Milk, milk, lemonade, turn around and fudge is made.

May 16, 2006 - 8:49 p.m.

That fucking douche who vomited in the sink and left it there, is a fucking genius with douche juice bathing his frontal lobe continuously like an eternal fountain of idiocy. Three days after his life-shattering, traumatic encounter with everyday diarrhea, he stopped the presses at work and announced to everyone: “I think I finally figured out what caused my diarrhea.”

Finally…figured out? I thought it was a simple equation requiring no explanation: Arby’s sliced beef + melted, processed cheese spread = loose bowels. Whether it was tainted meat, artificial colors and flavors, or unsanitary food handling makes no difference. So many things can go wrong in the short life span of a beef-n-cheddar, why even bother questioning?

But the genius, after serious contemplation, came to a conclusion.

“I decided that it was that second can of Minute Maid Lemonade that I drank that day. There must have been something wrong with it.”

To what far reaches, of his Down Syndrome mind, did this fool travel, to find this answer?

Lemon flavored high fructose corn syrup water canned in nearly sterile conditions in a processing plant regulated by OSHA and the FDA? What kind of bacteria could possibly live in that much sugar?

“I don’t usually have TWO cans of lemonade so that’s what did it.”

Right…lemonade is notorious for wreaking havoc on the digestive system…hear about it on the news all the time…they’re calling for warning labels to be placed on lemony products.

Ya know, I can be a total bitch sometimes. But most of the time I bottle it up, push it deep down, stifle, stifle. The only evidence might be my stone-solid face, and my eyes crying out, bleeding with disdain. That’s what my co-workers get most of the time: my granite face and bloodshot eyes. It isn’t tangible proof that I hate them and think they are the stupidest monkeys on the planet. It’s just a hint, that usually soars clear over their head and they never register it anyway.

But this time, well. He went too far, spraying me with his douche-juice theorems about life, the meaning of life, the cause of diarrhea. Not only did I turn Bitch, I snapped, and I BOSSED HIM. I don’t boss people. My dad is bossy and I hate it, hate hearing him try to tell people what to think. Even if a person is OH SO CLEARLY WRONG AND RETARDED, I do not boss. I might say, “Well, I SUPPOSE it’s possible that you ran 5 miles in 14 minutes when you were 12 years old,” while biting my lip and rolling my eyes to the side.

But this little pecker head, with his numbskull talk of nothingness, non-talk about figments, vacant, absent running a Moron-athon, taking first place, beating the World Record: his head is a vacuum. And what is even more infuriating is that he probably has an IQ of, I dunno, maybe like 135; he’s book smart. But OH SO DUMB about all that is obvious and right and true in this world and you just want to stuff gym socks down his throat to silence the fool.

So I said to him.

I said:

“What? NO NO NO NO – Uh-uh, NO. YOU ARE CRAZY. That makes No. Sense. At all. LEMONADE? What are you thinking?”

Meanwhile, all the other co-workers are pacifying his düm kopf, “Ok, yeah, must have been the lemonade…”

Not me. “Hello? Did I not sit here and watch you eat ARBY’s moments before you ran to the sink? Did I?? What about MEAT? Did you ever think about MEAT?”

“Well, no, because I’ve eaten at Arby’s many times and it’s never made me sick before.”

“RIIIIGHT! OK! YEAH! And I guess their meat is raised, slaughtered, shipped, stored and prepared in a sterile environment, like a human heart being helicoptered in for a transplant patient! Right! I guess their MEAT and their CHEEZ-WHIZ and their BUNS are all kept in a fucking VACCUUM like your HEAD. And Consuela, the lady who refills the vat of Horsey Sauce, I bet she ALWAYS washes her hands after she uses the bathroom? Right? Of course she does, they don’t pay her $5.50 an hour to be careless and slovenly now do they?”

"Um, I don’t…I didn’t…maybe…”

“NO MAYBES. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED. YOU ATE FAST FOOD. IT MADE YOU SHIT. I don’t know if it was the MEAT, or the CHEESE, but it was something that came from that bag. There is only one person in this world, one 8 year-old girl who lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma, who is allergic to Minute Maid Lemonade. And it makes her have diarrhea. NOT YOU. YOU ARE NOT THAT LITTLE GIRL. Though you do have something in common with her: A little vagina.”

“Oh. I guess you’re right, Shawna. I didn’t even think of that.”

“Of course I’m right. End of story.”

And I bossed my way right into that idiot’s head and bullied him into thinking what I think. It didn’t feel good, believe it or not, but sometimes you just have to set the dummies straight.

And if I see him….avoid lemonade…from this point forward…because deep down he believes that lemonade is more likely to cause diarrhea than Arby’s….I WILL THROTTLE HIM. I am eyeballing his desk. Today is Sprite. Tomorrow may be 7-UP. But come Friday, if he doesn’t drink some lemonade, which is free, provided by our company, cases of it just a few feet away…I will shake him by his hairless chin and pour it straight down his throat. Along with my fist.

Beef, cheese…

A Mexican maid…

Turn around.

And fudge is made.

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The Fast, Days 1-6
January 28, 2007