record, the one who usually wins these little mental contests of mine is a certain special grandma I like to call Pearl Necklace Grandma. She wears a different pearl necklace every day, usually accompanied by elaborate dangly pearl earrings, coral lipstick (Racy!) and an over-sized flower clip in her hair. She told me she has over three hundred pairs of those dangly earrings. Anywho, I gotta rest up. Some dead beat who had their card declined when I tried to ring their order for flannel and a rotary cutter is about to get their ASS handed to them tomorrow, and I gotta be nice and rested. May your scissors never dull, nor your arthritis interfere with your latch hooking, as we say in the biz.

-Alex

    Where do I begin? The actual attack? Do I go back to the first incident that raised my eye brow? What would Quentin Tarantino do (besides a lot of dialogue)? I guess I could do what I normally do. Just shit it out and let it take stinky shape on it's own...
    Let's go back, even before the beginning. I never hated birds. In fact, I loved them. My pop had a book that showed all the birds that thrived in the great Northwest and I would use it to identify the ones we fed on the balconey. We had a neat-at-first-but-later-infuriating clock that had a different birdcall every hour, on the hour and that was just fine by me. In fact, the bird I used to not like was the Starling. A non-indigineous European winged asshole who has taken over. (http://www.nae.usace.army.mil/recreati/bml/bmleuropeanstarling.html)
    Anyway, I liked birds up until maybe a month ago, when I had a little run-in with one. I was on the front porch of my friends' house when I happen to look over and see this rodent with wings coming straight at me. Full force, a strange angry look in it's normally emotionless, souless eyes. I had just enough time to duck down and feel it flying right where my head had been. I was with a good friend and I know that because as I felt the wings of death almost cut my hair, I see my buddy throwing a punch. He missed the tweeter but as a broke fella once said, it's the thought that counts.
    Between then and yesterday, the day of the attack, I've had one or two little confrontations but they never got physical. A small feathered fuck would fly a little too low, right above me or seem to be diving right towards me and then puss out at the last minute and head skyward once more. I started to make a connection that would later be confirmed by one beak-wearing nuisance.
    Let me set the scene of our climax, here. It's maybe 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. A beautiful day; the sun is shining and the ugly, gay birds are tweeting. I'm walking home from our friendly neighborhood Fred Meyers with a backpack full of groceries and a plastic bag full of top ramen that wouldn't fit into the said pack. I'm minding my own business, making a conscience effort to thoroughly enjoy the sun and my own good fortune when it happens.

    You know the spot on your head where you would have a bald spot, if you had one? The crown, maybe. Right where the back of your head and the top meet. That's where I feel the strangest mix of claws and violently moving feathers. I feel all the rage of a being who exists almost solely to eat insects, finish our fries and moldy bread for us and be killed by cats, let loose on my scalp. To be fair, that rage should've hurt more I think.
    I feel this and im reminded instantly of holding a pannicked chicken in some world far off in my past, and I make the connection. The birds have finally decided to take action against me for unknown sins. They've come for what they feel they deserve. Some kind of avian revenge, I think. 
    Both heads shoot to the top of my head like the police have drawn guns on me, but I feel no bird. I assume that it attacked and fled like the coward it surely was but when I look over my shoulder, I see it there. Two feet above me, it's black wings outstretched and beating to keep it in a sort of wavering hover. When I see this gross warrior, I know it's not over and that I must turn into a coward and flea. This motherfucker means business and he's not going to just let me walk on.
    I take a couple quick steps, still covering my bald spot, when I see an old Asian man across the street with a big smile. I had to ask if he saw what had happened, just to be sure I wasn't losing it. I'll be damned if I get labeled a 'cluck'. He starts laughing and nods. At this point, I'm laughing too even though I still hear the aerial warrior above and behind me someplace until I turn the corner.

    Understand me when I say that it didn't really hurt me but I still am holding this grudge and hating birds now anyway. It may not have brought me pain but as I believe I've mentioned, it's the thought that counts.
-N. Sanders
  

Well, it seems that when it rains, ladies and gentlemen, it pours. After a long drought, we're back to quench you thirsty bitches with what only be described as a juicy, balls-out, nonstop Yuck-a-thon. So you want to know what's up with it? Where have the nuggets of literary gold been that you've all come to count on from the Mister Yuck crew? I can't speak for my colleagues, but personally, I've been squandering those nuggets on that monkey on my back called Facebook. You all know it, I'm just putting it in the open. And don't act like you're better than me, with your smack cocaine and your hashish suppositories, you motherless dope-shooting hobos. I know who reads this blog. But it just became too easy once I got a droid. A picture of some new shoes here, a humorous quote there, and next thing you know I'm trying to suck the Starbucks barista's dick for five minutes of wi-fi. I know it's free, but that's just how grateful I was, y'know? So here's what's in it for me: all the sweet delicious morsels of attention I can glean from my boring-as-unsweetened-oatmeal day to day activities. I'm trading, what is essentially a constant stream of mental diarrhea for all the "likes" and "lol"s and "God you're amazing, let me have your baby"s I can get. And believe me. I get a lot. A LOT. In the words of the ever-eloquent Melleefresh, I'm a big attention whore. *Note that I admitted it, so if you're planning on putting me on intervention, you can just fuck right off, because that admission puts me officially in the "recovery zone" (not as fun as the Discovery Zone, or the Danger Zone, but fun enough to earn some pansy-ass-don't-know-JACK-about-REAL-addiction alcoholics a freakin' medallion). I wish I could tell you that in the middle of this hellish whirlwind world of fast cars, loose women and witty status updates that there's a complex case of emotional or psychological trauma, that it stems from some kind of neglect, or the fact that my mother never got me a Tamagotchi as a child (True story, actually. I don't want to say she's heartless, but she literally didn't even buy me ONE. Make your own decisions about my childhood.). But really, it stems from the fact that I'm too lazy to develop a real hobby. Think of a cool invention? Facebook it. Frustrated with the governmental system? Writing letters is for fags and old people. Facebook that shit. Hungry for a sandwich? You know, not enough to make AND eat one per se, but enough that I'd like for people to know I'm considering it, and input would be nice? Facebook's got my back, and can get the word out without a single bit of strenuous thought on my part. But ah, me, where'd the time go? Look at me, just wasting the day away, blabbing to you a-holes when my new roommates have a ferret and a kitty that cuddle, and I haven't uploaded a single pic. I know some people that would totally lol their dicks off! Shit, I might just "like" my own upload! Word to all your mothers. 

        -Alex