Ultimate Delivery Option

Sizzign Hizzere

2009-07-01T21:44:00.002-04:00

I actually have your pizackage in my trizzuck.

Self Help Book

2009-04-29T21:00:00.002-04:00

Paychecks & Botox

2009-04-27T14:17:00.002-04:00

Last week I had to run T-Whistle's route, and what a glorious route it was. Monday through Thursday were amazing days, filled with hope, excitement, intrigue, lust, dog food and sunshine. Thursday was paycheck delivery day in and around the mall. That usually means as soon as I walk in the store I get smothered in hot young women fighting each other to sign for the package. That's right, prettiest girl gets paycheck first! I love paycheck delivery day. It's a great feeling when everyone is happy to see you. The one exception to that rule is the Radio Shack. Paycheck delivery day at Radio Shack usually involves the courier getting wrestled to the ground by a greasy-faced, sweaty, overweight, mid-thirties, pasty white, asthmatic guy. It's almost as if you weren't delivering his paycheck, but rather his latest, hastily ordered, Russian Mail Order Bride catalog and information packet. I made sure the other Springfield courier had the Shack packet.

Thursday's in Springfield put me in an unusually good mood so I normally joke around with the customers. I had a delivery at the Med Spa near the Best Buy. Not only was I delivering their paychecks, but I also had a medical delivery. It was a styrofoam box filled with dry ice and Botox injections. As the receptionist signed for the Botox, I leaned in toward her desk, and in hushed tones I asked her a question. "Excuse me miss, but a friend of mine asked me to get him some information about your Testicular Botox Treatments. Do you have a brochure I could give him?" She stopped in mid-signature and looked up at me with her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. "Sir!" She began forcefully. "We do NOT do Testicular Botox Treatments at this establishment!"

I'm not sure what effect I was hoping to achieve with my question. I'm not even sure there is such a thing a Testicular Botox Treatment. It was honestly the first thing that popped into my mind as she was signing for her bag full of botulism toxin. I was just trying to be funny. Anyway, I had struck a nerve. (Oh, just a heads up... Please don't google "testicular botox treatments". You'll have to trust me on this one.)

The rest of the day went about as well as I expected. I didn't really run into anything too interesting or exciting. I did see the lady at the TSA walk right off the end of the loading dock and smack into a parked truck face first. I also saw a PetsMart employee opening bag after bag of old dog food, and pouring the 40lbs or so of kibble per bag into the dumpster. I'm not really sure what that was all about, but by the time I had finished my delivery there was at least 300 pounds of dry dog food in the dumpster in the alley. At least the raccoons would be happy!

So when my cellphone alarm clock went off the next morning at 4:30, I stood up on the bed, pumped my fists and did a dance of joy. Joy at being alive in such an amazing time in human history, and joy that I would get to end a beautiful week driving a huge-ass truck through a cakewalk route. Sadly, that's not what happened. My break's almost over, and I have to go run a PM route in Old Towne. I'll have to fill you in later.

The Best Government Job Ever

2009-04-22T13:58:00.004-04:00

Well, It's that time of year again. T-Whistle is on vacation. That means I get to drive the biggest truck in the station, and It also means that I get to run T-Whistle's route in Springfield, VA. (T-Whistle's truck is an extended G900 Diesel Heimlerspitzen by the way. Ron Torso will correct me in the comments if I got the model name wrong.) There's a reason that T-Whistle has to use the biggest truck, and that reason is spelled G, S, A. It's an enormous waste of tax-payer dollars, the United States General Services Administration. The GSA is contained within a fortified multi-square mile compound just east of I-95, south of Franconia and east of Loisdale road.

I'm not sure exactly what the GSA does all day, but it's probably pretty important. The entire compound is surrounded by a chain-link and barbed wire fence with the occasional Jersey barrier thrown in for good measure. The compound is divided into two sections, both of which are only accessible through their own choke point, guard shack combo. One of the guard shacks has the little railroad crossing arm in front of it. You know, the kind you get at parking garages and toll booths. It's got the rusted out iron mechanism with a sawn off two by four painted yellow bolted to it. I'm not really sure what it's there for. I'm driving the biggest truck in the FedEx fleet, and the arm has been cut down so short that even T-Whistle could drive around it. I'm guessing the folks at the GSA think it's a terrorist scare crow. The Iranians driving a panel van full of fermented fertilizer and home brew C-4 will see the tiny yellow arm and start screaming, "By Mohammed's hairy balls! We can't blow up this building, the infidel's military technology is too powerful! Achmed, turn this hadjwagon around, you motherless son of a goat!"

The other guard shack doesn't even bother.

Every day, I usually deliver somewhere between forty and two-hundred Dell, HP, or Cisco boxes to the various loading docks and freight doors scattered around the compound. Normally I mash my meaty palm on the loading dock buzzer until a surly, overweight government contractor opens the door long enough to tell me that I'm at building E3-1 Dock 1.3E, and I actually need to go to building E, Dock 31. Thanks GSA, you're the best. The address on the box said Building 3 Dock 13E, but you're the expert. After about four or five similar encounters at the different loading docks, I'll have delivered about half of my GSA freight. At this point I usually take a deep breath, and scan all the other packages with the code: 03 - Unable to deliver package - incorrect address. See you fat farkers tomorrow!

The first time I covered the route for T-Whistle, I drove up to the guard shack, handed the guard my ID, opened all the doors on the truck, and got out. Two armed guards piled out of a trailer and took their dog for a walk through my truck. After making absolutely sure I wasn't delivering any kibble or milkbones, they allowed me back into the truck gave me directions to Building 13 Dock E, or was it Building E, Dock 3-1...

I started driving through the compound past an acre of parked semi trailers when I thought I saw something moving out of the corner of my eye. I slowed down and looked to my left. In the clearing, amongst the parked semi trailers was a pile of fancy office chairs about 25 feet high. There were several hundred of the chairs at least in this pile. To the right of the pile was a large dumpster. In between the dumpster and the office chair pile was a middle aged white guy wearing a wife beater and driving a large backhoe. You know, the big yellow machine that rides around on tank treads with the snowplow looking thing on the one end and a large mechanical arm on the other. I stopped the truck and watched.

The dude swung the arm over to the pile and scooped out a single chair. He then swung the arm up and over releasing the chair at just the right time. The beautiful black chair flew along a perfect arc in the sky and then came crashing down into the dumpster. The dude pumped his fist in the air like he'd just made a game winning three pointer right at the buzzer. He swiveled the machine around to grab at another chair. He deftly worked the controls and moved the backhoe back on its treads at the same time as he swung the arm up and around. Bam! He released the chair. Boom BABY! Nothing but dumpster. What a beautiful fade away jumper.

I watched the dude for what felt like an hour. He kept tossing chair after chair. He'd occasionally miss one, drive over to it and toss it back in the pile. It was amazing. He was like the Dr. J of office chair tossing. He grabbed one chair and pulled it out of the pile. It had another chair stuck to it, their wheels locked together. He rolled his tank back, swiveled the arm, and released. Bam! Two chairs in the dumpster. All of a sudden a semi behind me blasted on his horn, knocking me out of my reverie. I tore my eyes off of the scene that had so captivated me and reluctantly drove forward.

I'd just discovered the best government job ever.

Ultimate Got Owned

2009-04-16T21:10:00.005-04:00

I'm a professional courier. That doesn't mean I have a professional attitude, it just means that someone is paying me to do drive around and deliver stuff. So depending on how comfortable you are with lying, you could even go as far as to say that I'm a professional driver. I mean let's face it, the majority of my day is spent driving a giant diesel delivery truck around hell's half acre, at least the northern Virginia part of it anyway.

Unfortunately driving is mood dependent. If you aren't in a hurry and it's a nice day out, you can deal with the hourly vehicular stupidity. The guy picking his nose while stopped at a green light right in front of you doesn't make you mad, it makes you chuckle. But if it's raining, and your packages to time ratio is upside down, then seeing the lady stand on the sidewalk while holding her baby stroller four feet out into the street can really disturb your calm.

Every day I'm bombarded by a wide variety of "less than ideal" driving behavior. Let me give you an example. You know that guy who just figured out that he actually needs to turn left at this intersection. Only problem is that he is sitting in the right lane and the light is red. Instead of just biting the big one and turning right, hoping to make a u-turn later, he'll just sit through the green until traffic clears and he can make the patented Jed Clampett multi-lane left turn. Depending on your disposition that can either be a minor annoyance or a crime against humanity.

There are a few factors that can ratchet up the tension level before you even see your first act of vehicular retardation. Maybe the courier who used your truck on last night's PM shift took a big steamy piss in it. (That happens a lot more often than it should where I work.) It's possible the cleaning crew siphoned most of the gas out of your tank. (That also happens more than it should at my station.) Perhaps the mechanic got grease all over the Han Solo bobble head doll you've got glued to the dash. (That really made me lose my cool.) Anyway, as I've been trying to illustrate, the deck is usually stacked against most professional couriers before they even get the opportunity to follow some guy who, for whatever reason, loves to keep his left turn signal blinking and blinking and blinking and blinking.

Just last Monday though, I was having an amazing day. The coffee in the break room was actually coffee. No one in my area had called in sick. I'd been assigned to run a powder puff route over in Springfield. It was going to be easy, only 19 priority stops. I normally get close to 30. My truck not only had a full tank, and was clean, but it didn't smell like piss! Ron Torso had even agreed to trade me for an easy route the next week. I should have bought a lottery ticket.

I had been cruising around all day, singing to myself in my truck; delivering flowers to the pretty girls, and chocolates to the chubby ones. When I needed a signature, the people were home, and when I didn't they weren't. Like I said, it was an amazing day. I only had maybe 5 deliveries left when I got to the intersection of Old Keane Mill, and Westmore Drive. You can see the 7-Eleven parking lot in the picture. There was a car stopped at the light, and there was a guy in the parking lot who wanted to pull out toward the intersection. I was coming up behind the guy stopped at the light, and I saw the guy in the lot. I was feeling great so, what the hell. I left a big ol' gap and waved at the guy in the 7-Eleven parking lot. "It's your world, squirrel!" I called out to him as I waved him on.

Then from out of nowhere an old beaten down Chrysler minivan two or three cars behind me pulls out into the oncoming traffic lane. I saw the movement in my side mirror and I zoomed in for a closer look. Holy Poop! Female Muslim Driver! Now I tell myself I'm not sexist or anti-muslim or anything like that, but there's a reason they don't let 'em drive over in Saudi Arabia. I barely had time to blink when Fatima pushed the pedal all the way down and tore up beside me in the oncoming traffic lane. The guy in the 7-Eleven lot started edging forward into the gap I'd left for him when the Hadjwagon made a hard right, nearly clipping my truck. She pulled past the gap stopping buddy in his tracks, but she'd got the Hadjwagon a few feet up, cockeyed, on the shoulder. There was enough time for me and buddy in the 7-Eleven lot to look at each other with expressions of fear and surprise on our faces. Then Fatima popped it in reverse and executed a parallel parking maneuver that ended with the Hadjwagon perfectly filling the gap I'd left for buddy. I'd just been owned.

On a bad day, I'd have been tempted to give her back bumper a little kiss with my cow catcher, even thought there was a good chance it'd set off the explosives her husband kept in the spare tire compartment. But like I said, it'd been a pretty amazing day. I just shrugged, looked at buddy and then just started laughing.

How To Identify Wood

2009-04-12T18:29:00.000-04:00

Hoskins Got Owned

2009-04-08T18:43:00.011-04:00

Hoskins is my long time buddy from back home. We've been friends since junior high. I'd like to say that we always joke around and play tricks on each other, but that's not really true. The pranks are pretty one sided. Straight from me to him. Rinse, Lather, Repeat. It started when I clamped his leg to a table vice in shop class, and has gone downhill from there. Honestly, I'm not sure why he still hangs out with me...

Recently he came out to stay at my place so he go to a training class in Arlington, VA for a week. He picked a bad week for it. My wife's Thesis Concert at the university was that Thursday and Friday. She was stressed out and had late rehearsals pretty much every day. I had to work two double shifts that week, and my in-laws were coming to visit that weekend. I was going to have to lay down the law and tell old Hoskins that he was going to have to stay somewhere else when he dropped the big one on me.

"Ultimate," He said. "My company is allowing me to expense all my meals for this trip."

"Uh, that's really nice Hoskins." I said as I started making an obscene stroking gesture. I think he could tell by my tone of voice that I wasn't all that thrilled.

"I don't think you understand, Ultimate." He replied. "My company lets me spend up to $50 on food per meal... AND $75 ON ALCOHOL PER PERSON PER NIGHT!"

"Hoskins, can you email me your flight itinerary? Also, do you need me to pick you up at the airport? Are you sure you can only stay one week?"

Anyway, the week was a blast. We had an amazing time. His training class sucked. My worked sucked. DC sucks. His OCD sucked. My unrelenting asshole-ish personality sucked. BUT THE BOOZE WAS GREAT!

Anyway at the end of the week, Hoskins decides that he doesn't want to carry anything on the airplane on the flight back. So he fills up several packing boxes with miscellaneous BS he's gathered over the course of the trip, fills out the airbills and leaves them on my kitchen table. Then he sends me a text saying something like: "Oh yeah, make sure my boxes get delivered..."

That's when I grabbed one of his boxes in one hand, my favorite pen in the other and drew this little gem:

I was expecting the box to get routed through my company's delivery system pretty much intact. I expected that my little sketch would thrill and delight all who saw it, and that Hoskins would have a little chuckle when the Delivery Guy had him sign for his packages. But that's not exactly what happened. Let me just say that the gods of practical jokes were smiling at me that day, because it succeeded better than I could have hoped for or even imagined.

He didn't notice the drawing. He sold some stuff on eBay, packed it in the now defiled box and took it to the post office to ship. Let me post Hoskins own remarks about the prank. The following is taken directly from the email he sent me:

Dear Ultimate,

Imagine taking a box up to the friendly postal employee at the
counter. You've spoken with her many times as you've cleaned out your
closets via eBay. Her name is Sandra, but you and the other regulars
know her as Sandy. You begin to make the typical small talk one does
while waiting on the archaic computer systems to meter out a postal
fee.

She cheerfully punches in the zip codes with her obscenely long finger
nails, reads off three or four options that no one ever chooses, and
finally hits the standard mail button. Bored, you take notice of her
window's family pictures. What cute children she has.

Then, your eyes are drawn to something that seems a bit out of place.
Something isn't quite right with the package on the scale in front of
you. You don't know you've seen it, but you have. It is a crude
drawing of a man spraying the seed of life from his giant penis.

Immediately, as if commanded by your realization that the Ultimate
Delivery Option has defiled your box, she turns the box to get a better
view of the address. With all your will you plead with the gods of fate
not to let her notice what you failed to find and cover up. Yet, she does.
Immediately, you see it in her eyes. She's found your little buddy and
his giant dong.

The contempt on her face is complete. Your shame almost matches, but
is somewhat diluted by the fact that it is actually kinda funny. Funny
until you realize that the box is full of children's books and it's
really too late to cover up. No, the penis and his flowing sperm are
protected by a layer of packing tape. This Moaning Lisa will be
preserved for the next generation to enjoy.

---Hoskins

Dear Hoskins,

You got owned!

---Ultimate

Security Robots

2009-04-06T14:03:00.007-04:00

I've had some issues with security guards. Which is too bad, because I get the feeling that deep down inside, beneath the badges, buckles and BS they can be halfway decent human beings. It's hard to tell though. In the DC area being a security guard is the top of the GED food chain. The pay can be in the double digits per hour. Can I get a BLING BLING!? As a security guard, you don't have to read good. You don't have to look good. You don't have to be good. There's plenty of down time where you sit in your chair and stare mindlessly out the window, or dick around on your phone. You get to hassle couriers. You get to glare at the janitors. You can score the occasional discount fatty from the landscaping crew. You finally get the hot chick from accounting's phone number. (It's in the building directory you found in the can.) And the best part is that if you feel threatened, the real police are only a phone call away.

There is an older lady who works as a security guard at one of my regular delivery locations on Morse Code Rd. She's polite, efficient and friendly, which is an unusual combo in the world of private security. We've got a rapport, a comforting routine. I pull the delivery truck up to the Guard Station and open the driver's door. I lean out slightly and move my left arm so my ID badge is at guard's eye level. She walks up and taps the ID badge while I say something like "Hello", or "I'm back again." To which she replies, "All right."

If you need help imagining what her voice sounds like, try thinking what Morgan Freeman would sound like if he was at the dentist, drunk, after having been beaten in the face with a dead squirrel. I liked hearing her say "All Right" so much that I tried having a more in depth conversation.

"Hello, It certainly is a nice day out!" I said.

"All Right." She replied.

So the next day I did the delivery. I thought I'd change it up a bit.

"Good Morning. How are you today?" I asked her.

"All Right." She replied.

I think I outsmarted myself with that last one. I had to go back to the compound later that day so I pulled up to the guard station and put on my best smile.

"Hello again, anything exciting happen while I was gone?" I asked her.

"All Right." She answered.

This went on and on and on for at least a month and a half. I just couldn't get her to open up. I was beginning to sense somewhat of disconnect here. Could she not hear me? Had all her years as a security guard caused permanent hearing loss? The daily gunshots ringing in her ears as she brought unauthorized visitors to justice finally took out the fragile tiny hairs nestled in her cochlea.

Maybe she was just that good. She'd seen everything there is to see in the security guarding world. You can't surprise her; you can't pull one over on her. She was there when the rabid raccoon terrorized the south parking lot. She remembers the hailstorm of '98 that broke the facilities director's windshield. She trained the rookie to turn away the TastyKake delivery guy for forgetting his company ID badge. Her gun's not glued to its holster like all the other security guards down on Morse Code Rd.

I drove up to the guard station like always, but this time I was ready for her. I turned off the truck. There would be no distracting background noise. I leaned way out and pulled my ID badge back so she had stand right next to my open door. My lips were almost touching her ear as I took a deep breath and said.

"Good Morning, there are seven Iranians in the back of my truck today."

"All Right." She replied.

Coast Guard Rampage

2009-03-30T14:11:00.007-04:00

I'm currently at the station taking one of my mandatory thirty minute breaks. I have to take a thirty and then work an hour. Why, you ask? I'm an extra this evening and we're not sure if everyone is going to show up for work today. If someone doesn't show, it's up to me to take over their route and make it happen. So far it's looking good, but I've learned in these situations that its a bad idea to get my hopes up.

I only have about sixteen minutes of computer time left, and I'm trying to decide what I want to tell you. I've got a great story from HR about a guy who got fired. The story has some great characters. It has the crew of a submarine making healthful beverages. It also involves a German man who used to own a large chicken. I don't think I've got time for that one.

I've got the story about how I drove my truck the wrong way down a one way street in Crystal City and had to bail out into a construction lot. I probably don't have time for that one either.

I've got it: Coast Guard Rampage!

Just last week I was making a priority delivery over at the Coast Guard Facility on Morse Code Road. Everyone is pretty casual there, so I got through security with no hassles. I drove around to the Supply Building, and quietly let myself into the warehouse. I was throwing the boxes onto a pallet jack when I heard what I would call a level two ruckus coming from the secure section bulkhead doors.

There was the usual warehouse coastie in his little blue coastie uniform teaching two other coasties some new swear words and trying to get the bulkhead door open. He was working on one of those double door / firewall combos. You know, the kind with the lock and knob on the one door, and no knob but locking pins on the other. They are relatively easy to open if you have the key and you keep your wits about you. Coastie had opened the door with the knob (good job buddy!) and was working on the other bulkhead door with the pins on it. He had unfastened the top pin that locks the door to the ceiling. But the bottom pin wouldn't budge. He started slapping the door. Then he started shaking the door. The shaking got harder and louder and more intense. It peaked about thirty seconds into the procedure with a rhythmic pounding that wouldn't have been out of place either in a dance club or the Traveler's Rest Motel on Richmond Highway.

"SHIT!" He yelled. He stood up and slowly walked away. He had gotten about six or seven paces back from the door when he suddenly turned around and grunted. He sprinted toward the door and leaped at it in what I can only describe as a Chuck Norris Junior style flying kick. Both of his boots hit at about door knob level and the bulkhead door exploded open. The bottom pin and several large pieces of door went flying across the warehouse, bounced on the concrete and then skidded to a stop. The door flew open and bounced off the warehouse wall, came flying back and almost smashed the coastie right in the face. He had managed to somehow land on his feet and was breathing heavily, and shaking slightly. The other two coasties in the room and I looked at Chuck Norris Junior with expressions that were a mixture of fear and anticipation. He slowly lifted his head and looked right into my eyes.

"Hey Courier", he called out to me. "Well no wonder the door wouldn't open. It's broken!"

The Legend Of Franco Tard

2009-03-23T15:39:00.004-04:00

The Legend of Franco Tard has it all. It is a true tale full of suspense and action. It has complex and compelling characters. It has a hero who gets put in a moral dilemma and has to make a choice between equally undesirable alternatives. It has a villain who becomes a prisoner of his own base desires. The Legend of Franco Tard has sin and redemption, hatred and love, desire and disgust.

Telling you the Legend of Franco Tard could cost me my job.

I normally change the names of people and places so as to protect both the innocent and the guilty. One of the best parts of the Legend of Franco Tard, is the name of the main character: Franco Tard. Seriously though, I don't want Franco to google himself and discover how the Ultimate Delivery Option got the last laugh. With a name like Franco Tard, and the number of times I've typed out Franco Tard, you know that if Franco Tard googles himself he's going to find The Legend of Franco Tard at the top of the list.

So in order to keep my job, I made a slight change to his name. You can mentally change it back at home by following these simple steps: 1) Start with Franco Tard. 2) Change the c to a k. 3) Move the o to the end of Tard. Got it? Good. Say it out loud a few times. LOL Franco Tard!

The Legend of Franco Tard started way back when I was a brand new courier working the PM shift on a route in Kingstowne, Virginia. This route was a ball breaker. It had a shopping center in the middle, complete with a massive Wal-Mart parking lot full of wandering obese rednecks. It had an office park and an industrial park on the west end. There was a military installation down at the bottom, and a poo ton of residentials to the east. As I switched to covering different PM routes later on in my Ultimate Delivery career, I remember commenting to Ron Torso that these other routes were easier than Kingstowne. Ron paused, took a deep breath, gently put his hand on my shoulder, looked into my eyes and said, "Ultimate, every PM route is easier than Kingstowne." Let me just put it like this way: That route sucked.

Part of the reason it sucked was because of Franco Tard. I don't know what his problem was, but he was constantly shipping medical specimens out to Lenexia, Kansas. He would always call the dispatchers for a pickup at the last possible minute too. I'd be wrapping up the middle of my route and all of a sudden my PowerPad would say, "BEEP BEEP - You've Got Franco TARD!" I'd have to break the flow, leave the industrial park, or the medical center, or the walrus crossing at Wal-Mart and haul ass all the way across two zip codes so I could have a battle of wills with Franco Tard.

So seriously, you're wondering, what's so bad about Franco Tard? Don't you get paid to pick up packages? You're complaining because this guy is putting money in your paycheck almost every night?

No, dear reader, I'm not complaining just because I had to drive out to the 10ZIP just to pick up this Tard's package. I'm complaining because he was such a Tard-Bag about it. He used to tape little pieces of trash to his package, so I'd have to throw them away for him. So, I started ripping off the leftover forms he would tape to the outside of the bag and then tape them to a door-tag and stick the tag to his door. Take that Franco Tard!

He was good though. He started hiding his packages. If I couldn't find where he put it, he'd call dispatch to have me come back 20 minutes later. When I knocked on the door to ask him where the hell his package was, he wouldn't answer. Sometimes he'd put them in front of one of his neighbor's houses by their mailbox, then he'd yell out to me as I walked up to his porch, "It's over there, you're going to the wrong house!"

Whenever it would rain, he would move the packages from his porch to the middle of his yard. I can't tape soggy trash to a door-tag. Other times he would stand on his porch and silently stare at me as I walked through his yard to retrieve the package he carelessly threw there. Seriously! Who leaves their junk out in the rain just to watch the courier trek through the mud and weeds to retrieve it?

The final straw was the ice storm we had in late fall. Franco Tard did one of his patented late calls, so I had to break route and haul balls through the frozen residential back roads. When I finally got to his place, I saw the orange medical pack frozen to his lawn ten feet away from his sidewalk in front of his bushes. I prayed to Saint Gosh for strength, and got out of my truck to start my trudge through his frozen yard. I got one foot on the walkway to his porch when I heard him yell. "Hey You! Get off my sidewalk and walk in the grass! I don't want you falling down in front of my house."

That's it Franco Tard, you've messed with the wrong Ultimate Delivery Option. I knew I'd have to get even somehow. My opportunity came early the next week when the delivery courier for Franco Tard's area called in sick, and I had to run that route. I set up my truck in the morning and as luck would have it I had a delivery for the Tard family. My mind started racing. Oh, what do I do? Do I hide the box? Do I deliver it to a neighbor? Do I code it up like it's a bad address so he gets it a day late? Do I throw it in his yard in the rain and watch him crawl for his package as I yell at him from the truck. "Suck it Tard! Suck it long, and suck it hard!" What if he's not there?! I need this. I need this to work, badly...

The rest of my my day flew by as I delivered all the other packages on my truck first. I was saving Tard's box for last. I needed him to be home. I finally pulled up to 219 Gentle Caress Rd. My stomach tightened into a knot, and I felt like I was going to puke. Was it the two 7-Eleven Big Bite Hot Dogs I ate for lunch coming back up? No, it was Franco Tard. His truck wasn't in the driveway. Crap, this isn't going to work. My stomach grumbled. Then it grumbled lower. And lower... I had an idea.

I pulled the truck right to Franco Tard's house with the passenger door lined up directly in front of his sidewalk. I opened the bulkhead door and stepped into the cargo area of the truck closing the bulkhead door behind me. It was just me and the box. Enclosed in the cargo area of the truck. No one could see us. It was a strangely intense and intimate encounter. I grabbed Tard's box and unbuckled my belt. I felt a rumble down in my intestines, and heard a sound in my tummy like a tiger purring as it anticipates its next kill. I pulled down my shorts and pressed Franco Tard's package to my ass. I blew a rancid blast of 7-Eleven hot dogs and old coffee farts all over Franco's box. The smell was just what you'd expect from half digested stale roller meat. My hands quivered as I rotated the package against my cheeks while I unleashed my gaseous colon monster. The fart went on for what felt like hours and then suddenly stopped with a wet kissing noise.

I pulled up my shorts, buckled my belt, opened the bulkhead door, stepped out and almost jumped out of my skin. Franco Tard was standing at the end of his sidewalk with his face pressed against the passenger window of my truck. I took a deep calming breath and opened the door. He snatched the package out of my hands. "What took you so long?!" He asked.

"Sir", I replied. "It might just be me, but I think your package has an unusual smell."

Franco looked down at his box, then with a jerking motion thrust it right up under his nose and breathed in deeply. His nostrils were flared and the edge of the package was resting on his upper lip. His eyes widened and his inhaled breath stopped suddenly. "Smells fine to me." He said haltingly. Our eyes locked for just an instant. Then he took a step back and started to walk toward his house.

"Mr. Tard!" I called out after him.

"Yes." He replied.

"Mr. Tard, have a nice day!"

Happy Birthday From Your Courier

2009-03-18T19:52:00.003-04:00

Not to long ago my company hired a new HR guy for the district. It turns about that we are close to the same age, and we both grew up in the same part of Iowa. (As usual, the names of the people, the companies, and the states have been changed.) He's a pretty cool guy who moved out to the Washington DC area from the Midwest and as a result he's had to adjust to a lot of the same things I had trouble adjusting to when I moved out here.

First off, living in Washington DC is a totally different experience from living back home. When I first moved out to our nation's capital there was a big news story about how DC is leading the nation in functional illiteracy. The statistics, if I remember correctly, were that over 33% of District residents can't read well enough to be considered literate. I'll be honest with you, I'm not sure what functional literacy means. On the off chance that someone is reading this blog to you, and you don't know whether or not you are functionally literate you might want to ask yourself the following questions:

When ordering at your favorite fast food restaurant, do you point at the picture on the menu and say "Yo dog, hook me up wit dat, it be off the chain!"?

Or when you are driving your beat up Mercury Grand Marquis to Sammy's Liquor store at the corner of New York and Bladensburg, do you stop at certain intersections because of the shape or color of the signs?

Do you have difficulty spelling the name of the government agency responsible for collecting taxes, or the name of the company who hires people to drive around in brown trucks and deliver stuff?

Anyway, if you answered yes to any of those questions there is a one in three chance you live in DC. I was telling one of my coworkers about the ridiculously high illiteracy rate in the District. He listened to me thoughtfully, paused for a moment and said, "Thank God I live in Virginia!"

OK, let's get back to the part of the story where I was telling you about the new HR guy. (I'd make up a fake name for him, but honestly I can't remember his real name. Oh crap, let's just call him Kyle.) So Kyle and I were talking one day about the crazy stuff that goes on in DC, and I asked him what the weirdest thing someone at our company has ever gotten fired for. He didn't even have to think when he told me:

We had to fire a courier for taking a dump in someone's driveway.

How does that even happen!? I've been out in the truck and had to go poo all of a sudden, but I've never been blindsided by a turd like that. Did the courier make a delivery and then take a dump in that guys driveway, or did the courier take a dump in the driveway, and then walk up to the door and ask for a signature? For the first few seconds after Kyle told me about the chocolate delivery, fantasies about plop and drop couriers played across the theater of my mind. I just couldn't wrap my head around the concept. I finally settled on the idea that the courier just innocently pooped their pants and a little log just happened to slide out of the leg and settle on the hot asphalt like a scoop of sweet potatoes hitting your plate at the Old Country Buffet. At least that way there was no malice involved.

I asked Kyle for the details, including the story about how the pile was discovered and pinned on the courier. I imagine that there is a large room full of cubicles and ringing phones at our corporate office. Suddenly one of the customer service reps working the phones takes the call, stands up, and yells out over the cube farm, "I got a code 47 here! We got a driveway shitter!" The pit boss slowly lowers his smoldering cigarette from his lips and mutters, "Not again... Get me the rookie." He ashes his cig, takes a sip of his stale coffee and makes eye contact with the new guy. "Kyle, get the details. It's about time you got sent on a field trip."

I wasn't able to get all the facts but I was able to confirm with Kyle that the customer saw the delivery truck pulling away, found the Turd in his driveway, put two and two together, and made the call. Corporate sent Kyle out to the scene in person to conduct an investigation.

The courier denied the allegation, but the evidence Kyle collected was overwhelming. Oh, I forgot a little detail. The courier was female. Not only did she take a big steamy dump in some poor unsuspecting customer's driveway, but she had a smoke afterward. Then she put the cigarette out in the turd, like a chocolate fudge cupcake with a candle on top.

Happy birthday from your courier.

PIE DAY

2009-03-13T18:30:00.003-04:00

I'm sure all of you out there know that March fourteenth is one of my most favorite holidays. It's Pie Day. If you don't understand why March fourteenth is Pie Day, then it's my duty to tell you that just like Mr. T, I pity you.

There are several ways to celebrate Pie Day. You can make pie. You can eat pie! You can call your friends and wish them a happy Pie Day. Also, it is important to tell jokes and make puns about pies and circles and math and spheres and anything else pie related.

My lovely wife, who is both talented and literate, has prepared the traditional March Fourteenth fare. She baked a BIG homemade apple pie for me, and six tiny pies that we are going to deliver to half a dozen of our best friends. So on behalf of the Ultimate Delivery Option, I'd like to wish everyone a HAPPY PIE DAY!

See you around! (Obligatory Pun)

Zita's Ugly

2009-02-21T09:00:00.002-05:00

Good news folks: Just when I thought the Ugly Contest was drawing to a close, I receive a new ugly from an old friend. When I used to live in Providence, RI, Zita was my tour guide. Anyway she lives in southern New Jersey now and reviews professional tour guide contracts for a living. She submitted a picture of her dispatcher for review in the ugly contest. The resolution is pretty high so you can get a good peek at the tuft of nose hair. More later!

Miguel's Ugly

2009-02-10T17:42:00.002-05:00

I have a buddy back in Des Moines named Miguel. (Names and places have been changed...) He works in the plumbing industry. I called him up a few minutes ago to ask him exactly how I should describe his line of work, and he told me he's a "toilet repairman". I did learn two things from Miguel about toilets. Poo-poo don't flow up hill. Tight is tight, but too tight is broken.

So anyway here's Miguel's coworker. I guess when the plunger doesn't work, they send her.

Ron's Ugly

2009-02-10T17:24:00.005-05:00

When I sent a text to Ron Torso to notify him about the contest, he replied almost immediately with this picture of Bo. I texted Ron back and threatened that I would tell Bo he'd been entered in the Ugly Contest. Ron made it very clear to me that Bo's involvement was voluntary. Bo is a self proclaimed ugly man on an ugly mission. But will he be ugly enough... Time will tell.

Ron Torso

2009-02-10T16:39:00.004-05:00

There is a special class of courier called a swing driver. Management likes to tell us that the swing drivers, or cover drivers as they are sometimes called, are the best of the best. According to some in management, you have three types of courier.

The PM Courier: These are the guys driving the trucks from about 2 in the afternoon to 10 at night. It's easy to identify a PM Courier if you see one. The PM Courier usually is driving with one hand on the wheel and the other on a Big Gulp, Red Bull, or Big Mama's Spicy Sausage. The PM Courier can also be identified by its habit of talking or texting on a cell phone pretty much CONSTANTLY. Keep a close eye out for the classic markings of a PM Courier's Truck, which are as follows: Dirt EVERYWHERE, trash can lids stuck in or around the wheel wells, and a dog leash and empty dog collar trailing from the back bumper. The PM guys aren't in the business for the money. They are in it for the insurance. Dealing crack, sadly, usually doesn't provide medical or dental...

The AM (Delivery) Courier: These are the guys you are probably thinking of when someone mentions FedEx or UPS to you. They wear shorts pretty much all the time, unless they are caucasian, in which case they actually do wear shorts ALL THE TIME. They usually walk fast, talk fast, know where they are, know where you are, know where you are trying to go, and are happy to give you directions. They usually are cheerful and professional. They all also secretly hate their jobs, and usually their lives. They have sworn a sacred vow to MAKE their children go to college so that they can do more then sling packages all day for the rest of their unnaturally short and boring lives.

The Swing Driver: This courier has the perfect combination of the following qualities: High Tolerance for Pain, Low Ambition, No Social Life, Strong Religious/Social Taboos against physical violence against management, and poor short term memory. The Swing Driver is the guy who fills in for the PM Courier when he gets arrested for dealing crack, and the AM Courier when he blows out his knee joint on a fall down three flights of stairs. The Swing Driver shows up to work each day not knowing where he'll be delivering, where he'll be picking up, or where the hell his truck is.

Ron Torso (names have been changed...) is the best Swing Driver we have at our station. He has an incredibly high tolerance for pain: He once delivered 284 packages in one day out of a rental van in the snow after being shot in the face with pepper spray by a nervous housewife. He has low ambition. He's been a swing driver for years and is showing no signs of slowing down. He has no social life. He once worked three consecutive weeks of double shifts, sleeping in his car in the parking lot, and showering in the station bathroom. (It's not as bad as it sounds, our bathroom has an actual shower.) And last but not least he has a poor short term memory. He gets screwed almost every day, but he keeps showing up for work the next morning.

Ron Torso is my hero. It's because of his example I stepped up to join the ranks of Swing Drivers a year and a half ago. He's also sent me a picture of one of our ugly coworkers. I'll post it soon.

Mark's Payback

2009-02-09T21:01:00.003-05:00

I didn't think it'd be fair to only ask for your workplace uglies and not provide one of my own. So with that in mind, I barged into the manager's conference room after I was finished with my Ultimate Delivery route. I looked the night manager Mark Podocknik (names have been changed) right in his misshapen face and asked him if I could get his picture for a contest.

He knows me, so it didn't take long for the suspicion to register on his beady little eyes. He reached up with his chubby fur-covered hand to wipe some thick yellowish drool from his quivering lower lip, paused, and then barked out a semi comprehensible question. He wanted to know what the contest was for....

I had some options at this point.

a) I could lie.... (think, think, what could I tell him)
b) I could tell him the truth in a funny and ironic way, so he would think I was just pulling his leg.

or I could
c) Just come right out and tell him, that I'm entering it in a contest of my own design because I think he's the ugliest person at the station.

I chose c.

Remember Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where Harrison Ford and some Nazis find a 700 year old dude in a cave and they have to try and pick out his favorite Mug from some middle-eastern pottery barn the old dude's been running all those years... Well just like the Nazis, I picked the 'wrong mug' so to speak. Only this time I didn't have a 700 year old dude to wisper in my ear: "You Chose Poorly"

I should have learned by now that ol' Mark can really make my life miserable... Needless to say, I got assigned to the bitch route that afternoon. I get the feeling I'm going to be on the bitch route for a while now.

I'll keep you posted

P.S. I didn't get his picture, yet...

Byron & Sandy's Ugly

2009-02-08T08:33:00.002-05:00

Byron and Sandy are a pretty cool couple that I used to hang out with back when I lived in Iowa. (The names and locations have been changed to blah blah blah.) We used to hang out at their house every week to study the Koran and watch Big Brother. (The book and TV show have been changed...) Anyway, I sent a text to Sandy inviting her to enter the Ugly Contest, and she responded rather rapidly. She sent me a picture of a carrot with a knife stuck in it sitting on a tiny toilet. Sadly I deleted the picture in a fit of nausea. Hopefully they'll send me another one. Byron must have exercised his husbandly authority and tempered Sandy's vegetable mutilating ways, because I've just received their official human entry. Behold its ugliness in all its glory.

Alvin's Ugly

2009-02-08T08:23:00.004-05:00

I got a text from my old buddy Alvin. (The names have been changed to protect the guilty.)

Alvin and I go way back. He used to play the xylophone in my old band, Seven-Eights Awesome. (The band's name has been changed to protect the innocent.) Anyway, Alvin immediately started texting trash to me about the quantity and quality of the uglies he worked with. As always, extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. Fortunately Alvin knows how to put his uglies where his mouth is.

Alvin, I salute you. You pick uglies like you play the xylophone: With all your heart. The bar has been set quite high. We'll have to see how things work out as other uglies start to trickle in...

The Ugly Contest

2009-02-08T07:36:00.000-05:00

It all started with a simple thought: "Damn, I work with some ugly people."

Most of my day consists of me talking to myself as I drive my delivery truck down a pothole filled road in a DC suburb in northern Virginia. I work alone. It's just me, the truck, one hundred and fifty or so packages to deliver, and a mind numbingly boring series of empty large homes.

Step One: Drive to the address on the package.

Step Two: Hide the package somewhere near the front door of the house.

Step Three: Ring the bell.

Step Four: Run back to the truck and get the heck out of there, hopefully before the ugly, half naked, overweight housewife rises from her post-Oprah diabetic coma long enough to waddle to the front door and yell at the truck as I drive away, "Y'all need me to SIGN!?"

Step Five: Go to Step One.

All the interactions I have with people are all usually pretty scripted and boring. I'll have to post some of the exciting ones sometimes. The regular ones normally fall into the following categories: The "I don't remember ordering this" conversation. The "Who's it from / What is it" dialog. And my personal favorite the "OMG my CELLPHONE!" declaration. The OMG my CELLPHONE one was kind of fun the first 500 times I heard it...

Cast of Characters

Delivery Guy - Me
Enormous Housewife - Random Enormous Housewife

Setting: Front Porch. The delivery guy is standing on the Enormous Housewife's front porch. He rings the bell and waits for the Enormous Housewife to answer the door.

(Ding Dong) Door opens.

Delivery Guy: Hello, I have a delivery for (looks at package) Uhh... Enormous Housewife.

Enormous Housewife: OMG my CELLPHONE!!!

Delivery Guy: That's great, can you sign here by the X please.

Enormous Housewife: (Takes Pen) OMG my CELLPHONE!!!

Delivery Guy: Yup, delivery from Verizon. By the X please....

Enormous Housewife: OMG my CELLPHONE!!!

Delivery Guy: That's right, a cellphone... (Takes signed pad, and gives cell to E.H.)

Enormous Housewife: OMG my CELLPHONE!!!

Delivery Guy: Uh, I'm really excited too... Can you spell your last name for me?

Enormous Housewife: OMG my CELLPHONE!!!

Delivery Guy: Nevermind... (Looks at name on cellphone box and types it in the pad) Have a nice day.

Enormous Housewife: OMG my CELLPHONE!!!

Delivery Guy: Uh huh... (Turns and runs to truck...)

Enormous Housewife: OMG my CELLPHONE!!!

End Scene

After the realization that I'm just an ugly monkey driving a truck trying to hide from other spectacularly ugly monkeys went bouncing around inside my brain, I thought I can't be the only one. So I got out my OMG my CELLPHONE, and sent a txt to about half my address book.

Attention Friends of the Ultimate Delivery Option: I'm having a new contest. Send me a pic the ugliest person you work with. If you are unemployed it can be a pic of the ugliest person you have class with, or the ugliest person at your AA meetings. Whoever works with the fugliest of uglies wins a prize!

The responses came back immediatly. I'll keep you all posted.