It's night. I'm in a little hut the size of a trunk of a Japanese economy car. The light isn't, there is softcore playing on the telly, and the heater is working full blast trying to make a difference.
It all started when "The Smartest Guard Dog This Side of the Milky Way" bit me. Nothing serious, mind you, but it pissed me off like you wouldn't believe. As if having a snarly, overweight property manager that makes a shamble of the English language wasn't enough, the last thing I expected was that the four-legged genius assigned to me would do that. The Doctor said it was just a pinch but put some antibiotics on it, just in case.
Now this dog has the tendency to attack anything. And I mean anything. The other night it attacked the garage door. There was no sign as to what the garage door may have said or done to set him off. One moment he was next to me, then he's showing that garage door what he thinks of it.
You can imagine what a happy puppy he is when there are tenants around. So when we're back inside I tend to keep the muzzle on, especially when idiot tenants tease the dog and he lunges for them in an attempt to rip out their throats (I wish, honestly, I could let him do that. When people are that stupid...).
As we're about to re-enter the building, I noticed that the dog found a stick in the courtyard and decided it was going to keep it. So I removed the stick because it is notoriously difficult to put on a muzzle as it is, much less with a stick in his mouth. Pissed off, his reaction was to bit me. Mine was to yell at him.
I think half a block around Queen Street and University heard me growl obscenities at the dog. The jazz players at The Rex stopped playing in shock when they heard. Really, I used to be so nice.
I doubt the dog understood what was happening, but he looked honestly scared of my reaction. In fact he walked the rest of the night with his ears low and his tail behind his legs with that "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's going to kick my ass" look on his face.
The only reason I didn't kick his ass, really, is because he's a dog. I just limited myself to renaming him from "Oden" to "You hairy motherfucker".
He spent the rest of the night locked in the garbage room. Occasionally I'd go there and yell at him some more just to make sure he'd be, for once, shitting out in fear--unlike the other times when he just does it on the carpet for no reason what-so-ever.
At the end of my shift, I left a note at the office saying simply, "Hairy motherfucker bit me. Resignation letter to follow." This reaction of mine apparently set off some sort of nuclear chain reaction at work between the vice president and the secretary (she opened my letter and read it and that pissed him off), and then between the vice president and the president. Furor about the stupid dog and god knows what else.
Reaction? Instead of getting canned as I was hoping, I got moved to this new and exciting location.
I'm in a construction site where luxury condominiums are being built. I'm here mostly because it's cheaper to pay for a guy to spend all night in a little booth than to pay insurance.
Believe it or not, I don't mind this at all. Not even with my incredibly fine tuned slacking skills was I ever able to get paid and really do absolutely nothing. And even if I was a little more concerned about doing my job properly, there really isn't anything that I can do. Imagine a huge field compromised solely of mud, assorted construction vehicles, a couple of buildings and some big holes in the ground. All of this while our great Canadian winter slowly makes its presence known.
Compared to some of the locations I've worked at, having the added bonuses of a comfortable chair, a television, heat and a few good books to read, this is luxury.
The only problem is that when you've got to go, you have to get out of your womb of warmness and trek across the field to the local stall.
I'm sorry. Calling this a stall is an insult to shitholes like the bathroom at Fran's Diner by Yonge and College.
This is a Port-a-Let, one of those plastic booths that are as comfortable as they are clean, filled with cute little graffiti written by the construction workers:
(arrow pointing down into toilet)
"BRUNO LIVES HERE"
Simple but to the point.
Between text and arrow, someone added:
"and he sure sucks it good!"
Bruno must not be well loved. Or he gives head like nobody's business.
Another hand wrote, with an arrow pointing towards a hand lotion dispenser (if that's really what it is):
"SEE THIS HAND LOTION? IT'S GREAT FOR MASTARBATION! [sic] JUST ASK BRUNO!"
It really upsets me how often I have had to witness the word "masturbation" spelled in such a way. With Internet porn being so rampant, you'd hope people would catch on.
Bruno--though this is wild speculation on my end--upset at the negative image such rumours must be giving him, wrote the highly original comeback:
And below that, yet again:
"suck it suck it good bruno"
With all this rampant fellatio going on around here, it is only fair I talk about the softcore. The television in the hut picks up only one channel. Okay, perhaps that's a little unfair, it does pick up other channels, but the options with those is to either watch snow and hear what they are saying or to see what's happening and hear white noise.
The one station I can see (CityTV) after midnight plays movies it defines as "Late Great Movies." Such "great" movies include things like Police Academy 7 and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Movies you can't believe you are actually watching, much less were actually made. Has anyone other than me actually watched Police Academy 7? All of it, I mean. I can't believe this got made. It's not funny. Oh, it tries really hard to be, believe me, but the only great thing going for it was that Steve Guttenberg was not in it.
As for the other actors, they were all unknowns who will remain unknown. Starring in a "Police Academy" movie puts one just above murders and pedophiles.
On Friday nights, however, it's softcore night. The series is called Baby Blue 2 and it features bouncing silicon breasts with a plot--though it should be noted that I'm using the term as loosely as possible.
That's the idea, at least, as most stories seem to have the budget equal to the change I currently have in my pockets, and appear to have been filmed in someone's living room. Like how the crooks have this generic-looking office, but put the camera at a different angle and suddenly it's a police station.
So far, most of the tales tend to rotate around some well endowed undercover cop that has to do something for greater justice. This involves sleeping with as many people as possible "Because, Jack, we're this close to solving the case!"
As to what the case may actually be, I'm at a loss, as the darned things are acted so terribly poor, you just wish you could watch them with friends for a laugh. Maybe this is why they are called softcore, as they definitely won't make you hard. The moment the silicone filled actresses open their chirpy little mouths you realize how their acting ability wasn't the main requirement for the casting job (assuming it was a requirement at all).
But the other night, when I thought there could be nothing worse than being a minimum wage security guard, working nights and being awfully bored while watching badly acted softcore, I saw something worse: CANCON Softcore.
Now, unless you live in Canada, I need to explain. There is a law in Canada that says that a certain amount of content on the telly (or radio) has to be Canadian. It's called the CANCON (Canadian Content) law.
Why there is this law? My guess is because Canadian movies, with the exception of the CBC's own programmes (though some people may argue about that as well), are so terribly bad nobody in their right mind would actually run any of them.
To give you an example, picture the worst plot you've seen in porn. Then remove the sex. That's not even remotely as bad as anything Canadian I've seen so far. In fact, sometimes you may watch a film wondering when the porn will start, until you realize it's a Canadian film.
The movie in question was a heart-touching tale of a romance novel writer suffering from writer's block. So was the script writer, if you ask me. The only people that you do want to see naked manage to remove every single item they are wearing and still show absolutely nothing.
Later, everyone forgets they are doing a low budget softcore movie as they all huggle under the blankets professing their love for each other. So much for the joy of meaningless sexual extravaganza.
You'll have to excuse me now. I need to go flood Bruno's house.