Down Christmas Memory Lane, Part 2

A Tribute To Frosty, The Most Selfless Of Water-Based Life Forms.

Original blogpost airdate December 16, 2008

He kept up appearances for the children. That is the epitaph to remember Frosty The Snowman by always. Frosty loved the children.

Frosty knew the sun was hot that day. He knew his fate. But Frosty chose to spend what remained of his time living, not dying. He took his broomstick and he ran here and there, around the square, leading the nation's children into a rebellion not of street gangs, violent crime, teenage pregnancy or any of the other social ills that plague our youth, but a rebellion of joy.

He even paused for a moment when the town square's traffic cop called for him to stop, for Frosty was at his core a good and decent soul.

Frosty is gone now, a victim of seasonal change and global warming. Most of his corpse is scattered in the vast nothingness of this planet's oceans, some of it refroze and may be trapped glacially for millennia, some is locked underground, and some may be carrying away the sewage of the fetid masses of humanity, but the magical moment he gave our children will never die. Which is why I hope.... no, which is why I know, that someday Frosty will know the magic that is a trip over Yosemite falls.

I think I may have just peed out a piece of Frosty.

Down Christmas Memory Lane, Part One

Original blogpost airdate, December 17, 2007

If I Were Rudolph The Reindeer, I Would Have Told Santa To Go Fuck Himself.

I would have been like. "You bastards have given me shit my whole life and NOW you want me to bail you out?? You can kiss my reindeer ass"

Then I would have been like "You know, while I was excluded and ostracized all those years, I worked on a few reindeer games of my own, since you would never let me play any of yours" There would be a crazy look in my eye.

Then I would take off and fly around in circles while Dancer and Prancer and the rest of those asswipes sat grounded with all the undeliverable toys on the shipping dock. Every once in awhile I would swoop down and kick them in the head or maybe bite them in the back while yelling "WHAT CHA THINK OF MY NOSE NOW MUTHA FUCKER?? TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK OF MY NOSE!!!!!"

I guess that wouldn't be a good way to mark Jesus' birthday though. I mean, hell, Jesus would never punish you years after the fact for being a bad person.

I don't think I can take listening to those songs at work for another week.

My Non Freudian Dream.

I wasn't an athlete in high school. Not even close. It wasn't like I was undersized, uncoordinated, a lame polio survivor or anything like that. As a matter of fact, I held my own pretty well on the playground in elementary school, but by the time we were old enough for the sports to be organized, the practice fields were 12 miles from my little rural house of isolation and a Dad who put in long hours in the plastic factory meant they might as well of been on the other side of the world. Gradually I became one of the last kids to be picked for gym class teams and I realized if I were ever to blast away from Appalachia my best hope would be to fire up my nuclear powered brain.

I'm not bitter about it, but I always thought if I would have had a chance, I could have developed some moves on the field, or court or course or whatever.

Last night in my dream I was on my high school basketball team. There was the actual basketball coach from my old high school telling me he'd put me in for a few minutes, but when I was on the bench, I was to sit in an old, beat up, ready to fall down folding chair, unlike the rest of the kids who got to sit in real chairs.

During warm ups, all my practice shots bounced right off the basket because there was a plastic cover over the hoop. I pointed out to coach that if it weren't for the plastic cover all my shots would be hitting nothing but net. He didn't seem impressed.

Sure enough, at an unimportant part of the game, coach told me to get my ass in there. A couple minutes later I unexpectedly found a ball whizzing towards my head. I caught it and whipped it towards the hoop. Nothing but net baby. I had scored. A meager two points, yes, but the most incredible feeling in the world.

Maybe I really could compete here.

That basket got me another chance and I hit the hoops again. My teammates kept testing me and I kept up the scoring. Gradually it became apparent that this wasn't a fluke. Not only could I hang for a bit, I could make it. I could own this world.

In my dream though, I kept sitting in that piece of crap chair, no matter how big I got. Because I always wanted to be reminded of what it felt like to have no one believe in you. I wanted to remember always what it was like to be motivated by a world of haters and use that to spur myself forward.

It took me a couple hours at the store today to figure out that dream. You see, according to the Quickbooks, two of my first three months have been profitable. I've found a ball whizzing towards my head and managed to take a shot at the hoop. Finally, I've found my chance and that first shot has sunk into the net. A mere two points, yes, but maybe... I really can compete here.

I just hope I have the equivalent of that crappy chair somewhere. Something that will keep my head from getting too big:

I believe you voted for Obama Bin Laden TWICE! You get what you pay for. Pelosi must be your rep because "we have to pass it to find out what's in it." Fortunately, you are an independent, so that means you can't bite the hand that feeds you, like you did at Rite-Aid. You are now having to realize what business is all about, and that ObamaCommiecare will threaten ALL small businesses. Sevres you Rite. You'll be asking for Aid when selling your files to Walgreens (oh the irony). (Actual piece of hate mail from a fan in Florida who writes in regularly) 

I'm thinking that won't be a problem. I wish my chair wasn't quite so insane though.

My Annual Heartfelt Tribute To The Christmas Spirit.

Original blogpost airdate, December 28, 2009. Also can be found in my awesome book, perfect as a Christmas gift to appease that son of god prick. Still time to order now for X-mas delivery. 


You know, for someone who professes to love us all, you'd think that maybe the thought our time could be worth a little something might enter Jesus' skull once or twice. That maybe Jesus could tell us, "You know, there's no need to go all out for my birthday. Really. Me and my Dad, the all knowing, omnipotent creator of universes known and unknown, the Deity that can part seas with his breath, move mountains with his pinky and knows the exact number of hairs on your head, I'm sure we'll come up with something. Don't put yourself out just on my account."

"And there is really no need to invent The Clapper to sell in the season of my special day. You work too hard for your money."

That's what my Uncle Harold would say. Uncle Harold always insisted we never make a big deal about his birthday, because that was just the kind of guy Harold was. Unlike this prick Jesus who pretty much ruined my whole week with this Christmas shit.

And by whole week I mean entire month of December. And part of November as well. Traffic gets backed up because of a goddamn parade. People everywhere I want to shop. A big pile of pine trees right where I normally park my car at work. All because this savior of mankind lets it go straight to his head.

I got news for you Jesus. I once saved the life of a mouse we found in the backroom of the store. That's right. Instead of killing it, I captured the little guy and let him loose in the woods in back of the mall. And I don't expect the mouse to buy shit every year for my birthday either. I think maybe I could teach you a thing or two about humility Mr. Son of God.

The sad thing is it's not just me that gets screwed. The entire goddamn planet has to put their lives on hold just for Jesus every year. Fuck it makes me so mad. I got over birthdays when I was like 9, and Jesus still gets all giddy like a girl after 2000 of them? Give me a break.

Buddhism looks better every day. No wonder there are so many Buddhists.

A Random Tribute To The Era Of Flower Power

Peace, love, happiness, and standing up to the man. The 60's had it all my friends. Free love, acid, Woodstock, and political conventions that were far more than week long informercials.

It wasn't all groovy vibes, art, and music though. It seems like every major band of the era had a member that didn't make it. Keith Moon of The Who, Brian Jones of The Stones......

Actually, maybe only two major bands of the era had a member that didn't make it. And Keith Moon lasted until 1978.

Never mind.

Another Video Warning To Each And Every Pharmacy Student Across This Land. This Is What You Are Lining Up For.

1) My question is, why didn't they just transfer her prescriptions? Cause I gotta tell you, when I was in retail hell, that was something a lady like this never would have had to say twice.

2) The bland, soothing music in the background is a nice touch. "Heartbreak Hotel" isn't a bad choice for the soundtrack either.

3) Pharmacy students of the world, you will deal with this at least once a year over the course of your career. Probably more often. Merry Christmas.

From The Mailbag, Five Years Later, A Guess As Good As Any

Hardcore fans of the Drugmonkey will remember the Christmas present that baffled me. I wrote about it in the blog a few years back and included a chapter on it in my awesome book. In short, a customer who used to drop off little Christmas presents every year once gave me a manicure set. A mystery manicure set. It didn't come with instructions you see, and while some parts of it were self explanatory enough, there were some utensils that completely stumped this college graduate and Mensa member. Here's a picture of the mystery implements:

Many things have changed since I wrote that original post. I escaped chain "pharmacy" hell and became a responsible business owner. I moved from the liberal bastion of Coastal California into the embrace of the Sierras, I met and will soon marry the most awesomest woman on the planet.

But I still have no idea what these things are. Not a clue. And I'm still worried that customer gave them to me to correct some hygiene or grooming problem that makes me less than smokin' hot.

The other day though, I got this in my mailbox:

Hello, 

My name is Xxxxxx. I’ve been in the Navy for about 3 and a half years, and close to the time of me getting out, I have taken an interest in pharmacy. Looking up various books about the field, I found your book entitled “Why Your Prescription Takes So Damn Long to Fill.” I’m still reading it, although so far I’ve enjoyed it. Although I am no doctor, I can relate to dealing with the stupidity of the general public in retail. In regards to the mysterious tools in the manicure set, the one to the far right with the split pieces of metal, I’d say it was something used to stick inside a dick hole, and the pieces of metal keep the hole in the meat helmet spread open and stay open, maybe allowing an easier going STD test. That’s my best guess. Hopefully I could help.

Yes Mr. X.,  help you did indeed. Because that's the most plausible suggestion I've had to date. Which means now I can worry that I give off the appearance of a syphilis-wrecked shell of a man in desperate need of help. That's way better than just thinking I might be less than the ultimate piece of man meat.

I hope my fiancee' doesn't see this.

Nation Prepares For The Annual Running Of The Tools.

Blogpost original air date, November 24, 2011


BETONVILLE, AR- From the small town Sears to major shopping destinations in cities around the country, excitement filled the air today as millions readied themselves for the start of the annual shopping season that begins tonight with the Running of The Tools. This years Tool Run is expected to begin as early as midnight at retailers in all 50 states, as dullards of every stripe gather to test their mettle in competition with what passes for human beings these days in an effort to score a discounted price on electronics, clothing, toys, and other miscellaneous crap that will most likely end up in a landfill within a year.

"We used to call it the running of the sheeple" said Wal-Mart Vice President Johnnie C. Dobbs. "but then we realized that sheep, unlike the crowds of barbarians that gather in front of our stores every year, very rarely get violent when crammed together in large herds."

Dobbs then climbed to the top of corporate headquarters and tossed 10 vouchers good for $100 off any laptop computer to the crowd below "just to give them a little taste of blood" One person's eyes were gouged out in the resulting melee.

While the precise origin of The Running of The Tools is unclear, archaeological research indicates it may have begun as part of a ritual of giving thanks for the sweatshop laborers whose work producing plastic disposable trinkets makes it possible for Americans to maintain a standard of living unmatched in the history of humanity.

Actually, "living" is probably the wrong word to use there.

In that spirit of thanks, Tool Run participants across the country this year will pause for a moment of silence to honor Jdimytai Damour, the Wal-Mart employee trampled to death under a frenzied crowd of Tools desperate to get rid of their money in 2008.

Not really. There will be absolutely no recognition of what happened to Mr. Damour tonight. Except possibly among the people who loved him.

"Unless you come from the dark place inhabited by these people's souls, the significance of the Tool Running can be hard to understand" said Dr. Glen Nealon, author of GET YOUR HANDS OFF THAT DVD PLAYER!! Tools And The Ascension Of Consumption As The Basis Of The Modern Economy "In the absence of meaningful relationships based on caring and consideration, worthy cultural outlets, or any other type of intellectual stimulation, the life of a Tool soon devolves into a search for meaning through competition for material symbols of status, and they are willing to risk almost anything to fill the vast void of nothingness that is their existence."

"HOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!! I'M GONNA GET ME A PLAY STATION FOR SEVENTY-FIVE BUCKS!!!!!" said local Tool Jacob Hatfield, who said he had been waiting in front of a Target store for 36 hours. He also added that if we even thought about barging in line in front of him, we could expect to be cut.

Reached in the eternal glory that is heaven, the almighty Jesus sobbed softly when asked for comment.

From The Pages Of Pills-A-Go-Go. The Best Piece Of Drug Swag Ever.

It's exactly what it looks like my friends. A shit-inspiring CD from the makers of the country's leading vegetable laxative. Get the food a-flowing with tunes from REO Speedwagon, Toto, Eddie Money and Rick Springfield.

What do you suppose those bands had to do to get onto their record company's literal shit list? BRRRRAAAAAHAHHHAAAHHHHAAAHHAAAAAA.........

Anyway, like I said, I got the tip to this little gem from Pills-A-Go-Go. Which I'm starting to think just may be the best book ever. You can buy a copy of both book and CD from Amazon. At least for now. 'Cause I just snapped up the next to last copy of the shit music.

Drugmonkey, I Love Love Love Your Book, But You Don't Write As Much Now That You're A Responsible Business Owner, What's A Person To Do?

I hear you my friends, and I feel your pain so much I went out and found another book to ease your withdraw symptoms. I love this book my friends. I. Love. This. Book. I could waste your time explaining why, or I could just put up an excerpt and let you see for yourself. From "pills-a-go-go" by Jim Hogshire.

Buy a copy of it right now.

Pill-hounds are not only the ones who hate pharmacists: practically everybody hates them. In turn, pharmacists hate everyone back and, for that brief moment when they are in charge of your medical treatment, they will jack you around out of pure spite. 

A pharmacist shuffling papers behind his altar-like counter won't look up when you arrive. He won't even grunt before he's good and ready to peer down at you and acknowledge your existence. Then he will make you talk out loud about your medical problems. Sometimes, he will challenge your prescription. Hmmmmm, you got the clap, dontcha? Prozac, eh? Don't look depressed to me. Isn't it a little early for you to be refilling this codeine? In fact, I'm not sure you should have any more codeine. He will make you grovel. That's what he lives for. 

How did the pharmacist become so odious? Does pharmacy inherently attract people who naturally seethe with inner malice while maintaining a stony facade? Are they born this way or does something happen to them? Unfortunately, there is no evidence that pharmacists have a genetic problem. Like sadistic prison guards, they are largely creations of their surroundings. Something about the job ruins them. 

THE BIG SCAM
The sadistic process of twisting a pharmacist's psyche begins in college. Pharmacy school is rough--you can't get through it without advanced calculus, chemistry and super dedication. Pharmacy school lasts at least five years. And it costs a lot. 

No one would endure pharmacy school for the chance to count pills, let alone to be hated by customers and held in contempt by doctors. So, to make students cram pharmacokinetics (which they will never use on the job), the schools tell big, outright lies. They promise that their graduates will be liked, and will hold an esteemed position in medicine, in society even. 

Students are told again and again about the high degree of trust placed upon pharmacists by patients and doctors. They see pictures of kindly people in smooth coats holding up test-tubes and being beamed at by old ladies. They are shown photocopies of a folklorish survey indicating how certain professions are trusted. Pharmacists, they see, are only a notch or two below Supreme Court Justice--and far above a doctor. 

This is the opposite of reality, of course, which just makes the hoax crueler. When you see a pharmacy student, what you are looking at is someone who just wants to be liked and valued by their community, slaving away for respectability and honor they will never get. 

THE SUCKER PUNCH
The reality of pharmacy is that it is a service industry, not much different than a dry cleaners. Pharmacists are not pillars of the community, they are pill-counters and stock boys. And respect? Please. 

Instead of being part of a benevolent triangle of medical care, the pharmacist finds himself at the butt end of an abusive process nobody likes. It probably doesn't take more than one day on the job to show a newly minted pharmacist that he or she has been tricked, and it's little wonder pharmacists are five times as likely to kill themselves than the average person, or that only psychiatrists (narrowly) finish before pharmacists in the sad race for most suicidal profession. 

Think about it: customers arrive at the pharmacy because they have been hurt or are sick. They have already made the trek to the doctor's office, lost a day of work, been kept waiting and charged a hundred bucks to spend three minutes with a doctor who hands them a piece of paper. Now they have taken the bus to the drugstore and are about to be appalled by the money they are going to shell out to this grump behind a counter so high it makes them feel like a three-year-old. They are not happy to be there. They are, in fact, quite unhappy. And nothing the pharmacist does is going to make them happy. But--too bad--the pharmacist isn't all that content himself. He's been swindled so badly he's never going to trust anyone again. 

The collision between sick, ripped-off patient and tired, ripped-off pharmacist is as predictable, and mean, as a cockfight. The customer grumbles at the pharmacist, asks some ridiculous question--or any question at all--and the pharmacist sneers and usually doesn't respond. The phone is ringing. The people standing in line start clearing their throats. The pharmacist shoots a few withering looks, then doles out the pills. Slowly. Sufficiently abased, the customer begins to limp home. The pharmacist waits for more abuse. Since old people take the most medicine, the majority of his customers are old people--cranky old people who complain about prices and ask the same stupid questions a thousand times a day. This is just more gravel in the pharmacist's shoes. 

There are no test-tubes in sight. No mortar and pestles, no hand-in-hand work with the doctor. In fact, there are no real prescriptions anymore. A clerk in a pizza joint has a more complex job than a pharmacist. Doctors prescribe ready-made medicines, often by brand name. Doctors decide if a generic can be substituted. The pharmacist just gets the right bottle of pills and starts counting. Substitute birdseed for the pills, and a competent pigeon could do your pharmacist's job. There is simply no pharmacy going on in a pharmacy. All those nights of midnight oil, learning absorption rates of alkenes into mucous membrane mean nothing now. That was just the price for a pill-selling license. And pharmacy school didn't breathe a word of this. 

Neither did the school teach any of the practical skills the pharmacist genuinely needs. They didn't teach how to run a cash register, or catch shoplifters, or even how to identify pills. Pharmacy students can draw the molecular structure of almost any drug but cannot visually ID or even name the top twenty pills they will sell. Then there's pill-counting--the most obvious part of pharmacy drudgery. Just how much organic chemistry is necessary to count pills? This is even more humiliating since the number of pills in a bottle is one of the few things a pharmacist/pigeon can screw up. It's also something the old bag snapping about high prices can and will check. 

Of course, as the years grind by under the fluorescent lights behind the silly counter, the pharmacist eventually learns all this. But it's all on-the-job, hard-gained knowledge. And in learning it, hearts are broken. All the bad land sold in Florida cannot have caused the pain a single pharmacist feels by the time you see him there among the pills. 

PILL COUNTERS VERSUS DOCTORS
Pharmacists are not taught to read doctor handwriting, which is unfortunate because all the jokes about this subject are true: most doctors really do have shitty handwriting and the inability to read it can lead to serious mistakes. People have been killed by script fuck-ups and pharmacists commonly mis-dispense drugs due to errors in reading the prescription. Then they get sued and kicked out of the business forever. The doctor, of course, is unaffected. 

So this is a very real problem. But calling the doctor's office for clarification of a prescription just makes the pharmacist a pest. The receptionist treats him like an irritant. The doctor treats him like an idiot. Should the pharmacist have any other "problems" with a prescription, he comes dangerously close to questioning the doctor's wisdom--and may incur the doctor's wrath. And doctors are often angry, angry people with a lot of resentments of their own about the way their educations turned out and the way society views them. So the brittle ego of a pharmacist will not allow him to risk calling a doctor every time he thinks there's something wrong with a script. Mostly, the pharmacist just lives with the fear and uncertainty, which only adds to his or her time-bomb-like personality.

The rest of the book is less pharmacist specific, but as the title promises, full of pill type subversive goodies. You will learn and you will laugh. You will be offended, because if a writer isn't offending someone than he is probably boring. In a prefect world you could use your APhA discount to get it. As it is though, the APhA strives for nothing but non-offensiveness, so you'll have to pay full retail .

You won't regret it one bit. You're welcome.