AdultSituations – Carlton Loves P**n
Remember watching HBO when you were a kid, and when an R rated movie came on like Angel Heart or Hardbodies 2, you sat with eager anticipation of the warnings that would display right before the film started? As a boy, the best I could hope for was “nudity.” Although, often times, if there wasn’t nudity in a movie, there still might be “adult situations.” This usually meant that there was some dialog in the movie pertaining to sex. Good enough.
Now, a grown-man, I have accumulated a number of stories over the years that warrant these types of warnings. Not that any of these are necessarily obscene, but they deal with adult subject matter. Mostly about boobs. No, just kidding.
I promise that if you open these stories at work, you will not be at risk from HR during your biannual review. However, I would still like to file them all under a new heading I have labeled…
Carlton Loves P**n
Have you ever hired a developer? I’m generalizing here, but I’d like to discuss my experience. Developers tend to be weird. Of course, not all of them. But a good 95%.
By the way, I really like developers. I seem to get along with them fine and I find their jobs fascinating. Over the years, I’ve had to learn basic coding and data management skills. So, I’ve relied heavily on developers to help out and teach me how to do some things.
That aside, I’d like to share with you what happened a few months back.
My partner and I had to interview some developers to help build out an e-commerce solution for one of our web properties. Being the cheap fools we are, we took to Craigslist. After pouring through dozens of resumes, I found a local guy who seemed to really have a nice combination of style, effectiveness, and skill.
This is not important, but he looked just like Carlton (Alfonso Ribeiro) from the Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
The sweater indicates wholesomeness!
How did I know this? He had made a caricature of himself as the logo for his business. Kind of like a Mii for the Nintendo Wii.
Me! Err... Mii!
By the way, that Mii makes me look like I’m about ready to join the 98 Degrees reunion tour.
Carlton and I chatted over Skype a few times, and he dazzled me with a nice presentation of the back-end software he would install that would basically automate our entire sales chain. He said all the right things, and promised an enterprise-level solution for our particular situation.
The next step was that he had to sell my partner. Interview #2. We set up a web conference for the three of us, and the intent was to walk us through a sample site he had built for a client.
The first ten minutes went great, and seeing the demo only made us feel more confident. My partner Nick asked a specific question pertaining to a side project he was thinking about having him work on.
The funny part of the story begins now.
Carlton pulled up Firefox with the intent of visiting a website that he had worked on that would address Nick’s side-project question. He started to type into the URL box, and he only made it as far as the first letter “G” when…
Firefox auto-completed the remainder of his URL with G*yforit.com.
Now, I’m not talking about when you visit Google and it tries to guess your search query with a number of suggestions that display beneath your typing. That is Google suggesting what you may be interested in.
But when your browser lists other website addresses in the URL field, it means only one thing.
You have visited those sites before.
And just like every husband and boyfriend (hell, even a single guy) knows, you always delete your browsing history. Leave your dishes in the sink, pee with the toilet seat up, forget to pay the mortgage, but for God’s sake, remember to delete your web history.
Because your spouse or children will inevitably use the computer and find out that daddy has a thing for hairy-legged Asian women over 50.
But, I would argue that even if your wife discovers your proclivities, it’s still less damaging then having this come up in a job interview. Your significant other will forgive you, and you’ll be in counseling for the next year, but hey, that’s better than losing a job.
Back to the story…
Now, I have a sense of humor about this sort of thing. My partner does too. This is one of those situations that could happen to anyone – like leaving a cup of coffee on the hood of your car and driving away. Well, maybe not quite like that.
So, at the moment this happened I stayed quiet, but I immediately pulled up a new browser to type in g*yforit.com. I needed to confirm what I suspected had just happened. And I was right. As a heterosexual male, it took me all of .4 seconds to realize this was a hard-core adult p**n site aimed at men who love men.
I’m sure my partner was doing the same thing, but instead of staying quiet, he blurted out, “Hey, what’s G*yforit.com?”
And Carlton did not skip a beat, as if he had already prepared an answer in the event this would come up. I had to admire his quick thinking when he replied back, quickly and calmly…
“Oh – well, let’s just say that as a developer, sometimes you have to work with clients that are a little on the slimy side. Work is work!”
Now, while this is obvious bullshit, I silently applauded his tenacity to sell us on a falsehood. He wanted the job as our developer, and wasn’t about to let a little glimpse into his private life affect the interview.
And, I have to admit, it’s a damn fine lie. It shut us up.
Well, at least until five seconds after our web conference when we called each other laughing hysterically. We figured we had to hire him based on that scenario alone.
I wonder if my wife would believe a lie like that. “No honey, H*rnyHousewives.com actually emailed ME to write an article for their website, can you believe it? So I just checked it out. You know – due diligence! Of course, I turned it down! Disgusting!”
I doubt she’d buy it, and would be contacting divorce attorneys immediately.
So, I keep my browsing history clean. And, by clean, I mean I never visit such websites. Or any like it. Seriously. You can trust me. I’m not joking. That stuff is way gross. I mean, I’m married, so why would I… And degrading to women! That’s what bugs me the most! Just godless. I would never. No way! Why are you looking at me like that?
You believe me, right?
Leave CommentDo not, I repeat, do not visit the above mentioned site that I referenced in the story while at work. You will be fired. I promise.
Wendy’s Can Eat It! (Since I Can’t Eat There)
About a year ago I participated in a men’s weekend retreat out in the country. About 15 participants and 13 facilitators gathered together for three days of serious work with the intent of exploring truth, shadows, and learning how to be a better man. It was intense and emotional, and I saw dudes explore rage, shame, fear and sadness, as well as joy.
Some guys confronted memories of abusive fathers, others had to reclaim their “balls” from controlling wives, and even some were dealing with addiction. Pretty heavy stuff. But you can only watch so much SportsCenter, right?
Anyway, after the weekend we continued to meet every other week for three hours at a clip. Just a circle of men hanging out talking about their feelings and giving each other support. Women do this all the time. You know, book clubs and stuff. But men don’t. Not in my experience anyway.
Actually, my father does. He didn’t used to, but I bet he doesn’t go four months now without sharing something personal and important with me. Not sure why the shift, but it’s a good reminder that men should talk about their fear and pain. When my cat died while we were all in Italy last fall, my father cried. I didn’t. That shows you why I need to do the work.
Our initial group stopped meeting a few months ago. While a bummer, it was mostly a geographic thing. We had guys coming in from two hours away to meet, and it was just too far for a lot of them. Anyway, the organization has put over 5,000 men through their programs over 25 years, so they found me another group.
So, last Tuesday, I rode my bike a few miles to meet up with three guys I didn’t know, but who knew each other quite well. They accepted me right off, and we got to work.
Three hours later, many of us had shared some intensely personal stuff. One of the men felt a sense of responsibility with the current oil spill because of his relationship to BP. Another one had a father who was a career bookie, and had to deal with some serious family dysfunction. One’s son had just entered rehab for meth addiction. I, of course, have my own pain and struggle, which I spoke of.
So, after three hours of this kind of work, I was pretty goddamned exhausted. But I suppose that’s the point. Now, since I rode there, I had to ride home. It was after 10pm, and I hadn’t eaten in about five hours. So, on the four mile ride home, I was mentally reviewing my take-out options.
The only place that I thought could be still open was Wendy’s.
You’re probably groaning like I did, realizing that this is not ideal.
I remember a bit a comedian used to do back in the 80s that went something like this:
Nobody ever plans in advance to go eat at Denny’s. You just end up there. Their motto should be, “Hey, it’s late!”
The same applies to Wendy’s. Nobody chooses it on purpose.
Now, I know what you’re saying. “Wendy’s isn’t that bad! It’s pretty good, actually!” No, it’s not. And I’ll prove it. Name three things they have on their menu. See? You can’t. Also, have you ever sat at home and thought, “Wendy’s is the best possible fast-food choice for me right now. I’m going to go get it!” You’ve never said that. Nobody has.
I think they have square burgers, but that’s all I know.
I’m not saying the food is bad – I have no idea. But it can’t be that good, since nobody in my entire 33 years has ever suggested it as a place to eat. I have dined there in the past, but only because there were no other options, or I was gacked to the nines on whiskey.
But, hey, fast food is fast food. I was super hungry.
I pulled up to the restaurant, and locked my bike. I was sweaty and tired. The lights were still on. Nice.
I walked around to the door and it was locked. No big deal, I could see cars in the drive-thru. I walked over to the order-box.
Of course, I don’t weigh several thousand pounds, so I didn’t trip the sensor letting them know I was at the drive-thru. Like a moron, I proceeded to yell, “Hello!” into the speaker for a good 30 seconds before I realized they probably couldn’t hear me.
What to do… Well, the only option I came up with was to wait behind the car that had just ordered and slowly inch my way up to the window. On foot.
Imagine it’s dark out, you just drove up and placed your order, and as you’re waiting to get to the window, some dude is standing five feet behind your car. You’d freak out. It’s scary.
Plus, I had a bike helmet on. Safety first and all.
So, like an asshole, I waited behind the line of cars. Thankfully, nobody drove up behind me.
After a few minutes of standing and slowing inching up, I got to the window. I knocked.
A teenager opened the window, and I politely asked if he would take my order since the door was locked. He said he was very sorry, but it’s against their policy to serve someone on foot.
I have heard of this before. It’s probably a safety thing, and they don’t need weirdos walking around back there scaring people.
I asked him if there’s another option. He said, “Go knock on that window and talk to my manager. She can probably help.”
I’d like to point out that I’m wearing a Polo shirt, nice jeans, and new shoes. I walk to the window, knock, and the manager opens up the side door.
“I know only the drive-thru is open, but may I please place an order?”
“No, you have to be in a vehicle.” (and, I’m not shitting you, she actually makes the driving gesture with both hands)
“That’s great – I actually came in a vehicle!” (pointing to my bike)
“No, it has to be a car. It’s our policy.”
“So, you’re not going to serve me?”
“No.”
“That’s a really stupid policy. Thanks anyway.”
I’d like to point out a few things here. First, I’m clearly not some degenerate looking to rob the place. I’m well-dressed, wearing a bike helmet, and they’re currently serving customers. Second, I would argue that the guy in the 1992 Toyota Tercel who was in front of me is more of a threat. When you see a really shitty car, don’t you automatically assume the people inside are up to no good? I do. In fact, I’d like to blue book my Cannondale vs. that car. I bet I would come out on top.
I’m not even asking for special treatment here. I don’t want to come inside. I don’t want them to make my burger without onions, I just want the food handed to me while my feet are touching pavement. That’s it. But they apparently won’t do that.
I’m writing Dave Thomas about this. Oh wait, he’s dead. Good. Screw that guy. He should have changed their drive-thru policy before he died.
This is in poor taste because he's dead.
But, even with my vitriol, it really didn’t matter. Wendy’s had beaten me. I said a quick prayer to Jesus to deliver pubic lice to the manager, and got back on my bike.
I ended up getting a frozen pizza from CVS and sat at home fuming. I knew I shouldn’t really care, but I did. Obviously I’m making a big deal out of nothing, but still. I felt rejected. And, as a married man, I don’t experience much rejection these days. Maybe I’m out of practice. Anyway, I’ll recover. No need to send a sympathy card.
But, if you live near me, I’d avoid the Wendy’s on Lawrence for the next few weeks just in case Jesus decides to answer my prayer.
Leave CommentAbout D.J.
Delfin Joaquin Paris III thinks he's quite funny. Just ask him. More...
Follow D.J.
