Chuck
I work with Chuck The Parts Guy.
Chuck complains all day about his ailments. Mild dyslexia, ulcers, some sort of acid reflux problem that makes him burp all the time, dry skin, back pain from an old injury in which a ton of construction material fell on him when he worked at Builders Square, ADHD, and his inability to get laid.
Kenny, a younger dude out in the shop, calls him a "porkchop with a perm."
I've been working with him for 2 months now, and he wears the exact same outfit every single day: black shoes with no laces, stonewashed jeans, a grey sweatshirt and a black hooded jacket he bought at WalMart.
"Do you know whatcher doin', kid?" He'll ask from right behind my shoulder. I smell ramen noodles mixed with giardinaire.
Me: "What the fuck did you eat today? Spicy bird shit?"
Chuck: "Fuckin' kid. Awww, God. I think you dumb Polacks have suffered enough ridicule!"
Chuck loves to quote Tony Clifton, the Andy Kaufmann alter-ego. At first it was something we could talk about, cause I love Tony Clifton, too. But man, lemme tell ya...that shit gets old after, oh, say the 50th time you've heard it.
Chuck's dynamic lexicon of euphemisms is unlike any other I've heard. Keep in mind, we both grew up in Chicago; he's 50 and I'm 27. Some examples:
Copshop (police station)
Boneyard (salvage)
Bones (dollars)
Beaner (This is an interesting one...he uses it in place of "Mexican", but to him anyone brown speaking spanish or portuguese is "Mexican")
Smoke (Who says that anymore? His racial epithets are from the Capone era)
Roach (a nasty-looking car)
The manager of the shop where I work got fired for beating up Chuck. I took his place.
On friday, I backed into Chuck's 1986 Olds 98 accidentally. A huge dent was left. I felt bad, but hey, lunch was calling and I was outta there.
When I came back from a tasty meal of turkey club and french onion soup, I noticed the dust had been wiped from the side of Chuck's car. I tounged a piece of lettuce between my molars, arms akimbo, and sucked my teeth. He had examined the damage, and now he knew I did it.
I sauntered into the shop, biting the sides of my cheeks to stifle a laugh.
"Sorry, dude." Meaning it.
Chuck: "Mannnn, that car was all original. Not a spot of Bond-o on it. Now it's ruined." His fire had been extinguished.
"Take it easy, man. This is a body shop! We'll fix it."
Dad, chiming in from his office: "I'll get Oscar to do it."
Chuck winced and frowned at once. "I don't want a fuckin' beaner to fix my car." In Chuck's world, Mexicans are incapable of doing anything except leaving work early and stealing.
Dad:"Why? He works on my car all the time. He knows what he's doing. That car's a chunk of shit anyway."
Chuck wandered out of the office into the shop, looking like a kid who had his bike stolen from him. He was quiet the rest of the day, which is about as normal as red piss.
Now you may be thinking I'm kind of a dick. But what the fuck would you do if you sat three feet away from this guy? He sits in front of his computer all day, saying the name of parts as he clicks on them.
"Headlamp mounting panel panel panel...
LIGHT! BULB!
Fen-derr, fend-errr fend...
fender BOLT ah
fender CLIP ah
fender SEAT ah
Fender AH FENDER PANEL!
(muttering) a fender panel for Ms. (bastardized pronunciation of 2 syllable last name). Fuckin skanky bitch."
"Hey Chuck! Whoya talkin' to? Shhhhh!"
Chuck: "shhhhh." Giggles.
I want to strangle him. I joke with him all the time about making my pencil into a prison shank and stabbing him with it.
"Fuckin' kid...aww Goddd..."
Chuck complains all day about his ailments. Mild dyslexia, ulcers, some sort of acid reflux problem that makes him burp all the time, dry skin, back pain from an old injury in which a ton of construction material fell on him when he worked at Builders Square, ADHD, and his inability to get laid.
Kenny, a younger dude out in the shop, calls him a "porkchop with a perm."
I've been working with him for 2 months now, and he wears the exact same outfit every single day: black shoes with no laces, stonewashed jeans, a grey sweatshirt and a black hooded jacket he bought at WalMart.
"Do you know whatcher doin', kid?" He'll ask from right behind my shoulder. I smell ramen noodles mixed with giardinaire.
Me: "What the fuck did you eat today? Spicy bird shit?"
Chuck: "Fuckin' kid. Awww, God. I think you dumb Polacks have suffered enough ridicule!"
Chuck loves to quote Tony Clifton, the Andy Kaufmann alter-ego. At first it was something we could talk about, cause I love Tony Clifton, too. But man, lemme tell ya...that shit gets old after, oh, say the 50th time you've heard it.
Chuck's dynamic lexicon of euphemisms is unlike any other I've heard. Keep in mind, we both grew up in Chicago; he's 50 and I'm 27. Some examples:
Copshop (police station)
Boneyard (salvage)
Bones (dollars)
Beaner (This is an interesting one...he uses it in place of "Mexican", but to him anyone brown speaking spanish or portuguese is "Mexican")
Smoke (Who says that anymore? His racial epithets are from the Capone era)
Roach (a nasty-looking car)
The manager of the shop where I work got fired for beating up Chuck. I took his place.
On friday, I backed into Chuck's 1986 Olds 98 accidentally. A huge dent was left. I felt bad, but hey, lunch was calling and I was outta there.
When I came back from a tasty meal of turkey club and french onion soup, I noticed the dust had been wiped from the side of Chuck's car. I tounged a piece of lettuce between my molars, arms akimbo, and sucked my teeth. He had examined the damage, and now he knew I did it.
I sauntered into the shop, biting the sides of my cheeks to stifle a laugh.
"Sorry, dude." Meaning it.
Chuck: "Mannnn, that car was all original. Not a spot of Bond-o on it. Now it's ruined." His fire had been extinguished.
"Take it easy, man. This is a body shop! We'll fix it."
Dad, chiming in from his office: "I'll get Oscar to do it."
Chuck winced and frowned at once. "I don't want a fuckin' beaner to fix my car." In Chuck's world, Mexicans are incapable of doing anything except leaving work early and stealing.
Dad:"Why? He works on my car all the time. He knows what he's doing. That car's a chunk of shit anyway."
Chuck wandered out of the office into the shop, looking like a kid who had his bike stolen from him. He was quiet the rest of the day, which is about as normal as red piss.
Now you may be thinking I'm kind of a dick. But what the fuck would you do if you sat three feet away from this guy? He sits in front of his computer all day, saying the name of parts as he clicks on them.
"Headlamp mounting panel panel panel...
LIGHT! BULB!
Fen-derr, fend-errr fend...
fender BOLT ah
fender CLIP ah
fender SEAT ah
Fender AH FENDER PANEL!
(muttering) a fender panel for Ms. (bastardized pronunciation of 2 syllable last name). Fuckin skanky bitch."
"Hey Chuck! Whoya talkin' to? Shhhhh!"
Chuck: "shhhhh." Giggles.
I want to strangle him. I joke with him all the time about making my pencil into a prison shank and stabbing him with it.
"Fuckin' kid...aww Goddd..."
posted by Roadsalt at
8:00 PM
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