† SINISTER PUBLICATIONS†

I always thought I was built different than everyone else, and I am not saying it trying to sound snooty or anything like that. But I often catch myself finding little life lessons in the little things people take for granted. I’m always looking out for these things you know.

Sometimes I fathom myself a philosopher. Not like, robe and beard philosopher—more like a guy who stares at the wall for too long and calls it insight. I’ve always questioned the why… Why was I fired? Was it because I was too good of an employee? Or was it because I told James he was a dry snitch in front of Rebecca from HR? I guess we’ll never know. I still look back and often think about why that was the final outcome. But I think about it a lot, mostly when I’m eating in the dark because I haven’t paid my electric bill for quite some time. You know, it happens!

From that point on, I became something greater—a messiah, if you will. Not the kind that saves souls. No. The kind that makes sandwiches for $9.75 an hour while holding back tears because a child ordered tuna with olives. The audacity!

So I ended up working as a Sandwich Artist for two years after that HR incident. But let me tell you, that’s not just a job title, that’s a way of life. You serve bread. You listen to people complain about the meat being too cold, they tell you how much they hate their partners, and a few might even tell you how they almost took to the pillow to end it al.. You nod like you understand. It’s practically priesthood.

Now here’s a kicker, my manager—he was 16. Which is old enough to drive, but apparently also old enough to manage a grown man with back pain and regrets. Regrets that keep you up at night, looking out the window just watching the lost souls out there, outside of your shitty apartment complex on the crack infested part of town. And he had the audacity, I tell you. These kids now a days… boy they never got an ass whooping. So he questions my infinite wisdom, sandwich making and all. I didn’t yell. I didn’t raise a spatula. I just said, “Okay Mr. Know-it-All, Mr. Koolaid, since you think you know how the adult life works, what does the warning label above the sink teach you about life?”

He laughed. Thought I was joking. Then he read it. You could see the little smirk fade away.

“While steel is a very durable alloy, it is not impervious to everything.”

And that’s when I knew I won. That’s how you assert dominance when you’re 39, wearing gloves, and slicing tomatoes in shame. Boy he had no idea what it meant, and I wasn’t about to tell him it was just a joke. He would have to find out sooner or later when he converses with his psychiatrist. I just like being honest.

Since we’re talking about being honest. I was trying to the other day to be honest on my dating profile, but I just didn’t know if I should lie on this occassion. So I put “emotionally available.” Which is true. But I wondered if I should have written in there as a disclaimer. “Emotionally available, but not stable.” So that they won’t have buyers remorse. Or maybe add something funny like, “all my exes thought I was funny,” but ommit the part where they called me a dick. For thinking everything was a joke.

Anyway. Fast forward.

I was scrolling Facebook the other day. Someone posted, “How can we stay safe in the El Paso heat during the Coldplay concert at the Sun Bowl?”

And people were answering, right? Bring water. Wear sunscreen. Basic stuff. Good answers.

But then came Sammy.

Sammy didn’t bring water. He brought knowledge you learn from life lessons.

Sammy said: “Don’t shave your bootyhole before going. Gonna need that hair to wick away the moisture.”

And you know what? That’s the truest thing I’ve ever read. That’s the kind of knowledge Socrates would’ve posted if he had Facebook or a Myspace.

Life lessons. Do booty hairs really wick out moisture? Only one way to find out.

Sometimes I fathom myself a philosopher. Not like, robe and beard philosopher—more like a guy who stares at a sink for too long and calls it insight. I’ve questioned the why… Why was I fired? Was it because I was too good of an employee? Or was it because I told James he was a dry snitch in front of Rebecca from HR? I guess we’ll never know. But I think about it a lot, mostly when I’m eating in the dark.

From that point on, I became something greater—a messiah, if you will. Not the kind that saves souls. No. The kind that makes sandwiches for $9.75 an hour while holding back tears because a child ordered tuna with olives.

I worked as a Sandwich Artist for two years. That’s not just a job title, that’s a way of life. You serve bread. You listen to people complain about the meat being too cold. You nod like you understand. It’s practically priesthood.

Now my manager—he was 16. Which is old enough to drive, but apparently also old enough to manage a grown man with back pain and regrets. He once questioned my infinite sandwich wisdom. I didn’t yell. I didn’t raise a spatula. I just said, “Okay Mr. Know-it-All, what does the warning label above the sink teach you about life?”

He laughed. Thought I was joking. Then he read it.

“While steel is a very durable alloy, it is not impervious to everything.”

And that’s when I knew I won. That’s how you assert dominance when you’re 39, wearing gloves, and slicing tomatoes in shame.

Now, I like to be honest in my dating profile. So I put “emotionally available.” Which is true. I once cried because a tortilla ripped. I don’t want a soulmate. I want someone who won’t judge me when I ask where my phone is while I’m literally holding it.

I used to joke that if things got worse, I’d go Greek. You know, like a philosopher. Or a guy with deep trauma and a toga. Not both. Although historically, they were often the same person.

I’ve often wondered how those old relicky orgies worked. Not in a weird way, just… curiosity. Like, everyone in the paintings always looks like they’re trying not to laugh. And there’s always a little guy somewhere doing something suspicious behind a curtain. I don’t know. Maybe that’s where democracy came from.

Anyway. Fast forward.

I was scrolling Facebook the other day. Someone posted, “How can we stay safe in the El Paso heat during the Coldplay concert at the Sun Bowl?”

And people were answering, right? Bring water. Wear sunscreen. Basic stuff. Good answers.

But then came Sammy.

Sammy didn’t bring water. He brought scripture.

Sammy said: “Don’t shave your bootyhole before going. Gonna need that hair to wick away the moisture.”

And you know what? That’s the truest thing I’ve ever read. That’s the kind of knowledge Socrates would’ve posted if he had Facebook.

Do booty hairs really wick out moisture?

Only one way to find out.