So far today at work I've put the finishing touches on my resume and cover letter, used the company fax machine to apply for another job, and finished my 2006 taxes, both state and federal, thank you very much. If that's not productive, I don't know what is. Of course, I haven't been productive doing actual work related things, but little victories are still victories, right? I think my supervisors should cut me some slack; at least I'm not looking at porn or being creepy stalker guy on Myspace.

Speaking of the latter(and not that anyone really cares), I locked up Myspace profile right after sending off that resume this morning. One needs relatively little information to find someone on the site, and I can only imagine what a potential employer would think should they happen upon one of my blog entries detailing both bitches and hos. Personally, I'd probably hire me on the spot, give me a huge raise and an office corner overlooking the nude beach. Not that we have a nude beach in Minneapolis, but that's hardly my point.

What is my point? Do I ever have one?

My point is this; while walking by the ghetto Super America in the Loring Park area the other night, I heard a guy cat-calling to a woman as she walked into the gas station.

"Wooo. Baby. BAY-BEE! Hey..." he blurted out, immediately followed by maniacal laughter, like he'd just walloped Sinbad in a joke telling contest.

When I looked over to catch a glimpse of this convenience store Casanova, it didn't suprise me to see that he was black(like there was ever any doubt), but it did surprise the fuck out of me to see that he was sitting on a Lark mobility scooter. Cripple Pimpsalot was not only, well, a cripple, but sitting on his scooter all cock-eyed, trying to project the cool like only a pimp in a motorized cart can. Which is something I'd argue is impossible to do while on a scooter, but he was sure was giving 'er one hell-of-a go. Picture how you'd imagine K-Fed sits on a chair, any chair, and that's exactly how this guy was sprawled out; leaning back, right arm slung over the back of the chair, legs dangling leisurely above the footrest that's ribbed for traction.

The only thing that could've completed his idiocy is if he'd been holding a 40 in a dirty tube sock and had his hat cocked to the side. For his sake, though, I hope his scooter had compartment for chloroform, because there's no way he's getting laid anytime soon without it. And if he did, where would he find a pay-by-the-hour, no-tell motel with a ramp? That's what I'd like to know.