How to Survive an Office Shooting

They all died


So I’m giving my annual fire safety lecture to the office. You know, because this place tends to hire people who can’t read an “Exit” sign and/or are confused by fire.

We get to the Q&A section and some smart ass asks…

“What if we have an office shooter?”

I’m not prepared for this but I do think pretty quickly on my feet, especially when I’m drunk at work and it’s 9 am.

“Well, you either hide under your desk like a calf waiting for the slaughter, flee screaming like a woman or fight back like the warrior God intended you to be.

This is Texas. We fight back with everything we have.

When some dude in a trench coat with a sawed-off pump action 12-gauge saunters into the office you need to look deep down inside, find that pussy part the public schools gave you, throw it on the ground and beg God for forgiveness for the hell you are about to unleash.

And when you come at that Terminator impersonator, you bring all the thunder and lightning that you can carry. Big time, brother.

Snap that Slim Jim and crack those eggs cause you’re gonna make the world’s biggest vigilante omelet, super-sized hero-style. Hercules himself will tell you “Good Job” while he hands you a cup of sweet honey wine brewed by a Commanche warrior princess.”

I got a lot of confused looks which tells me they were done answering questions so I threw them the double peace signs and shouted “Deuces” while I backed out of the conference room.

Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. What the fuck is wrong with people?

Maybe you guys didn’t all memorize the Anarchist Cookbook before the 5th grade. Maybe you were busy playing video games instead of learning how to kill a street gang with nothing but a newspaper, a 5 lb of kitty litter and tennis ball.

Fuck, people! Get yourselves ready cuz here comes some shit that will save your life one day…

 

Preparing for the Office Six-Gun Psycho

We all got one in the office. We all know it’s just a matter of time before they flip out like Mary Lou Rhetton pulling off a coked up floor routine. You gotta solve a problem by preparing for the problem.

1) Don’t try to hide behind a fat person. This never works. The bullets zip right through that blubber and will put holes in you too. The worst part? Your holes will also be filled with the fatty’s blood and chunky cells. If you live, the fat cells will live with you. Soon, you will become fat and no one will have sex with you. DO NOT HIDE BEHIND THE TUBBY CO-WORKERS!!!

2) It’s a good idea to keep a roll of duct tape on your desk and a large collection of pens. You use the duct tape to secure the pens to your knuckles and no time you got the Wolverine thing going and are ready to whip mucho ass. DO NOT USE PENCILS CAUSE THEN THE EFFECT IS TOTALLY GAY AND USELESS!!!

3) Coffee cups are great projectiles, especially if they are full of acid. A jug of acid under your desk might sound excessive but you want to live, right?

4) The 1980’s are gone but Aqua Net lives on. Get a good Bic lighter. Get a can of pink Aqua Net. Now you have a badass flame thrower in your hands.

5) I don’t have children or loved ones or really anything going on for me in anyway that involves other people but I keep at least six picture frame on my desk. Why? You ever been hit Ninja-style with a flying picture frame? Right, you haven’t because if you had been hit and the thrower snapped his wrist with authority (like he should) you would be dead and dead people can’t read awesome blogs like this one. Dead people are dead. Dead people don’t read.

6) Bloody tampons are to office shooting psychos like garlic is to vampires. I have a whole wreath of bloody Tampax in my drawer ready for action. Hang the wreath around your neck and watch that office shooter hide in horror. Girls, making a wreath of your own used tamps might take a few months, depending on your flow. Guys? Your best bet is to rummage through the trash in the ladies’ restroom, that’s what I did.

7) Computer cables are an overlooked weapon in an emergency. Some good power cables make an excellent whip to enable you to bring out your inner Indiana Jones. Keep this tip in mind in case you also want to get your freak on with a marketing intern after hours (wink, wink).

All right, now you’ve got knowledge you can use. Be prepared. Chances are, you will NOT get a practice run on this type of thing.

Be safe.

Be strong.

Be crazy as a rat fucking a cat (that’s really extra crazy).

The Case of the Broke Dick Brother

The upside of this blog will be that I can just show it in court and instantly get out of jury duty.

The downside is I’ll never find a decent defense attorney.

But I gotta be me and I gotta make it rain truth for my readers.

Here you go:

If you are arrested, indicted and brought to trial then you are fucking guilty as hell.

I covered some of the most heinous crimes ever back in my newspaper reporting days.

The worst was probably having to cover the murder case of a local TV reporter, and friend, who was brutally stabbed to death with a Phillips head screw driver by a stalker.

I remember drinking with her at the bar one night and she was laughing about “her friend” who kept stealing her underwear.

I was suppose to go out with her the night she was murdered. We were going to celebrate her bump up the TV food chain to the Dallas market. It was a big move. We were both really excited about it.

Then some psycho fuck of a Shoney’s chef had a particularly bad day and slipped into the open door of her apartment while she showered and stabbed her to death.

It was incredibly sad. The worst part was that the rest of the news staff were a bunch of idiots so I HAD to cover the murder, the funeral and the trial. Nothing like reading the autopsy report of a friend or having the neighbor tell you that, yes, he heard her screaming but thought she was having sex (she was pretty loud).

Then there is the whole thing where the suspect’s mother calls you non-stop to say that while her son was found covered in blood and hiding in the victim’s closet there is no way he did it. Oh, a mother’s love knows no bounds.

Sorry, I’m totally rambling again and the last blog promised this blog would be funny…

The Illegitimate Rape: The Only Innocent Guy I Saw

Every suspect is guilty.

Well, every suspect except this one black guy from Texas who was accused of raping a chunky army bride.

The trial started pretty normally.

The nice army officer had kissed his wife good bye that morning and headed off to the base.

As soon as he was gone, a black man slipped into his house and proceeded to rape his lily white wife.

She was so scared, she said, that she didn’t make a sound. She was sure this large black guy would kill her. That’s what black guys do, I guess, when they are done raping white women.

In fact, she was so scared of enraging this obvious psycho path that she made herself as compliant as possible which is the reason why there was none of the usual vaginal tearing when a large black man forces his peener into a precious white girl.

So brave. So very, very brave.

The cops testified this guy was not only guilty of being black but he was also a known crack dealer.

HOLY SHIT ON A SHINGLE!!!

That’s the guilty trifecta in Central Texas: black male, crack dealing and raping white married women.

I swear to God one of the jurors volunteered to personally hang the defendant right there in the court room.

“Hey man, your boy is fucked,” I told the defense attorney after the prosecution had finished.

“Just wait,” he told me. “We actually have a surprise coming.”

So he pulls the defendant up on the stand. The defendant is a terrible witness. His reliance on Ebonics alone should have meant death by lethal injection for his brutal assault of the English language.

The defendant said he didn’t rape her. He explained it was an arrangement.

Every day, once the nice army officer left for work, our friendly crack dealer would slip in the back door of the house. He wanted sex. She wanted crack. This had been going on for a month. It was perfect, in his eyes. It was perfect in her eyes too — except for that last time.

That last time they didn’t have any condoms. That last time he thought he could pull out. He couldn’t. He filled that white girl up with his crack dealing seed.

She said it was cool.

But then she started worrying… Black crack dealing sperm mixing with her honky eggs? Segregation might be over in the south but there’s no way to explain a brown baby as it is pulled from between a white girl’s thighs and presented for muster to her dutiful, loving army officer husband.

So the defendant thought she cooked up the rape plot as a cover in case she was pregnant. Mind you, she never actually got pregnant.

So typical.

The prosecution was all over the defendant. Seriously, what a dick this guy was to even suggest such a thing. What sick fuck crack dealing rapist who doesn’t know his place in the world would bruise the reputation of this lovely, yet biggie sized, Caucasian woman?

Bring in the medical professional…

This is what slayed me.

The doctor got on the stand and began to explain that there was no way the defendant raped the alleged victim.

You see, the defendant had suffered some serious trauma in his early teens involving the cross bar on a bicycle. The lasting result was his penis was broken (Yes, this shit actually happens). The scar tissue caused his wang, when erect, to have a permanent 60-degree bend to the right, just a third of the way down from the head on his shaft.

It was a source of great embarrassment for the defendant. He actually sat there hiding his head on the table while the doctor testified that sex was extremely difficult for him and that “forcing” his mangled junk into anyone was physically impossible.

And, so…

The jury found him innocent and our chubby white wife had a lot of explaining to do to her very loyal and loving army officer husband.

So what did I learn from that trial?

Some people are innocent?

Sometimes having a busted up dick sounds like a horrible curse but it can keep you out of jail when you are falsely accused of rape so maybe everything happens for a reason?

If I had a little spare crack I could get all the chubby druggie poon I wanted?

Nah…

I learned that most guys would rather go to prison than admit their dicks don’t work.