2003-07-29 - 8:58 p.m.
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My First Day
Many people remember their first days. I remember my first day of pre-school, not so much everything that happened
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although I remember slightly there being this really big plastic slide in this classroom and I was like "woah, this catholic school has a playground inside. IT's fucking awesome to be catholic! You get to slide inside all the time!" I learned years later that I was dead wrong, you never learn everything the first day you do anything and despite any amount of slides you put in a room full of nuns, you are in a room full of nuns. I have since not gone back to catholic school. It took me all of pre-school to figure out, hey, don't go there. Not in a "don't go there, girlfriend" kind of way, so much as a "NEVER GO WHERE NUNS ARE!" kind of way.
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but I do have a picture of me going with my mom up the block, my back to the camera, but head turned around, with a bag on my back and my mom, young looking as all hell, smiling wide as all hell.
She already KNEW about the nuns.
I remember first grade. I remember a few people in my class, mostly the teacher. And trust me, she remembers me. You better believe she remembers me. I bet she still shakes in the middle of the night, twitching, with visions of the principal saying "We're sorry Mrs. O'Neill, he has to be left back again" and have her saying in her sleep "BUT HE'S 24 IN THE FIRST GRADE!!!! GET HIM THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"
That was the first of many grades, namely 12 of them. They stopped counting after middle school. We became Freshmen and then so on up to Seniors and I guess it was so fun, they repeated the process for college. I've never lost count. I'm in the 17th grade right now.
College. I remember my first college. I have two first days at college, so I can choose either one. But I remember my physical first day at college. Not classes, mind you. I think I hung out with Berger and Steve Roy, because they were roomates then and I didn't know anyone else. And then I hung out with Labbe and fooled around with this girl Brandy, and my roomate almost walked in on us, if it wasn't for me locking the door and him being extremely drunk. I think that's the first night I hated my first roomate. There were many to follow.
Oh yeah, I remember my first roomate. The first time I ever had to share a room with someone for a long time was at college. Ever. Isn't that lucky? NO sister or brother (especially no brother...I don't have one). And I don't count sleeping in the same room as my parents when I was a kid. If I had any choice, I wouldn't have. I've been very happy sleeping by myself.
I remember my first job. It sucked. It was terrible and awful and I hated it. I helped a "karate master" named Master Rob as he taught a bunch of Jewish kids whose mothers wanted an hour of peace while their kids beat up stuffed pads and me. I got treated like shit by the kids, the guy was a real jerk and the parents were actually worried a 13 year old kid was helping train 7 and 8 year old kids how to kick a bag. That turned into a summer job of camp counselor at age 14 and ever since, I've been getting shit job after job and slowly clawwing my way from the role of bitch to the role of bitchmaker.
Two summers ago, I took the role of beatdown boy to an electrician. If you dig enough, you can probably go back in time in this diary and find plenty of places where I am bitching about how I want to absolutely either die or kill myself. It was a combination of him yelling, me trying to get him to stop yelling by doing something right and then him yelling again and coming over to where I was, grabbing whatever "gruhBAHnuhnuh" was and yelling some more. Every single day, at all points in the day, for a month straight.
So when Mehr's Uncle asked me to be his eletrician's assistant....
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which is extremely funny to me. The first time I did it, I helped out Kenny. Kenny is the friend of my uncle Steve. So Kenny is my uncle's friend. Bobby, Mehr's uncle, is my friend's uncle. The mirror of it is very symbolic. You'll see why...
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I hesitated. I hesitated because I went "electric work? Yeah, I remember electric work. That's where you yell at me all week and then pay me, right?" and then remembered I don't want to be yelled at.
Then I remembered I'm going to go drop Erin off at Plattsburgh at the end of August so that I can spend time with her AND visit people and there's a little thing called MONEY that is necessary for such endeavors.
So, I kind of sorta said yeah. Maybe possibly. I really wasn't looking forward to it, but all those paychecks for sitting on my ass and watching TV all day weren't coming in the mail, so until they did, I had to work.
I thought it would start Wednesday, but while hanging out at Erin's house, I got a call from Bobby and needless to say, I woke up at 7:15 this morning, a feat that is way up there with drinking acid and waking up at 7 AM. I abhor waking up early and considering that I've had an average startup time every day of about 10 AM (and on bad days, noon...shhhh don't tell THEM that) this was quite the early wakeup.
By 7 AM, my mother has been at work for half an hour and has been up at 5 AM. My father has been at work for about 2 hours. I don't think he even sleeps. 7 AM is not early, and I told you, I didn't wake up until 7:15, so that's that much worse, because that's when I woke UP, forget working.
And the day started off simple enough. I got dropped off at 7:30 at Bobby's house and Bobby wasn't ready, so I had to go with John, Mehr's grandpa, to drop off a drill.
This held a personal biggie for me. We went to this place Abbey Rent-All, which is this hardware rental shop on the corner of Merrick and Ocean Ave. I pass this all the time going to the Southern State via Peninsula and I always pass it and I have, as of these 22 years, yet been there.
Until today.
I am stupid like a kid about going to places. I see things everyday that I pass, places I don't have any reason going to and have always wondered what it would be like to go there and I pass it and I keep wondering and finally one day, I just go there and I'm like "yeah, that's awesome. I'm here" and then I forget about it, but still it makes life fun to make these small landmarks for yourself, otherwise all you have to look forward to during the day is eating, shitting and sleeping. That's not the way I want to live, so I don't.
After that, we got breakfast, met up with Bobby again and drove out East on the Island a little.
Before I begin, let me tell you of one of my only pet peeves about people. I'm generally understanding of plenty of things about people. There are things people do that make other people crazy that I just go "ehhh, that's not too bad". Biting nails, chewing gum, clicking pens, drumming things, talking loud, having no manners; these are all things people do that I don't really care that much about. It's not really a problem.
But don't be fat.
I don't care if you like to pogo jump using a jackhammer, while banging pots and pans while humming on a kazoo with big neon lights on you while you have a big sqwaking bird stapled to you as you farted and pogoed your way down a road covered in bubble wrap and you lit firecrackers the whole way. The volume of that is nothing to the volume of absolute anger that wells up in my head when I see a morbidly obese person.
Now, fat people, settle down. You may be fat. You may be huge. I'm sorry. I may or may not have a problem with you.
Here's a test.
Can you measure the last time you left your chair/bed/king-sized mattress on top of a bedframe crushed by your weight with a calendar?
Can you not even see your belly button?
Do you not care about weighing yourself on scales because they don't go high enough?
Do you walk left SIDE first, right SIDE next, instead of left leg, right leg because legs just can't carry that much?
Then I am extremely pissed at you right now.
AS much as there is a weight problem in this country, while at the same token being a huge health push, there are many overweight people that are not fat. There are many fat people that are not FAT, so fat that lowercase letters do not work to describe it. I don't care if you have a belly. I have a belly; it's from the beer I drank. IT'S NOT GOING ANYWHERE, NO MATTER HOW MUCH I TRY. The only way it will is denying myself the things I want and I don't feel like it and I can deal with a pudgy stomach.
BUT!!!!
There are pudgy stomachs and there are guts and then there's this whole other planet of goo that you can become that is completely unneccessary and if Hollywood can teach you even ONE thing, it's that you can at least staple your stomach and something will happen. You can try any form of eating disorder showing on the Lifetime channel. You can starve. YOU CAN DO ANY GODDAMN THING BUT EAT BEN AND JERRY'S AND GET LARGER! And I mean fucking huge, like any of those jokes you have ever heard about a fat person. Grease up a doorway. Look out, they'll eat you.
IF YOU WERE TRAPPED WITH THEM SOMEWHERE THEY JUST MIGHT!
Ok, I'm getting silly here, but seriously, there's being overweight, being grossly overweight and being near-fatally overweight.
That being said, my prejudices all out in the open and all, let me tell you about a fat lady I know.
There's a fat lady I know who wouldn't mind asking 3 men come into her house and install outlets in her house, two of which makes it so that she can turn on an entire wall of small lamps on with one switch and another that moves her computer closer to the bed, so she can use it and not leave the bed.
There's a fat lady I know who sits on a computer rolly chair TO GET AROUND and has an elevator to go from downstairs to upstairs.
There's a fat lady I know who hired me and the two guys to tear the shit out of her house to make things extra easy for her, so that she can become lazier, therefore making it easier to become larger and therefore ultimately culminating in her death when her previously stated elevator collapses with her in it in a big jumbled mess of fat and twisted metal.
When you're so big you can't go upstairs to the extent that an elevator from your bedroom to your den is necessary and that you move about your home on a computer chair, that's fucking way too big.
And she had a beautiful house, with beautiful things in it, nicely decorated, in a condo that cost a ton of money, with an elevator that certainly wasn't cheap, with a fridge FULL of so much food, the maid that came to clean the house couldn't fit the NEW groceries that came that day into the fridge. I'm serious. She had food delivered in the middle of the job and the maid couldn't even fit it into the fridge.
The maid also vacuumed the staircase. I thought that was pretty worthless as well.
So she is very well off. You'd think that someone who is fairly well off would be able to help themselves if they were morbidly obese.
But you also forget: they had to get that way first and once you commit to a task, you have a hard time turning around.
To be fair, she may have an eating problem. She may just love food. She DID have 3 empty Ben and Jerry's containers in her garbage that I took out (not a fat joke; merely a statement of fact). And to that, I can only suggest taking measures to ensure that you don't want to eat. Get your stomach stapled - shit, it's in fashion now to do that. Didn't Al Roker do that or something and people were like YAH! Of course, Katie Couric also had her colon cleaned out on TV and as of yet, I don't think there's a huge line forming at the proctologists.
Whatever she could have done, she could most likely have afforded it. And it's for her own good. IT'S FOR HER OWN GOOD! If you're going to be selfish, do it the right way. If you're going to spoil yourself with something, make it something worthwhile. Try less turning yourself into a big fat ball of sweaty meat and more into being able to walk up a flight of stairs by yourself.
So, I had to dive in head first back into the shallow pool of electrical work in this lady's house.
First off, she had cats. There's a funny relationship I have with cats. IF they're cats that aren't stupid or extremely playful at the wrong time, I love them. They're fun to play with and they get all cuddly and are very affectionate. They are very nice animals. However, the bad thing about cats is that they are rarely this. These cats weren't the good kind of cats. They liked to run around, get into what we were working with, stare at you meowing incessantly and the whole time, the lady is wheeling her way around, digging grooves into the wooden floor, baby talking the cats�
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That's one of the other few pet peeves. Baby talking animals. This has stemmed from the solid fact that I have as of yet had no pets or children of my own. Anything you baby talk to must think you're the biggest idiot in the world, because everything you're NOT baby talking to thinks this. In all actuallity, it is more beneficial to actually talk regularly to small children. It forms their communication skills faster, they become more extroverted and sociable and have higher senses of creativity later in life, therefore getting them off to a huuuge start.
The dogs probably just find it annoying. So stop it.
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�so it made it all very unnerving.
Secondly, the extent I retained from a month and a half of a raving lunatic screaming at me while I fumbled about a toolbox, trying to just make this man happy - because, in all honesty, I just wanted to do a good job for him and give him a hand because Kenny really is a pretty good guy - is very little. I remember a few of the names of the tools, which were called different things by Bobby (of course) and also some wiring. I also remember what NOT TO DO, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER! Oh boy do I remember that.
Third, I haven't had a constructive job in a long time. The past few job experiences (running odd jobs for Horizon and cleaning out my aunt's CPA office) have been largely Destructive, as in "knock this down, move this and throw everything else out. Now." So to be extra careful and not destroy everything I saw was a change. A welcome change, but a change.
So I start to work. I start to do what every first day guy does before he knows what to expect: I stand there. I stood there and I stood there. I stood there and then I got out of his goddamn way and then I stood there, no not there, get out of the way, just stand there. I get over�forget it I got it. Just wait, stood there, grab me that. Thanks, just wait. Wait. Goddamn box. Fucking wall. Stand there.
Then it started really getting interesting. I had to knock out a small line into the wall to allow the wire to come through. It was pretty fun to knock the shit out of the wall, but only so much that a one inch wide wire can fit in it. I also got some satisfaction in making a mess out of the fat lady's house, although I found out later that aside from my job description of "standing around, waiting, getting out of the way, give me that, go get me this and knock the shit out of this wall�carefully" I was also acting as cleaning bitch. So I learned early on to not make as much of a mess as possible.
Then the fat lady started to try to work her magic. Aside from sitting there, wheeling around dizzyingly and cooing at cats�
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�as well as asking about 15 times if we needed to see where the circuit breaker is. There is a very limited amount of electrical work the average homeowner knows about, very few things concerning wiring things up. But they do know the circuit breaker, because it is the end result of hours upon hours of sweating and planning and back breaking and wire running and splicing and even more planning and replanning and cursing, just so you can flip a switch if your hairdryer kicked out your bedroom lights. They don't realize the toils of putting the box in the wall that prevented them from killing themselves in an electrical fire through stupidity and 25 lamps plugged into one outlet with daisy chained 6-plug extensions. So if you have someone there to look at your house to put more switches and outlets and lights to play with, shut up about the circuit breaker. They'll come to you about it when they're ready and chances are, they're in the middle of thinking about where they're going to pound a hole into your wall, so let them think
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�she tried to slap on a few extra things here and there that she wanted that were not agreed to in the original bill.
People don't realize that "just one more outlet" can mean 2 hours if that one more outlet is in the hardest to reach spot in the world and the wiring won't reach and a splice has to be done and pulled over but OH LOOK AT THAT there's a beam in the way - have to go around it and HOLY SHIT, WHAT DO YOU KNOW! I don't have what I need for this, but you wanted it and I just ripped a bunch of shit out of your wall and there's the veins of your house sticking out of gaping holes in severed sheetrock and since there's no UNDO button on construction, I guess it's time to run to the store, take another hit in the pocket, elongate my time here by an hour, possibly find that it's the wrong thing, and eventually try to take your own life or bitch about it all day.
That didn't happen exactly like that. Bobby is a tougher guy than allowing some lady trying to scam him any further than he already allowed her to.
So he called a spade a spade (and called the lady a fat bitch, but in his head) and "made it happen". That was the phrase that he kept saying. "Make it happen�let's make it happen�time to make it happen". It was fucking awesome. It was awesome because every time he said it, he came through in record time. He pounded out everything, just plowed away at it and made it happen, before you even knew what was being made to happen. It showed that he probably has done it every day of his life for the past few years, but it also showed that he is fucking awesome at electrical work and if I had to do a job for someone that I was apprehensive about in the beginning, at least he kicks ass at it.
And all three of us tackled this house. The worst moment was upstairs.
Ok morbidly fat people, time to talk again.
I can understand it is difficult trying to pry yourself into a shower and ultimately getting to all of those hard to reach places, namely everywhere. And I am also aware of the fact that over time, especially in the summer, you can become a little "stinky".
Did you know about the funk?
There is a verifiable funk left behind when you lie somewhere for long durations of time and don't bathe regularly and don't change your clothes regularly (and especially if you have cats). And while there may be reasons for this, such as it's impossible to do it by yourself, there are tricks to get around this.
Step one: GET UN-FAT!
If step one is unavailable, I might suggest a pool and tons of Velcro-based clothing.
There is no fucking step two. You probably ate it.
The bedroom that the elevator ascended into was her own and it fucking reeked. I'm sorry man, I had to be in there for an hour, I have the right to state this. I came in and saw the bathroom and went "Ok, someone could have stunk the bathroom up. In this house, that's entirely possible. Food eventually has to come OUT."
And when it didn't go away all day, I realized what it was. IT WAS HER ROOM. And I wept, knowing I had to be there and knowing it would be for more than 5 or even 10 minutes. But that wasn't the worst of it.
I'm hammering away in her room, trying to tie in the outlet that would make the computer easier to plug into next to the bed, as opposed to pushing the computer closer to the wall, and I heard the rumble of metal descending. I had no idea what that noise was and I stopped working, afraid I had disrupted something in the wall or something. And I turned around and noticed the pictures on the wall opposite me and remarked how lifelike the woman in it looked, her face pointed down as she was held by a man whose face was away from the shot. The other one had a small forest scene, with many small fairy looking girls dancing in a clearing and�
And then realized they used to be behind the elevator. The elevator had gone downstairs!
And after realizing that, I notice the floor made a slamming sound and shook gently. And that's when the floor slowly crept up the wall until a window appeared, followed by a head and then followed by 500 other pounds sitting on a chair holding on for dear life.
She had come up stairs! WHY? WHY WOULD SHE COME UP HERE? There was nothing for her to do up here. If there was absolutely nothing to do downstairs, which was full of TVs and computers and a fridge, and, if after those things didn't entice her enough to stay downstairs, then why would she come upstairs?
And then it dawned on me. I AM UPSTAIRS IN HER BEDROOM.
I mean, I had every idea where I was, but honestly, it held no warning or caution to me. It was unnerving, true, and it was disgusting smelling, verdad. But it held no malice within.
And then, after I turned around and tried to work enough that I didn't notice she was there, she somehow made it to the bed from across the room and lay there with her cat. I didn't make eye contact the whole time, but I could hear her going "yeah, uh huh. You're so silly" and despite having no discernable religion, I had prayed to whatever god was listening that she was talking to the cat and not talking to me. I kept hammering away at the wall and just kept fucking her room up, with the notion of defending myself if, under there, somewhere, there was a wet spot that flour would find, or, she had no attraction whatsoever and was sizing up a meal. I had a chisel and some side cutters. I could take her! At least a part of her!
"So whatcha doing?"
Pet Peeve 3. She has hit almost every single one at this point. DO NOT ASK ME WHAT I AM WORKING ON WHEN I AM WORKING WHILE YOU ARE DOING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AND ARE JUST ASKING BECAUSE YOU ARE BORED AND DON'T HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO! I don't ask much from you people. Please, I'm doing a job, a job I most likely either hate or find absolutely boring. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DON'T ASK ME WHAT I'M DOING! The answer, if you are really interested, is WORKING. You, however, are doing nothing. Please. Let's keep it so that YOU are doing nothing, instead of me doing nothing while I explain what it was I WAS doing before I had to explain it to you. I don't care how cranky that makes me look. To me, that's like waking someone up and saying "are you sleeping?" but knowing full well in advance that they were asleep.
So I told her what I was doing while trying to work and not look at her, because at this point, her lying on her bed, cooing to her obnoxious cat, asking me what I'm doing while what I'm doing is putting in an outlet to make her even lazier and contribute further to her being morbidly obese is probably the single worst thing a person can do in my presence and if I wasn't being paid to do that, I would have shouted at this woman "LET GO OF THAT FUCKING CAT THAT THINKS YOU'RE A BLITHERING IDIOT, GET OFF YOUR GODDAMN ASS, GO ROLL A FEW LAPS AROUND THE BLOCK ON YOUR FUCKING CHAIR AND SEE IF YOU CAN DROP THE LEFT HALF OF YOU ON YOUR WAY BACK! YOU ARE EVERYTHING I HATE ROLLED INTO THIS ENORMOUS BALL OF LETARGY AND SLOTH AND I REALLY WISH YOU'D JUST TRY TO SAVE YOURSELF!"
But I just continued to fuck up her house.
Bobby left and I had to finish up with John, who was probably as unimpressed with this lady as I was and we finished up. She complained that things weren't working, which isn't my problem. I should have said "Oh, look at that, AOL isn't up and running. Here's a hint: check the modem and one more hint: we're electricians and not cable service men. I don�t get paid dick to make your internet go back up so you can open your email, find 3 spam mails about elongating your penis, one from some guy in Africa who needs your help wiring money, the potentially 2 or 3 important emails, the numerous stupid forwards of tired jokes as well as the spam mails promising to shed pounds faster than any diet ever can, which you will, unfortunately for you, delete."
Of course, I did the opposite, once again prolonging this lady's laziness and I think I even saw 5 more pounds bubble up in the back on our way out as a result of this, but I think it was just in my head. I've been taught my whole life that laziness will get you nothing and today, I learned it will get you 4 cats, a condo, an elevator in that condo and 3 quad outlets, 8 singulars, 2 switches, a patched bedroom light and someone will fix your internet all in one day. I'm going to go back to being lazy.
But before I could do that, we had a whole half a day left. We spent 4 hours at that lady's house. It should have been 3 hours, but the last minute additions helped bump up those figures. We came back to East Rockaway and put in a bathroom fan/light in a bathroom that was made from an old closet and a smoke alarm. Go figure. With that done in about 20 minutes, it made the first job seem like a week of work. With those in place, we finally got to go to lunch. At 1 PM.
We hit up this bar by the East Rockaway train station, which coincidentally was the same place my parents took me when I had failed to come home from my summer job one day because I had jumped a train to Splish Splash to see Amanda. This time, I wasn't being lectured by my parents for enjoying myself. I was being treated for abusing myself.
The entire day at that point seemed to me to be some weird mirror world. I had to wake up early, which was the opposite as usual. I had to work, which was also opposite. I had to work for my best friend's uncle doing electric instead of my uncle's best friend doing electric. I had to deal with all sorts of things at that lady's house that negated reason. And there I was, in a bar for lunch, something I've never done before. The day had seemed strange to me and it wasn't even that close to it even ending. I ate my steak sandwich, the Doors and Pink Floyd tore through the jukebox as the World's Strongest Man competition played on the TV. We watched houses of men, big not from fat but from muscle, lifting 385 lb. blocks shaped like Africa back and forth as well as them pulling trains and all sorts of other feats of muscle magic. I stole the paper place mat from the bar because it had a map of Ireland on it and Erin's parents are there now, running around the entire place for 2 weeks. She can plot it on the place mat and see where they are and show them where they went when they come back.
We left and went to this guy's house, who wired his kitchen all wrong. It was a disaster. Bobby, through slightly annoyed wiring scheming, figured it out, but while he was working with it, we hear this guy right next to us on his computer and there's moaning and shit coming from the speakers and we find him watching some kind of internet porno cartoon. And I'm like "can this fucking day get any more fucked up than this?"
And it did.
We left to help some guy on Merrick Rd. in Valley Stream because yesterday, Bobby put in an air conditioner for him at his Cingular store, but the alarm wasn't working. He had to wire it back up correctly for him and, to up the ante a little more for "Most Fucked Up Day Every" we find Mehr's mom and brother in the store.
I had Mehr's Grandpa, Uncle, Mother and Brother in the same room at the same time and it wasn't a Mehr family function NOR was it planned. It made my head hurt. He was the basic reason I was even there to begin with.
So I run lacky jobs for Bobby, he bangs out the job, makes it happen and we run off to the last job of the day.
If you had told me I would see any of this at all when I woke up at 7:15AM today, I'd go back to bed and go "fuck you, you're full of shit, I'm just going to go back to bed." If you told me I was going to be no more than a chain link fence distance away from a fully grown tiger too, I'd tell you to cut the shit, get out of my room and stop bullshitting me.
You, however, would not be bullshitting me.
We get to this house in Bay Park, which is right next to East Rockaway A.K.A. the town my mailbox is in and it looks real nice. The house inside is nice. There are interesting things all over the place and it looks all very expensive. The short, bronze-tanned guy who sounds like Horsheck from Welcome Back, Kotter running around and cursing about this and that owned the house. And it was right on the water, with a huge dock and a huge yacht to be huge in that dock. He had this real nice deck in the back, although, despite how nice it was (complete with intricate light fixtures on the post of the dock's railing) the door to the deck was stuck to a 7 inch wide gap. It didn't matter much. You walked out that door, you saw a real nice boat, a sparkling blue pool that looked too good in the 5 o'clock sun after running around all day and, of course, you saw the 10 by 20 foot, 6 foot high chain link cage attached to the back of the house where another part of the deck should have been but instead a fully grown tiger was pacing back and forth.
I have seen tigers before. They live in a zoo. They come out at amusement parks and put on shows for people. Sigfried and Roy seem to have a fixation on them. I certainly don't ever see them held back from me by chain link fences shoved under someone's house. And despite the small job we had to do there, and that I had to run and get things for Bobby, I stood there when I wasn't needed and looked at that tiger and went "where the fuck am I?" I couldn't fully comprehend my day at that point and Bobby was running through it like "hey get over here. Wait. Stand there. Hand me that. Fuck the tiger, give me that screw gun." And I swear, I'll never again have to worry about wondering what a tiger looks like from 6 inches away from it. I now know.
And the funny part was that it was lying on its back at one point, paws in the air, on this huge box that looked like a flat doghouse. Only, the dog was probably eaten by the huge fucking tiger that came to play with it. It was surreal. The big ferocious cat was a huge lethal kitty. The cats I was merely distracted by in the morning had turned into the tiger I saw before me and it lay there just like they did, paws stretched out and everything.
That was my first day working for Bobby.
The weirdest part of it?
I also have an Uncle Bob AND a Grandpa John� how weird is that?
BMC
What did you just say? - What's he gonna say next?
