James Poling

Since this is fairly early on in my blogging career I guess I should let you know a little about me. I’m not good at talking about myself unless I’m drunk or trying to get laid (those usually go hand in hand) so here goes.

Last night I got me one of those fancy new root canals I’ve heard so much about. At least step one of the root canal experience. Apparently this fine new dental procedure comes in three parts, and I got the first part done last night. It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. The worst part about it was actually having to keep your mouth locked open for two hours. I learned a whole new level of respect for hookers last night. I honestly don’t know how you girls do it, I can barely stand to have a DumDum sucker in my mouth for too long let alone a huge cock. I really gotta give you women credit for that one. Way to take one for the team.

Temp work is what I’m currently doing now, along with bartending on the side and a few web projects here and there. I do a little bit of everything. I’m sort of like a modern day renaissance man, a really, really poor renaissance man. This is my first real temp assignment that I’m on right now. It’s fairly laid back and pretty easy. All I know is that there must be some really fucking stupid temps working out there because when they do tell me to do something they tell me three times really slow and then stare at me to make sure I’m retaining it. I keep waiting to be rewarded with a piece of fruit every time I finish a task. Not to mention the questions I get asked, “James, are you familiar with a stapler? If I needed you to staple these papers do you think you could handle that? Just push down on the top of this thing after you put the paper in. You think you can do that?” Yes, being a temp is like being, well I bet it’s a lot like what being a Mexican feels like. You get the absolute shittiest work that no one else wants to do and everyone thinks you don’t really understand what the hell they’re talking about. Unite my Mexican brothers! We shall ride out this oppression together! Ole’!

Ahhhh yes, the express bus. The one real thing that makes my life worth living. It’s like a magic time machine that gets me from Brooklyn to Manhattan in no time flat. The express bus is like no other form of transportation in the city. I’d rather kill a dog than take the subway now. The express bus has spoiled me and gotten me used to the finer things in life. There’s always (well almost always) a seat on the express bus. They serve cocktails and appetizers on the express bus. They have a four piece orchestra in the back of the bus that plays quietly while you either dance or sleep. The first time I ever got on the express bus and there weren’t enough seats, a nice looking woman made eye contact with me as I looked around. She knew it was my first time and wanted it to be enjoyable. We stared at each other, our eyes locked as she knowingly smiled. I watched, stunned, as she opened the window next to her and jumped out just as we merged onto the B.Q.E. She sacrificed herself so I could have a seat. That my friend is what the express bus is all about. I occasionally still mingle with the commoners and ride the train, but if I want to leave my house late and still get to work on time, there’s nothing quite like the express bus.