bluecityveins

a free ride inside my diseased mind.

Archive for the category “The Heavy Metal Janitor Journals”

the heavy metal janitor journals (part 4)

illustration by Daniel Lombardi

time-10:38 am

job-graffiti removal @ public washroom by the river

season-winter

temperature -15 c

We didn’t  have any proper graffiti remover with us. Our boss was to cheap to equip his serfs with such luxuries…

Bad Cat scratched his chin methodically as he milled through a pile of toxic  industrial cleaning product inventory. All filed under “C”  for carcinogenic.  He picked up an old leaking container of  floor stripper. Splashing an unhealthy amount of the evil fluid upon two filthy rags. Spilling the radioactive slime on the ground. Burning a satanic neon green hole in the once virgin white snow.

A steaming wet rag was handed to me. I met the rag with both disgust, and curiosity. We ventured towards the washroom. I could feel as though something very sinister was happening, or about to happen. Bad Cats’ grin was at high tide. I couldn’t help but think the word “sinner” when ever I was around him, or rather it. Compared to that creature I was a Saint.

Six minutes of frantic wall scrubbing had passed, revealing little evidence of success. Bad Cat thinkfully thought for a moment. When Bad Cat was deep in his “thinkery” it was as though all other parts of his body would slow down, to give his feline brain an extra jolt of abject schemery juice. Even his eyes would switch from a bright green to a light grey. It reminded me of sleep mode on a computer. If you listened closely, one could hear, a faint purr….

“We need something stronger!” he declared. Eyes returning to their natural green glowing stare. Back to the van we went. Bad Cat picked up a jerry can of  lawn mower gas. Bad Cats’ evil little cat eyes  gleamed with excitement. If you had a computer print out of his thoughts it would read in bold letters “Why didn’t I think of this first!?”  I opened my mouth as if  to say “Do you think this is a good idea?” . Stopping myself, realizing there was no point in asking. He was after all my mentor.  Bad Cat quickly handed me the cap to the gas can, “here!” and scampered back to the washroom. Bad Cat stopped at the washroom entrance, paused briefly, looking down at his watch, and announced “We need to make up for lost time!”*

*Please don’t get the wrong idea here. He wasn’t worried about saving money for the company or being efficient. “Lost time” meant that he would have less dog fucking time. Plain and simple. He had each day timed down to the minute. How many short cuts we could take so he could have his little cat naps and coffee breaks. If Bad Cat was proud of anything in his life, anything at all,  it was his ability to lie, cheat, and steal his way though the work week.

I happened to be his appointed apprentice….

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The Heavy Metal Janitor Journals (part 3)

illustration by Daniel Lombardi (click image to see Dans art on FaceBook.)

“The Heavy Metal Janitor Journals.”

10:31 am  (in the work van) winter 1998

(cell phone ringing  bzzzzzt, bzzzzzzt, bzzzzzzzzt….)

After minutes of mumbling, swearing, and scheming, Bad Cat hesitantly answered the cell phone with a mouth full of half chewed do-nut. Bad Cat perpetually and  purposely spoke very quietly on the phone just to piss of *Penis Fart.  He and Bad Cat had the weirdest work  relationship I have ever encountered. They were prone to fighting like cats and dogs (pardon the pun) during their phone calls, and personal interactions.  Penis Fart would either call back after calming down, attempting to some extent to be civil, or he would just not call for a couple days as some kind of sick pre-pubescent silent treatment. This action was borderline homo-erotic for lack of better words, I really dont know what you would call it. Perhaps it fulfilled him with some kind of weird Masochistic fetish.

Penis fart would never lower himself to saying “Hello, Hi, or How are you doing?” when he called. Instead it was  “Where are you!” in his nasally,whiny, and condescendingly suspicious voice. One of Bad Cats little tricks would be to hold the phone a couple feet away from  his mouth and say, ” Sorry, I cant hear you, can you speak up?

After a few minute of this game,  Penis Fart would grow tiresome and very annoyed of Bad Cats trickery. Penis Fart had already purchased two new phones in the last 8 months for Bad Cat, rightfully thinking something was wrong with the old ones. He couldn’t prove that Bad Cat was playing this trick, but I am pretty sure he had a good Idea of what was going on. Bad Cat forbade me to ever answer that phone. If I absolutely had to answer it, like say in an emergency,  I had to make sure I spoke very softly to keep up Bad Cats tormentitive little game. Bad Cat had kept this folly up for over a year now, and having it discovered by Penis would be akin to loosing ground in a trench war. Well at least in his feline mind it would.

*that was Bad Cats nickname for our boss, remind me to explain why later….

the heavy metal janitor journals (part 2)

10:20 am  (in the work van) winter 1998

We got the call from *Penis Fart at 10:30 am to go to an outdoor public washroom near the river. Our orders were to remove graffiti from the washroom walls, interior and exterior…. We had 45 minutes to complete this menial task.

We were having our 2nd coffee break of the morning at the time of the call. We were sitting in the white work van. We usually used the van opposed to the 1/4  ton truck when we have floor jobs on our list of horrible jobs to accomplish that day. Bad cat was sipping coffee and eating a donut, I had tea and was snacking on one of my vegan sandwiches. Like most mornings I hastily slopped it together 4 minutes before work. (I don’t drink Coffee because it  makes me sick and can cause me to shit my pants.)  Bad cat had a grimy little company cell phone that was used as a locating device by Penis Fart.  He kept it in his jacket pocket for safe keeping. I think that phone gave him some sense of importance, all though he would never admit to it.  Perhaps Bad Cat could pretend he had a somewhat respectable job when it rang in public. We both were well aware we had a loser job. Hell we were looked down at even by the lowliest of  convenience store employees. People would say hi to a 50-year-old convicted pedophile paper boy before they would acknowledge our existence. On a scale of 1-10 of  degrading jobs, 10 being the most degrading, we were easily a 13…

*Penis Fart  – A name Bad Cat came up with for our boss, remind me to explain later……

guilt button 🙂

The Heavy Metal Janitor Journals (part 1)


“The shadows looked like dead cats strewn across the lawns…………..the insane helplessness just laying there, lifeless, drawing on yourself, the ink spots, your white bellied skin like a dead fish and the water keeps dripping. The mind wanders down the faucets endless maze of pipes chased by a screaming echo of instant realisementation.” -me.

Me and the bad cat had just started our day. It was winter time. Bleak, hostile and hung over. The bad cat always drove the vehicle when we worked together. It was kind of an unwritten general rule. He was older, worked for the company longer and more of a in control kind of guy.

Bad cat lit a smoke and rolled down his window half way, allowing the cold prairie world an all access pass into  our once warm and filthy sanctum. I didn’t mind though, I needed the cold to wake me up. It also momentarily served as a broom, sweeping away the rot of garbage and piss stained rags that perfumed our truck cab.

I cant remember if I smoked back then. Doesn’t really matter I guess. The bad cat smoked enough for both of us and then some. Bad Cat. That he was. Why do i am call him that? Well he looked and acted like one. He had cat features, glowing blue green eyes, mood shifters. He or rather it had bleach blond spiked hair with black roots, a bum chin, and a perpetual 5’oclock shadow. Even at 7 am.

Bad cat always wore a dirty Philadelphia  Flyers bomber. The filth that stained his coat served as a map of our jobs. That crusty bit on the sleeves was floor polish. The blue dye stain was from a carcinogenic floor cleaner we had to pour in the riding floor cleaner. Whats the name of that machine? Its like a  mall version of a Zamboni. I could never really get the hang of it, I remember this short bossy dyke rode one like she was a rodeo queen.  The brown stains on the jacket were from all the cheap coffee he was prone to drinking. He would hold the coffee cup with one hand lightly touching the lid, and the other hand holding the body of the paper cup. It’s hard to explain exactly how he did it, kind of like how a bad cat would hold a coffee cup I guess.  I’ll explain the rest of the stains at a later date. Remind me….

for 10.00 bux I’ll send you a signed 8.5×11 print out of this post with an original drawing on it by me!

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