The TSROD Blotter
The Sweet Release of Death

Weed, Pills & The Postal Service

10/05/2010 11:24 AM


There is stupid and then there is the “I think your parents are cousins” brand of stupid. We have one of the later here at Corporate Land, well quite a few, but this next tale is focused on one in particular. Like all great television crime dramas of the past, the names have been changed to protect the truly guilty. Our saga begins out on the Corporate Land Production Floor with our main man Buford. Buford is looked upon as a straight shooter / go-to-guy and any other Middle Management pet name that can come to mind. Like the rest of us stuck in this shitty economy, Buford is trying to get by busting his ass for the unappreciative MAN. Some other workers on the production floor are known to work one to two other jobs besides their indentured servitude to Corporate Land. Yeah…. I here ya. That sentence brings about a sharp pain in my left testicle with the mere thought of working for not one, but two other groups of unappreciative assholes. I think I’d rather live in a fucking refrigerator box under a bridge and wish I had a job, than be stuck in 18 hours of slavery wishing for a fellow coworker to snap with an AK-47–with me in the crosshairs–to relieve me of my $8 dollars-an-hour cycle of douchebuggery.

So Buford not wanting to be like the others (smart move) decided to work from home in his spare time (smart move yet again.) His capitalistic venture lead him to the be the procurer of many a plant of marijuana (Smart move? The jury is still out on this as it depends on whom you ask as to the dangerous/ not-so dangerous effects of Da Sweet Leaf.) We here at the TSROD bunker tend to side with a dear sweet friend from California saying: “There’s nothing like a big fat bag of weed.” I do believe that that phrase is crocheted on a throw pillow somewhere… Buford’s business was brisk to say the least and his thoughts turned to expansion (smart move in the name of business.) What’s a workingman to do to expand his product line? Look south. Way south. The weed inspired by the land of Mariachi couldn’t hold a candle to the pan flute sweetness of Peruvian Marching Powder (yet again another smart, bold move in the name of business.)

Buford, high on the success of his audacious after-work business savvy, set into motion the distribution of his new empire’s product line…. through the US Mail (DUMB MOVE BUFORD!) oh, and what could make this move worse than a sip of Kool-Aid at Jonestown? Sending your recreational accessories through the mail to a federal agent. Yeah I know. How’s your sphincter about now? Oy Vey! Yes, good old Buford had a pen pal uncle with a badge in the great state of Nevada, and Uncle Fed had a mission: To see just how stupid Buford could be. They collared Buford and stacked a sizable amount of charges on him, he grinned, and bailed out and set about to live free until The MAN a come callin’ for his pound of flesh.

Buford, dodging the grey bar hotel for the moment, thought it wise to head back home and do some cleaning up. Take stock. Ponder his next move. After cleaning up and taking stock, Buford saw the need to have a clearance sale. And lucky for him, he had a couple of “clients” looking for a sweet deal on Buford’s wares. Buford at this point, no slouch in the art of the deal, cleaned house of all things coke & weed in a six month Sale-a-bration. Buford, stealing a page from discount furniture and waterbed stores Super Sales, decided to sweeten the clearance sale by throwing in an “Act Now And Save!!!” item to push the sales event over the top: Ecstasy. (Oh Buford…. where do I begin?) How did this marketing ploy pan out? Boomtown baby. The Benjamin’s rolled in and the stock rolled out… via US mail… AGAIN! As Buford lovingly counted his clearance house booty, he trailed off in thought as the greenbacks lay in his hands: “Drop top ‘64’s on gold spoked adorned Goodyear’s …80” flat screen, Courvoisier and my bitches. It’s gonna be a bling-bling Christmas motherfucker!” There was knock at the door, wrenching Buford from his Lil’ Wayne daydream. FEDERAL AGENTS! SEARCH WARRANT! OPEN THE DOOR! And with that, Buford’s world came crashing down. Along with his front door, entertainment center…

Buford’s “clients” (Uncle Fed and Auntie ATF… wink wink nudge nudge) had been stringing him along, deal after deal for six months. Buford’s goose was cooked for sure. What will 6 months selling to the feds get ya? How does 120 years sound? Yeah, apparently selling Ecstasy brings about a charge of attempted murder for each batch sold, and I don’t think Buford has one pill left that will cure that ill. Surprisingly, Buford has yet again made bail but I think his postal days are over and 120 years; that’s a bitter pill to swallow no matter how sweet the price is.




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Destiny Breaks Parole

04/15/2010 07:00 AM


Sometimes work pays you in dividends that you could never find anywhere else. Sometimes these dividends are really cool, like a vendor dropping by and hooking you up with tickets to the ballgame. Sometimes, you get to kick back on a late Friday afternoon and have a drink with the boss. All and all, good clean fun that didn’t cost you anything but a bit of time. But sometimes, every once in a blue moon, Destiny gets jumped and wrestled to the ground in a whirlwind of comic gold. Fate is funny like that. It happened in the not too distant past. You see one of our temp workers, we’ll call him Tony the Strap, he thought it wise to cut off his house arrest ankle bracelet (mistake #1) and move freely about town. And that is just what he did. He Moved! (Mistake #2)

Since Destiny was filling his head with “You da man! You da Muthafuckin’ MAN!” Tony the Strap committed mistake #3 in failing to inform his parole officer of his whereabouts. Now I’m no Einstein, but I figure that if you cut your strap off, move without telling anyone, but YOU KEEP YOUR JOB, Fate is not gonna come knocking. Oh no sir-ree-bob. Fate is gonna come busting through those doors like the fuckin Kool-Aid Man, and be looking to put serious Orange Boot-to-Ass!

Well, Fate came a knockin’ one day and although I did not hear the heralded call of “Oh Yeah!” beckoned by the orange vessel of summertime refreshment, I did hear of the orange boot-to-ass deliverance. You see, Mr. John E. Law played the part of Mr. Kool-Aid, with fervor and much gumption. Mr. Law dressed up in his finest “Hey look at me! I’m an undercover cop!” undercover cop wear, and rolled by Corporate Land to just have a looksey for Tony the Strap. Much to his chagrin, there stand The Strap out in the parking lot on a smoke break. Since it was close to quiting time, Kool-Aid Man decided it was time to call in for back up refreshments. Dr. Pepper, Canada Dry and Clamato (hey its my story)

As backup arrived, they arranged themselves in a standard “Hey we’re not really cops, we’re customers” way too conspicuous formation, Tony the Strap walked to the time clock with a spring in his step to the tune Destiny was singing him. Little did he know that Fate was about to blow up the turntable. As Tony the Strap crossed over the threshold, he spotted John E. Law out of the corner of his eye. At that moment, Tony the Strap became Daffy the Duck and made a crazy break for it. (Mistake #4) As he hoot-hoot-hooted around a corner, leaving Kool-Aid Man in the dust, he cam face to face with Dr. Pepper and the rest of the Beverage Bunch. What happened next was the equivalent of a cop takedown Spody; everything in. Guns were drawn, tasers unleashed, and batons clutched and at the ready. You would have thought they caught Osama.

So as Tony the Strap lay face down on the pavement, our personal episode of Cops was starting to wind down. Myself and the rest of Tony the Strap’s co-workers, had to bob and weave through the cock walking and high-fiving of Kool-Aid Man and the Beverage Bunch. As Tony the Strap was tossed into the back of the squad car, he was as chipper as a Labrador puppy. “I’ll be back! Don’t fill my spot! I’ll be back!” he bellowed. You gotta love the optimism and the fighting spirit. To be a rebel, that was his destiny. To be a parole jumping, boot kicking party favor for the local Gestapo, that’s got Fate tattooed all over it.

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