Uber Lame

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Ubering has been sort of dry lately—as far as stories go. Nothing worth reporting for a chuckle or a smile. Not even nasty fucks to make fun of. My draft folder has some sorry attempts at trying to stretch some funny phrases, questions and/or answers or whatever. But for short little things of that nature, I tend to feed it to my Instagram.

If you is on the Instagrams, then you should peep the comics I post there. Be sure to follow along to check out the rest of my shenanigans, and if you’re not a serial killer or a juggalo, I’ll follow back.

This was a poor attempt at a post, as content filler, due to the lack of, well, content. I just might have to start traveling a little farther for better material. Sucks, my lame blog is getting lamer.

Me, Myself & I


I’ve been writing this blog for a few months now and I thought maybe it was a time to do a post more about my over flatulant self.

I used to work in a warehouse for a large retailer and had been with that company for ten years before giving my life to Uber. I had a good schedule and I made decent money–but I was miserable, like so many other people that I worked with up in that joint.

The thing that sucked about it the most, was the random drug tests. I’m a medical marijuana patient and I had to give that up for that job. I never got drug tested past the initial hiring phase, but it wasn’t worth the risk. The happy smoke helps me with some personal and medical problems, but don’t get it twisted homes, I enjoy its recreational purpouses–very much so.

When I got fired from that god-awful well paying job–them bitches a bit strict–I was actually relieved. The stress and anxiety of where the hell is money going to come from now soon slapped me across the face, but I was out that bitch–forced out, but out. I don’t care much for the company I worked for and have a few choice words for them, but it was stable reliable work and now I had to find different work.

You can reapply in six months.

Fuck that.

Well, if I can help it.

I had to get rid of my SUV because I couldn’t afford it anymore, unemployment was dicking me around, so I got a brand new bucket with better gas mileage.

And boom went the dynamite.

Smoking out with a friend (I started blazing again the very next day after losing my job), it hit me, try that Uber thing. It doesn’t pay all the bills, but it sure helps–and its fun–usually.

As an aspiring writer, I have enjoyed documenting some of my shenanigans behind the wheel. It keeps me practicing the craft when I’m boucing around from project to project. I also like to draw. I dreamed of a gig as a penciler in the comic biz growing up, but never serously persued it, dummy. I was rewriting a friends story into a comic book script and it turned out great, but I found myself longing to write more when it was over.

So I did just that. I started writing. I still doodle from time to time, as you can see on my Instagram.

I was born in 1980, so I’m at that point in my life where I’m not old just yet, but I’m not young either. I have three children; boy, girl, boy; 10, 8, 2. They make me feel old. When I conversate with the average person 10-15 years younger than me, I tend to lose all understanding on reality and feel senile. When the fuck did that happen?

I’ve been trying to get a job in the medical marijuana industry with zero experience. I like helping people–within reason. I am for the most part a private person in real life (unless you know me well, than God help you), but if I’m able to help someone, I will do the best of my ability to help that person. A legit weed job helping others safely obtain medical/recreational cannabis would bring me joy . That’s why I like driving for Uber, while I might not fully respect them as a company, I can make money helping others on my own terms.

Well, there you have it, a little bit about the weird guy behind this blog.

Broken

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As I sit here in my fart smelling recliner in achy pain after a wake and bake session, I think about the other bones I’ve broken throughout my career as a stunt man. I know this doesn’t quite fit under an Uber Legend, but this falls under the other stories category.

Broken bone number 1, my left wrist. My sister and I took a different bus home from school so we could have access to a different location of the military housing base we lived; I was in fourth grade and she in third. I think I may have made her come with me, there was a huge ditch with a huge tree branching over it and tied to it, was a long rope with bike handle bars–of course.

After a swing or two, while out on the rope, one of my sweaty palms slipped off a handle bar. I was still pretty high up and landed on my wrist. I had never broken a bone before then, but I knew it was broken. I balled the grueling long walk home in a excruciating pain.

Broken bone number 2, my ring finger on my left hand. I slipped on some wet grass running through it like a dumbass and jammed my finger into a sprinkler head. At the hospital, where I had become famous in Orthopedics, the doctor had to twist the bone back into place. Most painful 1.5 seconds of my life (before many coughs with this broken rib I currently be rockin’).

Broken bone number 3, my left elbow, kind of had a theme going on back then. If I remember correctly some boy from my sister’s class was talking crap to her–stupid kid stuff. For some reason it escalated stupidly and I thought it was smart to kick him. He caught my foot, dragged me forward a bit before yanking my feet out from underneath me. Broken bone number three.

It wasn’t a bad break, just a hairline fracture, but I had to wear a stupid splint in a sling. While in the schools library, I stumbled onto my sister’s class sitting at a large table. Her teacher made a joke about her student and me referencing the Karate Kid, the whole class laughed at me. Stupid bitch.

Broken bone number 4, my right fibula, this one was painful. I don’t understand how this one happened. I was riding a bike, I popped a wheelie and leaned too far back, but I didn’t fall. I landed on my feet, easy right–nope. My fibula broke and I dropped like an elephantiasis sack.

Broken bone number 5, this wasn’t a broken bone, but I tore tendons in my right ankle trying to ollie over a trash can, like I had done so many times before. This time, I rolled my foot off my skateboard and–pop. I both heard it and felt it rip. My foot swelled to the size of a football and I was in a cast for a very long time.

Broken bone number 6, my right hand, in an argument I tried to punch out a car window for some stupid reason. I didn’t. I fractured my hand. I was wrapped up in a splint for a little bit. Dummy.

Broken bone number 7, my right foot, switched up my theme for a bit. I accidentally kicked the side of a walk-in pantry as I entered and cracked a bone just behind my pinky toe or something. Fucking hurt. A lot. I had to work with it too, because I couldn’t afford to take time off work and they wouldn’t cast it because of it’s location.

Broken bone number 8, this stupid ass rib. Apparently my mutant powers are just now manifesting, and I have the ability to produce super bone breaking coughs. Yeah, lucky me. Its been a few weeks, so the peak of the pain is gone.

I think I missed one. I think there may have been another skateboarding injury in there I’m forgetting, there were so many twists and pulls and sprains and strains and rasberries and whatnot. I had some knee problems that started at eight that got me locked up in full legged cast for awhile–more than once. I was pretty famous for being in a cast of some sort.

Scratching of the Balls


The first time I heard this phraise was from a long time friend.

“What are you doing?”

“Scratchin’ balls.” It was his way of saying, I ain’t doing shit.

Well, with this fractured rib, I’ve been scratching balls a lot lately. If I was still a smoker, I’d probably have lung cancer already, because I know I would be chain smoking like a fool.

I started reading Stephen King’s It, and I’m toying around with a plot for my second short story. But when I’m sitting in a chair, reading, writing, and even watching TV–it gets old (I hate TV, but I find myself watching it more these days). Video games only go so far, as I’m not into them as much as I used to be–I must be growing up.

But then you remember the title of this post and realize that I haven’t.

This is my fourth blog to date, and while this is still a fairly new blog, I have already surpassed the others in content and satisfaction (minus the anxiety of sharing one’s work). Plus, I have been able to explore the craft of writing with this adventure much more. You only get good at something by doing it–and this keeps me doing it.

I look forward to getting Ubed up again, the money isn’t always great, but as an aspiring writer, it gives me a chance to learn how real people speak at each other, when they’re not shitting in my car.