There is a group of 12-14 ish year old kids that keep coming on and off of the property. They have a gate code so I can't remove them. I'm sure they're up to something and when I find out I'm going to yell at those little turds. They look pretty nu metal, so I may have to bust out my old JNCOs to relate to them. The other day I saw them walking around, and since Storage Facilities aren't typically the kind of place adolescents hang out, I asked them if they had a unit. They said "YEAH" like little bastards. So then I asked them which unit, and they told me, but they were total pricks about it. I can tell they're totally "fuck the man" little kids. They think I'm the man for sure.
Three words: WHATEVA Bitch kids! I have tattoos and know people with dreadlocks, so just take a few steps back in your Sabbath t-shirt that your mom bought you at Target. I will verbally destroy every child on earth. I glare at them with every muscle in my ocular power.
Need I remind the world once again that (in my mind) I INTRODUCED Limp Bizkit to the Wayne-Westland school district? Once I was screaming "HEY I ACTUALLY LIKED POWERMAN 5000" over loud music at a bar, but the music stopped so everyone heard me. I have a "Behind Enemy Lines" CD in my car right now. I will smash this state into a million pieces and make a vegan patty out of them.
I just want to catch these kids doing something bad so I can say "Well, well, well.... What do we have here, boyssss????" and then scare them, but ultimately let them go. My job is boring and this is the highlight of my day- Fantasizing about yelling at middle school kids. It's better than what I fantasized about in middle school, which was wearing an over sized blue flannel and playing bass in Everclear.
I'll be like "a motherfuckin' chain saw.... I'll skin your ass raw... and if my day keeps going this way I just might BREAK YO FUCKIN FACE TONIGHT."
Give me something to break... how bout your fuckin'.... awww mann.
I want to buy a jump rope.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment