Your New and Improved Social Security Office

I took a friend to the SS office yesterday and we were surprised to watch a lady walk into the building with a 40 oz. beer in her hand. Now I know the SS office is boasting a "friendlier and more accessible" atmosphere but oh my, they have really taken it to a whole new level. (We later decided she was actually throwing the bottle away, but for the purposes of this blog, I'll assume she was taking a swig or two from it as it was about 2/3 empty...)

It occurred to me there are multiple reasons they allow the beer in the office now:

1. It helps pass the time while you wait for an eternity to be served.

2. It makes that first rejection a little easier.

3. You can share some with the ultra-bored security officer who only passion in life is to play with all the locks in the office.

4. If someone happens to go ballistic, you know have a weapon in which to a) subdue them or b) throw at them as you run for the door.

5. Maybe it was being used for proof that the person is having to take beer for medicinal purposes.

6. It also might be SS's way of replacing Medicaid. "You do need some help so here is your 40 oz. for the day. Drink it quick and you'll forget all about your problems."

7. I would think the ultimate reason they would allow a 40 oz. into the SS office is for you to share a nip or two with the case officer who could probably use a drink about 2 in the afternoon...

Then I started to think of other government offices that should probably allow, no, supply 40 oz. bottles of beer to patrons.

1. The Post Office during the Christmas season. It would sure keep the grumbling down.

2. The DMV. Let's face it, you could consume two of those bad boys by the time they get to you and my, wouldn't your driver's license picture be much more fun to look at?

3. The Foodstamp office. It would be sort of cutting the middle man out for some folks, now wouldn't it?

4. The Health Clinic. Hey, I know I could use one before facing the needle. Sigh.

5. HUD. Would you really be all that upset with whatever house they gave you after #2 bottle had been consumed?

Maybe yesterday's woman was a trend setter, no, a pioneer of the times when it comes to dealing with the government. Perhaps we should put her face on the next dollar coin...

Interview with a resistance fighter

I walked down the snow covered ally looking for the dock bay my mysterious phone caller had directed me to. Stepping over frozen garbage and sidestepping a mangy cat, I arrived at the slightly slanted incline that led to a half raised sliding door. Glancing down at my notes and confirming this was the place I call out, "Mr. X?"

"Shhh, man, keep it low. There are people out there who would love to take me out." I could barely make out an image inside the gloomy interior of an abandoned warehouse.

"Oh, sorry. My bad. Can I come inside?"

"Sure, come on in. You will have to slide under the door. You might want to watch your clothes though, this floor ain't the cleanest." I pull myself up onto the dock bay and roll under the door. Standing up I glance around at a warehouse full of pallets, boxes filled with scrap parts from ancient pieces of long dead machinery. Mr. X glances around with me and then smiles, "It ain't much, but it is home to the Freedom Allows Guys to Smoke resistance movement. We meet here several times a day to light one up, plan our strategy for defeating the smoking ban and Sally Klingerman. That woman and her hoarde of second hand smoke alarmists are Satan's own creation. They can't die from lung cancer quick enough as far as the Freedom movement is concerned."

I am scribbling down this information furiously when I pause to look up at Mr. X. "You realize your acronym spells FAGS, right?"

"Yeah, I came up with that one myself. Kinda catchy, ain't it? FAGS are cigarettes in London so it is a play on words. When people see us walking down the street with a cigarette burning brightly as we inhale that glorious nicotine enriched smoke, they are going to point at us and say, 'Hey, there goes a bunch of FAGS!' Wait, that doesn't sound quite right."

"This is Texas you know, and FAGS doesn't quite mean the same here."

Mr. X had a puzzled look on his face as he shook out a Marlboro from a hard pack, scrounged around in the front pocket of his jeans, produced a lighter and lit his cigarette. "I think we might be changing the name for our resistance movement."

As he pulled on his cigarette, I took a mental inventory of Mr. X. His wrinkled face seemed to be permanently drawn into a thoughtful pose as his nicotine stained fingers held the cigarette against his lips. He was slight in build almost to the point of being scrawny. The greasy hair that graced his head was slowly fading from a jet black to a salt and pepper phase and the thick glasses resting on his nose seem to scream for a good cleaning.

"So tell me Alan, what is the overall strategy of the smoking ban resistance movement? Do you have a plan? How organized are you guys?"

"Well, hey wait a minute, how did you know my name?"

"You forgot to take off your Wal-Mart nametag... and you also have it monogrammed onto your Wal-Mart vest. So are you guys organized or are you just meeting here to smoke in a semi-public way to make a statement against a city wide smoking ban?"

He snatched the name tag off of his vest and took a moment to reverse the vest so that all I could see was "nalA" which was to throw me off of the track. I was beginning to question his intelligence.

"We are organized! We meet here four times a day, before work starts, during lunch, during our afternoon breaks, and after work. We talk and plan on how we can take out the evil smoking ban woman, Sally Klingerman. We have a few ideas we are working on."

"So basically you guys are taking smoking breaks and sitting around in this abandoned warehouse, out of sight, out of the public eye, smoking cigarettes and shooting the bull. Is that about right?"

"No, it is much more than that! Why we have even taken action against the city and Klingerman. Last Friday night we drove by her house and threw empty cigarette packs onto her lawn and stuck a sign into the ground that said, 'Americans are free to get cancer if they want to!'"

"Well that is a catchy phrase, I guess. How many FAGS are there?"

"Our numbers are increasing daily. We started off with four of us and we have grown over the past two weeks to six. We are just the beginning and invision a day when we will have the largest group of FAGS in the state."

"Six guys. Hmm, so basically you litter, post signs, and smoke in private with five other guys. Help me out here Alan, I don't see much of a resistance movement."

"It's Mr. X and if you can't see the upswelling of discontent between these walls then you must have already been blinded by the propaganda of the second hand smoke machine. Get out of here, you make me sick."

"Okay, I'll leave but I have to tell you I really don't have much of a story here. Call me back when you have 20 guys and you've changed your name. Somehow I don't think my editor will buy a headline that reads 'A Bunch of FAGS Caught Smoking in Abandoned Warehouse.'"

"You make us sound so dirty! Get out!"

So I did. I slipped back under the door, made my way out of the ally and stepped out into the parking lot of Wal-Mart. Breathing deeply, I embraced the fresh air of carbon monoxide infused molecules produced from petro-chemical driven vehicles and smiled knowing that the second hand smoke of cigarettes wouldn't be touching me today.

A Short Writing Excercise

Every now and again I just need to write a short story. This is one of those times...

Standing nude in front of the City Garden Club, I realized I had probably made a poor decision. Not that standing in front of the shocked ladies was all that poor of a decision, but the fact I let my buddy Jake talk me into drinking beers with a bump so early on a Saturday morning.

Oh it started innocently enough, Jake arriving at my door with a case under one arm and a fifth in his free hand. "The big game is about to start!" and with that we ordered pizza, iced down the beer, and found two shot glasses. Dressed in our team's colors, we shouted at the players, cussed the refs, and were having a great time when the teams disappeared from the screen and a balding middle aged man appeared on the screen and in his most polished voice said,

"Welcome to the 30th Annual Flower Show of the City Garden Club. We hope you will enjoy the next two hours of seeing some of the finest specimens of perennials and annuals grown here in the City. Now let's go to our host, Ms. Maggie Merlpearl, President of this year's City Garden Club."

Well Jake swore, threw a beer can at the screen and begin to describe some pretty disgusting things he would like to do to all the dear ladies of the City Garden Club and was about to throw the empty bottle at the screen when I tackled him.

"No you don't. I just got that HD screen and you ain't gonna ruint it with a bottle." Jake let the bottle slide from his hand and mumbled that we couldn't allow a sawed off, fat, balding guy and a bunch of old women take away the biggest game of the year. He thought we should go down and protest and as soon as he could find his keys that was exactly what we were gonna do.

"Jake, we can't be driving right now because we aren't fit to drive. Let's write a letter or something, maybe make a phone call." Jake swore again and grabbed the phone and called his wife, Emma. He hollered at her to come and get us and she hollered back she was in the middle of some Lifetime movie about some abused woman with cancer who finally got pregnant and was about to give birth to Siamese twins. I think the audible click on the other end meant Emma wasn't going to come after us. I called a cab.

We fell into that cab, told the driver where we needed to go. I think I caught a little nap because the next thing I knew I felt someone dragging me out of the backseat. Trying to get my wits about me, I felt myself being pushed towards the door of the regal building that housed the City Garden Club.

"Wait Jake, we don't even know what we are gonna say."

"We ain't saying nothing, we're gonna moon the camera, the ladies of the club and then we are gonna sing the fight song."

"I don't know Jake, sounds risky to me. Besides, I'm not sure I know all the words to the fight song...." About that time he pushed me inside the door, through the foyer, and down a side hall where we could see through the opened dual doors. Jake loosened his belt, unzipped his pants and asked me if I was ready. I followed suit and again complained that I thought I this was a bad idea.

Off we went, stumbling towards the cameras. Jake let go of me, screamed our favorite school cheer, dropped his drawers in front of the camera, pulled up his britches and was gone. Me, I didn't fair nearly as well. Nope. I was already stumbling when Jake let me go, my tee shirt caught on a boom and ripped right off of me which made me fall backwards. I had to let go of my pants to break my fall and somehow my pants just stayed behind and I kept going forward.

When I stood up, I realized I was buck naked. Some of the ladies screamed, one giggled, and before I could move a rent a cop had me down on the floor and was handcuffing my hands behind my back. I looked up to see the Simmons sisters, two old spinsters who ran the City Garden Club, giving me the once over.

"My Emily, I believe we should teach this young man a lesson and shove a prize winning rose up his butt."

"Oh Gladys, it is such a cute butt. Let's don't ruin it with a rose, maybe we should could use an Azeala." I think it was about that time I begged the officer to get me out of there before those two buzzards ruined me for life.

Yessir, a poor decision brings consequences. I don't even know who won the game.