my experience with god
Back in 1989, I decided that the best thing for me to do was get a job. I had left school, and was drifting aimlessly through life. I didn’t have a girlfriend; she had dumped me for a heavy equipment operator who drank whiskey on the rocks and smoked incessantly as he sat at the bar, eyeing up the jukebox, willing it to play Shania Twain. My parents were allowing me to stay in their basement, which was painted yellow and smelled of gear oil and polished chrome. It was small quarters, but it gave me a roof over my head, and a place to drink my beer in utter silence.
I got in my car, a black 1964 Chevrolet Impala, with chrome rims and a 357 cubic inch small block motor that purred. It was like sitting on the back of an untamed mountain lion – nervous, edgy, and ready to bolt with the slightest movement of the right foot. I drove to the petrol station, and filled the car up with premium, taking care not to spill any fuel on the ground. I went in to pay, and saw the sign in the window; they were looking for help on the midnight shift.
I was the only one in the station, apart from the attendant, a short man with a shock of black hair tied back into a severe ponytail, like he expected it to jump off his head and catch the next ride out. His eyes were glazed with the look of boredom that only long hours of staring at passing traffic could do to a man. He looked about forty-five, but when he spoke, I realised he was just a young man.
I asked him about the job, and he pointed to a door at the back of the station. The door had about twenty bullet holes in it, and looked like someone tried to set the steel casing on fire. It had a plaque that read ‘Manager’.
I knocked on the door, and a skinny, ancient woman opened the door. A cigarette dangled from her mouth, the smoke curling around her face and collecting under the brim of her baseball hat. She wore dirty jeans and a red flannel shirt. I asked about the job, and she looked me up and down. She invited me into the office.
I stepped into the blue pall of smoke that hung in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife, it seemed. She pointed at a chair opposite her desk, and I sat down.
I sat down, and immediately jumped up – there was something wet on the seat. I looked down, and saw to my horror the chair was covered in a thin layer of clear jelly. It has stuck to my jeans, and had created many thin webs of slime between me and the chair, looking like melted cheese.
“Good God!” I said.
(w4I4q1O1 was hard at work on, Fri 20 Mar 2009, 13:39, 2 replies)

Eh?
Fuck knows why, but I really like this. Clickety click. Got any more?
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 20 Mar 2009, 13:52, closed)

No. You're meant to
nod sagely when you 'get' the film to which they are alluding.
(karnuvap, Mon 23 Mar 2009, 15:47, closed)