Hell’s Army Clad in Green and Brown
The Why:
I must admit, I am not looking forward to this job. I would've told them to shove it, but I didn't fancy the image of my mangled corpse being dropped into the wilderness to become the last few calories the bears needed before they hibernate for the winter. That is what they do to anyone who crosses them. So, here I am. Who knew that the real power controlling EVERYTHING is even darker than the illuminati, Free Masons, Taylor Swift and RNC put together? Fuck, the real power holders in the world make the illuminati, Masons, Taylor Swift, and RNC look like a bunch of newborn puppies. All I know is that if I want to live and avoid having my family gutted and then hung by their entrails from the oak tree in my front yard like a morbid pinata for my disobedience, I must now do the work of the right hand of Satan himself, those twisted, evil, sadistic master manipulators of the world, the Girl Scouts of America!
The Why:
When I asked them why I was supposed to do the job I was given, the forest green and UPS-Brown clad pony-tailed wearing little imps broke my wrist for my insolence by backing over it with their den mother's Chevy Suburban. I was then informed that their reasons are their own and they weren't revealing anything about their master plan. All I was given was the details of the job along with the threat of a slow torturous death for me and my loved ones should I fuck this up or get caught. So, here I am. If anyone finds this, please WARN THE WORLD! The Girl Scouts are the greatest evil on Earth! How else can they charge an ever increasing amount of money for a box of Thin Mints? No one in their right minds would pay $10 for a box of Thin Mints or Peanut Butter Patties! And they raise the prices EVERY year yet, we mindlessly drop a month's wages on their cookies that're baked with love in the fires of HELL! I never believed in black magic before, but the way we line up to buy Samoas by the case like zombified Type 2 diabetics, we must be under the demonic influences of dark rites and spells.
The Who:
The Assignment: Observe and document the activities of one Shallow Gene Pool. Pool is a white male approximately 50 years of age. In appearance, I'd describe him like this: Imagine if Curley of the Three Stooges, Mr. Burns of the Simpsons, and Uncle Fester of the Addams Family had a hedonistic, orifice expanding, body fluid exchanging one night stand and through the power of this unholy act a child was conceived as an afront to nature. That child abomination would be the exact doppelganger of Pool.
Pool has 4 children, 3 boys, 1 girl, and a shockingly beautiful wife. Curious as to how Pool landed such a beauty, I utilized my biological sample gathering equipment and managed to get a few urine samples from her. The results came back clean every time, so he isn't drugging her to keep her trapped in hellacious matrimony. Maybe he's hung like a bull elephant? Doubtful I know, but it is the only hypothesis that makes any sense.
Pool is a social worker, meaning he and his family live in border line poverty. In fact, he's so broke I doubt he can pay attention. Anyway, he seems fairly proficient at his job, which is just as shocking as his ability to snag a hottie for a wife. I thought at best he'd be able to hold down work where common sense and intelligence aren't required, like at the DMV or FOX News. It just goes to show that you can't determine if your toilet paper is single or double-ply until its out of the package and you use it. Pool is surprisingly double-ply in his vocational abilities. Oh he's the off brand, newspaper soft, double-ply, kind of toilet tissue, but he's double-ply none the less.
The Where:
Pool lives in California's San Joaquin Valley, or as it is called by locals, "The Place Where Cows, Meth, and Orchards are Plentiful, but Hope and Intelligence are in VERY Short Supply." This place is truly a black hole of despair and apathy. I figure that my time in California's foul perineum of a valley will cost me at least 15 IQ points that I'll never regain.
The How:
In order to monitor Pool's every move I set up recording devices, cameras, and even DNA gathering equipment in his home, office, and vehicle. Once my spy equipment was in place and tested, I began to do the bidding of those diabolical, cookie dealing, freckled faced little imps.
Entry #1 Monday, 11/4/24: Pool's Work Week
Pool's work week begins just like most people's. First he showers. This immediately nullified my theory that his wife is married to him because he's hung like a pachyderm. Truth be told, in terms of his phallus, Pool's meat missile endowment can best be described as being somewhere between that of light switch and ingrown hair.
After dropping off 1 child at school, Pool drives to the office. To my surprise, Pool possesses a fair amount of road rage. In fact, his ability to use profanity in creative ways is one of the few talents he possesses! Not only is he able to draw from a vast pool of foul language, he is able to utilize it with what can only be described as a Shakespearian eloquence. Some of my favorite examples:
"Nothing Says, 'I have a micro-penis' like a raised pickup, ASS HOLE! Not sure if your Uncle Ben's Status short grain dick can even do the job, but PLEASE DON'T PROCREATE!"
"That is a handicapped spot, you're parking your Mercedes in lady and I don't see a blue placard or handicapped sign on your plate! Having a hyper-sensitive gag reflex doesn't make you disabled! It just makes your husband chronically fucking disappointed! Maybe blue balls would qualify HIM for the disabled parking placard you insensitive, ableist cunt!"
"Instant Idiot. Just add motorcycle. Gotta love it. The way you ride that thing you're gonna Darwin natural selection your stupid ass out of the gene pool, motherfucker. Cheaper for the cleanup crew too, I'm guessing. All that's needed is a spatula and a trash bag and your carcass is no longer a road or genetic hazard."
Arriving at work Pool finds his way through the cubicle jungle to his own personal 3 walls of despair. From here, he social works for a couple of hours, spends his lunch break sobbing under his desk while curled in the fetal position, and either does paperwork or goes on a home visit. Of course, HIPPA laws prohibit me from providing any information about his home visits. Let's just say that he seems to stumble through them in a frenzied kind of mediocrity, but at the end of the day, the families seem happy. Either that or they feel so sorry for him that they can't bring themselves to complain.
Upon returning home, Pool helps with dinner, helps get his 4 crotch goblins off to bed and settles in for the night.
Entry #4-5 Tuesday, 11/5/24 to 11/8/24: Pool's Work Week
Apparently, Pool is a music snob. He blasts everything from Mudvayne to Led Zeppelin during his commute and while doing paperwork. I call him a snob because as he has explained to his coworkers, if he hears that someone likes country music his distaste is made known by gagging and he experiences a compelling need to warn the person about the dangers of inbreeding. By way of apology he then explains that he barely escaped the trailer park once and now if he hears just a single guitar twang he's afraid that his Johnny Cash/Hank Williams/Willie Nelson related PTSD would likely cause him to have a single-wide flash back resulting in him assaulting whatever or whoever is producing the music all the while screaming, "Die you ring of fire falling, no talent hillbilly, yellow rose loving cousin fuckers and return to the truck stop in Hell from which you came!"
Other than that, nothing new to report. Pool is in a rut and apparently too dense to realize it. In fact, his routine could put people in medically-induced comas. In order to stay awake, I've managed to convert an insulin pump into a caffeine delivery device feeding me a steady flow of Red Bull that keeps me awake until Pool blessedly falls asleep.
Entry #6 The Weekend Saturday, 11/6/24
And the boredom continues. Pool's weekend consists of doing chores, giving his kids money, and Detroit Lions football (in California? weird). Once the 4 cum fruit go to bed and are fast asleep, Pool gets a bit randy. Most of the time Mrs. Pool reminds him that it is this very behavior that resulted in the afore mentioned cum fruit. I guess the thought of more mouths to feed acts as an anti-aphrodisiac, because Mr. Pool immediately stops humping the leg of Mrs. Pool.
Now let me say for the record, that I draw the line at snooping in the bedroom, but unfortunately, one night I forgot to turn off the audio feed in Pool's bedroom. What I heard by accident was enough to make me take a vow of celibacy, because just the thought of physical intimacy makes my want to toss my store-brand (NOT Girl Scout) cookies.
I get that sex is a free for all when it comes to groans, sighs, and (if you're doing it right), squeals. Pretty much anything goes during the Squishy-Squishy Yum-Yum. However, the sounds that I heard were the stuff of nightmares. For example:
Goat bleating (not real goat, thank you Jeebus) was a significant part of their coupling.
At some point Mr. Pool cried out, "I am the LOVE MONKEY! Let me partake of your sweet, ripe banana while you swing from my vine!"
For some ungodly reason, the couple started singing, "I've Been Workin' On the Railroad" during their copulation.
There were other sounds of varied pitch, length, and intensity that I cannot quite identify, for which I am grateful. However, I found myself experiencing a skull crushing headache accompanied by bleeding from my nose and ears as their love noises reached a body fluid exchanging crescendo. Strangely enough, according to the morning news, the exact moment the Pool's lovemaking reached its maximum sonic dissonance (11:23 PM Pacific Time) several pods of dolphins simultaneously beached themselves up and down the California coast. I'd like to think that my nose and ear bleeding was coincidence, but I cannot find a reasonable explanation as to why hundreds of sea mammals committed mass, synchronized suicide at the exact same moment.
This assignment is going to drive me to madness. Maybe I should just pray for a quick death in the Girl Scout's Thin Mint oven. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.