Sears Portrait Studio

One Sunday morning in the spring time in New Hampshire, I woke up a little earlier than usual. So, I walked down to the local 7-11 for my daily coffee. 2/3 blueberry coffee, 1/3 hot chocolate. It's like an orgy in my mouth, and all the hottest chicks get off at the same time. Suddenly, I notice two chocolate cake donuts through the glass of the bakery stand. Crying out to me like the two most adorable kittens in the world need a forever home in my tummy. So, I go ahead and buy the coffee and two donuts.

I'm walking home and it's gorgeous outside. Springtime in New England is beautiful. I'm sipping my coffee periodically, but going to town on those donuts. The first one went down quicker than a crackwhore sitting shotgun. By the time I reached my doorstep and climbed the stairs, I was just starting to bite into the second donut. Suddenly, the story goes downhill quickly. I open the door, and Sara is awake. I figured she'd still be asleep for another hour or so. Her eyes narrow, scan down to the donut and back up at me. I know that look. It generally results in me getting in trouble.
"You cannot afford that." she sternly notes.
"....But this donut is a majestic treat!" I reply.



(Note: At this point, I'm screwed. I have no secondary donut to offer her. This could have easily been absolved with a simple "Look hunny, I got you one too.")
Sara shakes her head in disappointment and goes into the details of our budget. After logical female deduction and a slew of well explained, conclusive evidence, I was given the news: "You need to get a second job."
When she said it, the words came out like slow motion. Like the dentist telling a 12 year old, "You need to get braces."

So, next thing I know I'm applying for jobs. First place to call me back is Sears Portrait Studio. Oh, the humanity!
My first day arrives, on a Saturday morning. I have to dress up nicely in hopes to compensate for the fact that I'm a complete and utter douche nozzle. As socially awkward as I can be normally, it's amplified tenfold once I'm required to wear a long sleeve, button down shirt, and some khaki's that even Elton John would refer to as "faggy".

I arrive to work. The first person I meet is the manager, so I can go over paperwork and whatnot. She's in the early 40's, but just as bubbly as a 13 year old. One of those people who giggles after everything, flips her hair, then checks her reflection in whatever shiny object may be in the room. She reminded me of an older woman, wearing all white, riding a tandem bike with an attractive business man in a tampon commercial.
First, she informs me I'll be making an extra 50 cents an hour based on experience. Another girl working there overhears and rolls her eyes.
She picks up the phone and starts dialing. New employees need to enter their SSN's into the Sears database. However, I'm pretty sure her roaming hand on my shoulder was not protocol for training. She starts giggling and hands me the phone only to hear a recorded message for a naughty co-ed phone line. "Wrong number!" she says through laughter. Really? Very professional. Although, I'm not one to talk. This lady won't take her fucking hands off me, and all I'm concerned with is whether or not Gambit could beat up Spiderman. (Update: Gambit obviously can beat up Spiderman.)



Suddenly, I'm standing around waiting for everything to go through. My surroundings are bleak. Calamity every which way. Kids aged 2-5 sprinting around. Giggling, playing, loudly screaming. Making me wish I owned a Flux Capacitor, allowing me to go back in time with an unbent wire hanger and a vivid story of the A.D.D. ridden future these parents were about to endure.
Suddenly, this little blonde haired 3 year old wearing overalls runs in to me going warp speed. He bounced off the back of my leg like I was a brick shithouse, and he were made of Nerf.



This kid starts bawling harder than my prom date. Parents are staring at me, waiting to see what I'll do. I have no parental instinct, and no way to know what to do. Do I pick him up? Do I console him? Jingle keys? Instead, I act based on all I know. "That certainly didn't seem like the intended result...Walk it off, dude."
I feel the death stare from every adult in the room. But if that mom had chosen a more coordinated husband, perhaps heredity could have stepped in and helped this little indoor kid from being perennially picked last in gym class throughout his childhood.

Next, I meet the kid who will be training me. I don't remember his name, so I'll call him Bieber Fever. Bieber Fever was a nice kid. About 19 or 20, flamboyant as all hell, and really passionate about photography. He genuinely enjoyed his job, and might have been one of the most upbeat people I'd ever met.



Bieber Fever gives me all kinds of great information I wouldn't retain. Jingle keys, make faces, use puppets. All I could think of was making funny faces, while using my keys to give all the little puppets buttholes.
So, I'm standing in while Bieber Fever takes pictures of families. This kid is amazing at his job. Babies are smiling, little ones giggling, the whole nine yards. But once in a while they'd catch a glimpse of me standing behind him. Shadowed in the darkness, arms behind my back, looking like the director of a fucking snuff film.



Suddenly, a Juggalo struts into Sears, carrying his offspring around like a basketball he might pass it to a tall black guy, who would in turn slam dunk it. If you're interested in what a Juggalo is, read my informative guide by clicking here.
Juggalos: Fact Or Fiction
However, for those of you who won't click that, a Juggalo is a fan of the Insane Clown Posse. A horrible rap group consisting of an inbred retard, and a diabetic dog inseminator. They speak about drinking Faygo, carnivals in the sky, and intercourse with large women.



He walks into this crowded cluster of people with his kid, and says to the girl behind the desk, "What is a Juggalo? This fucking lunatic!" That's actually a derivative of a lyric. This guy speaks in clown. The girl instantly turns beet red, no idea how to handle this fiasco. The child actually has a Capri-Sun in a brown paper bag. (I guess Faygo is a 8 years and up drink in the Juggalo community.) Sure as shit, Bieber Fever and I get the task of photographing what is sure to be Exhibit A in a juvenile parole hearing in the next 10 years.
The guy wouldn't change poses as asked. Wouldn't smile as asked. Pushed his kid around until he stopped listening to Bieber Fever's instructions. Every picture taken, is the Juggalo holding his hatchetman bling, as the child first begins to realize what sort of shit-show he's been born into.

The session ends, and the Juggalo sits down as his kid instantly takes a way a toy from a little Native American child. A whole trail of tears ensues from Mini-Tonto, as Juggalo Junior is not reprimanded in any way.
At this time, I'm editing the photo's. I have years of experience in photoshop, so that was about all I was qualified to do at Sears. As I'm editing, I hear the Juggalo randomly chanting lyrics. I can't even help myself at this point. I'm editing these photos, check out to see if anyone is behind me and type in "Amber Alert 2009" in bold Verdana lettering across the top.
What I didn't know, is that at Sears Portrait Studio, every alteration instantly saves.





Bieber Fever comes over and asks how it's going.
"Uhh, I thought this was pretty funny, but I'd like to take it out.", as I open the Amber Alert picture.
"OH EM GEE." Bieber Fever replies. "You can't do that! They save everytime!"
"Okay, well, how do I delete it.", I politely ask.
"You can't."

At this point at any other job, I'd feel bad. But no, not this job. Suddenly, the manager walks in and starts freaking out. "Why would you do this?" she questions.
I respond with, "Look at that guy. I'm doing the state of New Hampshire's public schools a service."
Then, the bubbly act ends and she starts to flail around and panic.
"We need to reboot the entire system. The whole store. Now these people are all going to have to wait."



Awkward 4 second silence overwhelms the room before I blurt out "Juggalo's are not people."
Nobody thinks it's funny but me, and I happen to think this is fucking hilarious. I start to daydream about what how the Juggalo actually procreated and with what.



I imagine a grotesquely obese ginger with dyed black hair. Bright red freckles, stubbly arms and hairy legs. Smoking a joint in her living room, sitting on the ottoman they bought at a trailer park garage sale. Duct tape prosthetic foot after a combination of diabetes and Count Chocula warranted the amputation. 1992 Casio boom box on the shag rug, playing ICP songs, periodically skipping. Inbred, Rocky Dennis lookin' daughter looms behind the smoke and the end table. Rockin' a makeshift peg leg stolen from a dining room table display at a Target. Her eyes aren't crooked, but she does has a lazy tit. Unopened mail on the floor, old bottles of Faygo, and a pool of menstrual blood because a bunch of cotton balls Scotch taped to a used fountain drink straw isn't really all that great of a tampon. (BTW, that's actually the sheet music for "Black Dog" by Led Zeppelin. I felt the contrast was amusing.)

The day finally ends, and I politely inform the manager that I won't be returning. She understands, and crosses me off the schedule.
I giggle the whole drive home about Juggalos, Bieber Fever, amber alerts and the donut which got me into this predicament. I arrive home smiling with Sara greeting me at the door. From the smile on my face, she knows I have a story.
"You quit didn't you?" she bluntly asks.
"I'm not down with the clown."



From that day on, I will think twice, and refer to the budget before purchasing a donut, muffin, scone or any other sort of delicious morning pastry.
Even when it's okay, I still look over my shoulder as if I'm doing something wrong.

Pansy.

I had quite the bizarre cast of friends in high school. 1998 was my sophomore year, I was 16 years old. Decked out in Jnco jeans, Sketchers, and ridiculous shiny shirts from Gadzooks back when they sold men's apparel. There was a concealed beeper in my pocket, and to top it all off, I'd dyed my hair black with blonde chunks in the front. Not only a sign of the times, but affirmation that I was a complete and utter douche. I ate lunch with an identical cast of characters everyday. There was Bret, who was extremely quiet, shy and lanky. He didn't speak much, but he was always by far the nicest of the group. Then, there was Sobucki. The lone 50% black kid in a bumblefuck northwest Indiana high school. Sobucki was a smart-ass like I was, and a baseball enthusiast. He idolized Ken Griffey, Jr, and in fact, 12 years later he still does. Finally, there was Frahm. Eric Frahm stood all of 5'2", and could grow a beard by age 11. But the guy was built like a brick shithouse. We teased Frahm, but anytime we encountered any physical resistance, Frahm stood front and center. His claim to fame was emptying a cologne bottle, filling it with vodka, and getting caught spritzing himself in the face...On the school bus. The man was a legend in his own right.



Everyday, there was a specific routine. We'd get our food, climb a flight of stairs, and hang out over the ledge. It was typical, common high school back and forth banter which often concluded in such zingers as "your mother". Sobucki would call Frahm an Ewok, Frahm would call Sobucki "Soblacki", and they both would deservedly call me a fag, Bret just kind of hung out, and endured the immaturity surrounding him. He was too friendly to really participate in our childish dialogue. He was simply a nice kid, hanging around a bunch of dickheaded choad chompers.

This specific day, I notice that Bret is drinking Diet Pepsi. I question why a 16 year old would opt to drink Diet anything. Nobody ever really questioned Bret about anything. His response would undoubtedly be whimsically polite and leave any antagonist feeling foolish.



"Why, Bret?" I ask. "Why would you drink Diet Pepsi?...Got to watch that girlish figure?"
Leave it to the guy with a shiny shirt and hair gayer than Flock Of Seagulls to question someone else's manhood.
Sobucki and Frahm chuckle lightheartedly, most likely at the irony. I continue on about Diet Pepsi, before I abruptly bring the harassment to an end.
"Bret...You are a....Pansy."
The word pansy echoed throughout the hallway.
"Pansy....ansy....ansy"



I looked over at Bret and saw a fire in that kids eyes. Before I could even throw a playful elbow alongside a "Just kiddin', buddy", he looks me square in the eyes. They narrow, and he remains locked in on me as if I'm about to be put in the boston crab until I tap out and poop my pants simultaneously.



Suddenly, like the most casual act in the world, Bret pours his entire Diet Pepsi over the ledge.
We're all speechless as a 3 second pause seems to take forever before we hear the splash. We stifle our giggles and everyone pats Bret on the back. "Way to shut Foster up!" seems to be the general consensus.





A loud, female scream amplifies itself throughout the hallway. Suddenly, like Jurassic Park, a light rumble surges through the concrete and tile floor. Frahm's lunch is tossed around more than Snooki's orange pussy.
Logically, I realized we were nowhere near a fault in the Earth, but it sure felt like we were in the midst of some sort of plate-tectonic shift .



Loud footsteps approach quickly, and suddenly what appears to be a human female stands forth. She was about 6'3", damn well over 300 pounds. I strongly felt it possible that another smaller person may dwell inside her, powering her movements with controls. She was wearing a white t-shirt, perhaps a modified hammock or bed sheet. Her dark sweatpants brought leniency to the term "one size fits all".


I look back down the stairs, and wonder how how the forklift even got her up the stairs with without a handicapped accessible ramp.
Frahm senses danger and valiantly rises to his feet. At 5'2", he was about eye-level somewhere between her 3rd lower tit roll, and her fupa's fupa.




Our brave friend begins to shake more than Michael J. Fox in an earthquake, and abruptly sits down. I look up at this woman, and envision her spinning Sobucki and I over her head like she's making a pizza. While holding Bret upside down, shaking his juice money from his pockets. Finally, stomping on Frahm, as an exaggerated Mario stomping on a Goomba in hopes of obtaining 200 points.



The Beasts eyes narrow, and her lip curls. I utilize a moment to use a bit of panoramic mental photography, and note that she resembles a billboard for an ink blot test. A secondary rumble up the stairs is heard in the background, as The Beast's eyes fixate directly at me. I literally fear for my life, and defecate just a little bit. Suddenly, a sniffle and loud sobbing overtakes the quiet halls of our suburban high school.
"I HATE YOU ERIC FOSTER!"



Go figure, I was always under the impression that big girls don't cry. Of course I would get blamed. Sobucki would have been the only other candidate to do something like that, and racial profiling is totally not cool.

Suddenly, a figure appears behind The Beast. I'm not all that confident it was a woman, based on the back acne and scent of gym socks and ball-sweat. I guess I'll never know. The Beast is crying a fucking river, as her cross-eyed androgynous friend verbally rapes me in the butthole. My friends are all stunned, speechless, subsequently in no position to react.

A small group of people begin to circle around. A scene has officially been made, and I realize that I'm in a position where I'm socially forced to retort.
The low pitched screeching of swear words directed at me still spews forth from the friend. Finally, the Beast chimes in. "You are such a fucking fag."

I stand up and dust myself off.
"Cry! Go ahead and cry! Cry! Cry! Cry! It burns calories!"



A silence overtakes the fiasco. My friends chuckled, and a few other people in the circle giggle as well. Finally, The Beast's friend storms off, as a team of 20 social workers clear the passage to her blowhole before a slew of heavy machinery rolls her back into the ocean.
I look back at my friends, and sigh. Mostly in relief that none of us were eaten whole. My friends were some pretty cool kids. Bret began to talk more, and grew up to be cool as shit. Sobucki remained a fun-loving smart-ass, and Frahm was one of the most loyal, philosophical dudes I'd ever known.

A few years later in my mid twenties, I was out drinking with Buckman. He'd noticed The Beast standing behind us at the bar, angrily staring. She looked even bigger than I remembered. She grew yet another neck, which leads me leads me to believe that fat people neck rings are another way of determining their age, much like trees.



On that note, It's fun to draw myself as a kid back when I still had a neck. This story really has no punch line, it's just fun to draw fat chicks.