I went to Trade Secret @ the Arnot Mall in Big Flats, NY. It was my first visit. I am very pleased with my cut, color and highlights. I am shocked, however, at the extreme lack of professionalism, that started with my initial call to make an appointment and continued until I left my stylist’s chair. I called and described what I wanted done, and asked if I could get in that evening. Two minutes of total silence…I thought perhaps a simple “hold on” or “let me check for you” would have been appropriate before leaving me hanging on the phone. Once in the salon, I was even more shocked. I was told to have a seat. I looked around and had to ask, “Uh, Where?” as there are no seats in the reception area for clients to relax in while waiting. He pointed up on the salon floor and said that I could sit in a cutting chair. While my color was processing, I decided to shop in the retail area next to the reception desk. The reception person, who I have learned by this time is Eric, answered the phone with a Trade Secret greeting then smiles and says “Oh, it’s you! I thought it was a S-T-U-P-I-D customer!” I was appalled. If I were not in the middle of a process I would have walked out right at that moment! Eric went on three breaks out in the mall while I was in the salon for 2 hours and entertained 1-3 friends at all times while in the salon. They were talking, laughing, having a great time. My stylist left her chair to greet customers, explain sales, and ring up a person because Eric was nowhere around. That was MY time he was stealing. I had a husband and 2 children waiting for me in the mall and my appointment would have been shortened by at least a half hour if my stylist did not have to wait on other customers that were Eric’s responsibility. I saw one paying customer besides myself while there. I saw one free haircolor and two separate stylists give free haircuts to friends. Upon asking my stylists when the manager would be in because I would like to speak to her, I learned that the store has no manager. Well, that was quite obvious! I love my hair. My stylist was amazing and I spent just under $100 that evening, but would I go back? Probably not unless that stylist went to another salon. All my friends love my hair and ask where I had it done. I tell them, but I also share my ridiculous experience and no one is interested in going themselves, and who could honestly blame them?

Darlene Niver
209 Meadowlark Road
Horseheads, NY 14845
(607) 734-6613
darleneniver@yahoo.com

see also:
-Happy Easter! (’04)

-Happy Easter! (’03)

-Happy Easter! (’02)

-Happy Easter! (’01)

• n. 1. a person’s name written in a distinctive way as a form of identification in authorizing a check or document or concluding a letter.

Sorry for downplaying your intelligence up there, but I just got into an argument with a store clerk over my signature. Tell me how this bitch goes all day seeing illegible scribbles, careless dashes, lazy wiggle lines that (perhaps, symbolically) match the final moments of life on hospital heart monitor…and when something with a little pizazz comes by, she’s gotta flip shit over it?

Two decades ago, when I first started signing my name in an unconventional manner, it was merely a young boy’s protest against ol’ wacky-loops cursive. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the art of calligraphy…it’s his mentally challenged little brother, cursive, that I don’t care for. More often than not, cursive is written in haste, the results are ugly and it’s difficult to read. I like my eyes to glide smoothly over a sentence—opposed to straining them and wrestling the paper into different viewing angles while trying to locate my decoder ring. All these years later and I still get motion sickness trying to follow those obnoxious squiggles around. Man…fuck you, cursive.

By the time I graduated high school, my parents noticed my signature remained relatively consistent with it’s humble beginnings in Mrs. Karabaich’s fifth grade classroom. They warned me of the trouble I was setting myself up for, particularly, signing legal documents as an adult. Perhaps that’s all I needed to hear, because I appreciate easily avoidable confrontation.

So, I can admit that much. I’m well aware of it being an issue for some people. The question is…how is it an issue? The very definition of the word “signature” negates the entire argument.

I’ve got it partially figured out…and for the confusing remainder, I’ve come up with a possible workaround. The incident with this specific clerk caught me off guard because she was young. See, I’ve run into trouble with my signature four times prior to this, all with bitter old women. Now that is to be expected. There’s no sense trying to hide your misery when your tits haven’t been presentable in decades and your vagina is crustier than a sourdough roll in a hobo’s armpit. Of course you’re going to get mad at me for “doodling” on my credit slip when your vaginal lips are ashy and you haven’t felt an erection since menopause. However, if your private area is still adorned with a big, wet, pink bull’s-eye, don’t let something as trifle as uncommon looking pen marks rile you into an ol’ beaten-hag frenzy.

Angry young women of America, hear me and hear me well. Your pussy will be a dilapidated mess soon enough…stressing out over a signature sure as hell isn’t slowing the process any. Do yourself a favor and enjoy life until the semen’s tapped and those labias are chapped.

Sincerely,

see also:

-The Proposition

-Let it Leak

-Booyah, white boys!

That’s right, it’s carnival season—and right now, Scotty is on a bus to Middletown, Connecticut, where he begins his grueling 29th year as a carnie for Coleman Bros. Fair.

For five and a half months, thousands of children’s lives will be in Scotty’s hands while he’s off sneakin’ chew, peeping in porta potties, scouring for prostitutes and catching Mexicans jacking off under the merry-go-round.

Every so often, when he’s not covering up pee on the kiddie slide with coats of silicone spray or getting his dick tickled, he’ll be updating his Twitter page with firsthand accounts of sexual conquest, barroom brawls and more fairground mischief than you can shake a Kewpie doll at.

Follow Scotty on Twitter: http://twitter.com/ScottyTheCarnie

We’ll miss you, buddy. Give ‘em hell.

see also:
-Carnie Tales (vol.2)

-Self-Defense Tips From a Carnie

-Sex Advice From a Carnie

-Carnie Tales (vol. 1)

Two hours later…

Taem sold his urine to some fella stressing out over a piss test he had to give for work in the morning, so our drinks were all paid for. The pee sample was collected and delivered in a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon…and with PBR being our beverage of choice for the evening (on account of the elegant blue ribbon), there’s really no telling whether or not one of us accidentally chugged down the wrong liquid at some point. Not that there’s any difference. I just wanted to point out that we may have drank entirely for free.

As we exited the bar, Miss Piggy makes another Jonas Bros comment, this time to an inebriated version of the trio who politely ignored her on the way in—moments into our retaliation, she is verbally assassinated.

Coming to her rescue was her wigger boyfriend, who spit in Taem’s face. Taem returned the gesture by decking him right in his chubby-muff chewin’ lips. Taem knocked the taste of swollen, thoroughly dimpled labia out of his mouth, a motion this white-boy-with-dreams-of-black-pigmentation didn’t take too kindly…triggering him to tackle Taem onto the pavement.

After the two of them rolled around, aggressively hugging in the street for about a minute, they let go of one another and got up. As they brushed themselves off, continuing to size each other up, a cigarette fell from behind the Caucasian hoodrat’s ear…Holden graciously stepped in, picked it up and smoked it right in front of his fat ass. A gentleman, Holden thanked him as he exhaled that first satisfying puff of smoke.

Optimistic for more of a fight, I encourage Taem to snap into a Slim Jim…however, a faithful Christian, Taem’s more of a “say your prayers and take your vitamins” kinda guy…so he removed his shirt, revealing a pair of 24″ pythons, each freshly dipped in baby oil and ready for round two.

With excitement bubbling inside me, I start heckling the wigger about his cell phone that fell and broke during the scuffle. He picked it up, insisting the phone still worked and, unexpectedly, walked away. He retreated quietly, taking his friend and the large girl who initiated this whole mess with him…a relentless tsunami of insults carrying them off into the night.

We couldn’t drive home because we were all still a bit tipsy and the cops were chilling in our parking lot, patiently awaiting a D.W.I. or two…so Taem, still shirtless, approached the officer, told him he was jumped, that his wallet was stolen and gave a brilliant description of the same guy he’d just humiliated in the fight. As soon as the cops cleared out in search of the perpetrator, we ran to our vehicle giggling and drove off all drunk.

Jonas Brothers, for the win!

The astonishing photography and masterfullly composed captions and anecdotes herein chronicle our expedition.

Now let’s enjoy the Miami of Canada—Chicago!

October 10th
10:23 am
On a spiritual journey to the Windy City with Yetti & Tony Shaddock.

10:58 am
Three guys in a car…and I’m breathin’ on Easy Street? Someone needs to spark up this roadtrip with a wet hot fart.

11:18 am
“You boys ain’t from around here…you have no business o’er at Joncy gorge. Take yer city haircuts n’ go on, git!”

1:18 pm
Sleeping like a baby…particularly one of the dead babies in that sack he’s resting his head on.

5:46 pm
Who goes over my travel route before every roadtrip & makes sure to redirect me on a Dunkin Donutsless path? Whoever you are, go get raped.

8:23 pm
We crossed time zones unscathed. Hey, 7 o’clock, we have a second chance together…try not to fuck it up this time.

9:39 pm
Chicago arrival. First on the agenda? SUH FUCKEN REAL DEEP DISH CHICAGUH PIZZUH.

11:21 pm
Sippin’ on a 312 Urban Wheat Ale at some Korean dive bar. L’il Fart ordered a “hot sucky” and all he got was some lousy drink in a ceramic flask. If Asian fellatio is this hard to come by (pun intended, LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!) in the Big Onion, I’m not impressed. On the bright side—according to this coaster, my Survival Kit is almost half completed…

Two down, three to go. Baby just needs a new pair of shoes, a designer purse…and flashin’ my juicy tits for some fancy beads should be easy enough in this toddlin’ town. Bring on the night!

October 11th
Happy birthday, baby Shaddock.

1:51 am
My heart’s telling me this is a Rum n’ Coke in my hand, but my brain’s telling me it’s Roofies n’ NyQuil. I need to flee this crowded bar and get some shut-eye. I know the risk of walking these streets at night with only two-fifths of my Survival Kit…but I simply cannot go on. No rest for the wicked. Mr. McLaren, gimme a firm floor to sleep on.

12:02 pm
Good morning, city cats.

12:28 pm
Not even birthday songs or burger crowns will wake this tiny dancer.

2:10 pm
May I wax philosophical for a moment?

When you’re soaking your meat bone shaft-deep in some poon tang, you’re in a quaint village of physical pleasure the guys and I like to call “Tangtown.”

Likewise, if you and a buddy are forming a “wobbly H” with a gal, you know, having a little ménage à trois, or, in laymen’s terms, tag-teaming the ol’ broad…I’ve just determined that must be a suburb of Tangtown called “Tagtown.”

Now, it all sounds well and fine…however, after pondering this for a while over my morning coffee, I’ve uncovered a paradox.

If “Tagtown” is basically “Tangtown” with an additional person…you gain a friend, yet lose the “n”…

Is it really worth it?

7:24 pm
After standing out in the cold for roughly an hour, desperately asking every passerby: “tickets?” or, when I was feeling articulate: “do you need tickets?”—I finally sold my extra. I lost $10 on it and missed who-knows how many bands while I was out here. Fuck you, Horseheads bums, for not taking it off my hands. “Whoa, ETC…chillax, bro. You know how much I hate awesomeness. Hey, when you get back, can you help me build a shelter incase the Soviets attack the U.S. with rainbow-colored FUN Bombs?”

8:00 pm
A secret Teenage Bottlerocket gig after the show tonight? Free entry? Busing provided? Don’t mind if I do.

8:16 pm
Dude shitting in stall with no door. Tons of dudes walking by. Pants off. T.p. rolled away from him at one point.

8:45 pm
I have waited 14 years for this moment. I’m watching Screeching Weasel. In Chicago. I rule.

10:22 pm
Now I’m watching Alkaline Trio. In Chicago. I’m back to rule again.

No idea what time it is.
I’m actually writing this portion in retrospect, because the battery in my phone died shortly after Alkaline Trio finished their set. This is a blessing in disguise, of course, because at this level of intoxication, I’m liable to drop, throw or trade my iPhone for a cigarette.

Waiting for a shuttle bus to take us across town to the secret Teenage Bottlerocket show.

Speaking of which…if you’re in the Chicago school district and awesome enough to sit in the back of the bus with people of premium-grade superiority…and the seat in front of you has “www.anewlow.net for free pussy” written on it; wreathed with monstrous, cum spurting penises both uncircumcised and snipped (we covered all bases)…know your little pockmarked butt cheeks are sharing a seat once warmed by the chiseled asses of your heroes, Tony Shaddock and Eric Thomas Craven.

Teenage Bottlerocket were pretty rad…

…though, I’ve got to be honest, I want less of this sappy lovey dovey crap and more songs about aliens, zombies and spies. Bring back The Lillingtons.

October 12th (Columbus Day)
Happy Rape, Pillage, Murder and Enslave the Indians day! Fuck you, Chris Columbus.

10:24 am
Interesting postscript to dude shitting in stall with no door:

1:26 pm
The “Zombie”:

That’s three shots of espresso, two cups of coffee, steamed milk and whipped cream topped with chocolate and caramel drizzle…I’ll be walkin’ outta here with Shaddock teeth.

5:27 pm
I got some pussy in Chicago.

5:40 pm
Sightseeing in Logan Square.

6:11 pm
The Sears Tower. Chicago, Illinois.

6:20 pm
Goodbye, Chicago.

7:06 pm
Family reunion in Rolling Prairie, Indiana.‎

7:16 pm
Crossed back into good ol’ Eastern Standard Time. 6pm October 12, 2009, it’s a shame we never got to know eachother…

October 13th

2:55 am
Back in New York. Made the 911 call on this l’il number—car in a ditch off the interstate. We were really hoping to see a dead body…but she was fine.

3:40 am
Yetti got caught pissin’ in public. Amateur. Then allowed them to search his car? Amateur. I’m just glad they didn’t look under my seat. That’s right, I’m bad. Real bad. Michael Jackson.

5:28 am
Alright, gang, you can rest easy now…we’ve landed back in Horseheads, safe n’ sound.

However, before I go and wrap this up, I’d like to address a pretty big concern of mine…

While in Chicago, we hopped a train downtown and went to Millenium Park…only to be told by the officer on duty that the park closes at night.

Rape is already a pretty challenging sport…we don’t need the level of difficulty raised. Are we honestly expected to abduct some broad OUTSIDE the park, sneak her in past security and just use the park grounds for some sort of exotic effect? Parks are good for prowling. The rape itself isn’t performed within the perimeters of a park for atmosphere, but for the convenience of supplying victim(s), isolation, and, in the event that you take things too far, providing a satisfactory plot for interment.

Way to take the fun out of nightlife in the big city, Chicago.

Furthermore, I’ve done some research…and apparently Chicago doesn’t report its statistics for rape. Check out this city crime comparison from 2006.

I’ll tell you why Chicago’s rape statistics aren’t available: NO ONE GETS RAPED IN CHICAGO.

What kind of city has the rape record of a happy suburban cul-de-sac out of the 1950′s with a “neighborhood watch” program ? Not a very good one, I’ll tell you that right now.

Hey Chicago, go get raped.