Ouch, I hope I did not give my throat any real damage. Before I was just kinda squeaky, but today it hurts a little. I realized that having my mouth wide open while 800 people file past me every half an hour might be a good way to pick up some germs. I can talk right now, but my voice breaks up a bit. Sounds like I am going through puberty. That's all I need, a second puberty. I will grow even harrier and hornier until I look like a red sasquatch who is thinking about sex with such a zen-like intensity that I will actually be floating above the meditation rock.
Friday night things got a little weird with me. I had two hours of sleep the night before, and only five hours the night before that. I was popping ma-haung pep pills like they were tic tacs. I was not just wide-awake, I was wired. But there was a point around one in the morning where I was bouncing around in my cage while the drunks filed past that things felt really really kooky. It was a bizarre feeling; I guess its what Africans and Indians get when they dance themselves into sheer exhaustion for religious ceremonies. Except I did it in a mock madhouse to entertain drunks. One wonders what sort of spiritual apex that will achieve me.
The dimwit has been more or less behaving. Last night he only put on half his costume, so he wandered over to his position wearing an old soiled Led Zepplin t-shirt. I felt sorry for the patrons who paid 50-60 bucks for tickets to see some old fool in his Zepplin t-shirt. Eventually a house manager yanked him aside and made him put his full costume on. I wish we had the girl who works that spot on cast B. She's real good. She creeps about in the corner with her hair hanging in front of her face and every now and then launches herself at people. It was such a difference from that one doof who just stands there. With his mouth hanging open. I need to get a picture of him. I guess I should feel sorry for him; he is obviously not very bright.
Sunday night we had a potluck. I had signed my name on a piece of paper next to the word 'cheese'. Sunday I went over to Wal-Mart and suddenly realized I had no idea of what form of cheese I was supposed to bring. Sandwich cheese? Shredded? A big block? Cubes with toothpicks in them? Aerosol cheese? I finally played it safe by getting some sandwich cheese in various flavors, and I got a couple of giant jars of pickles as well. Everyone loves pickles.
Saturday there was some sort of bikerfest going on in Sanford. I wanted to go down and visit beer tents and see what the bikers were doing. Instead I slept. I was exhausted.
Speaking of which, last night was simply the closest I have come to falling asleep at the wheel. I had been slapping myself on the face the whole drive home, but when I got to my own street I guess I let my guard down. I suddenly lurched back into 'awareness' as my car was veering on the wrong side of the road and about to hit the curb. For one brief moment I had no idea where I was, what street or city. I was still half dreaming. But then suddenly I snapped full awake and realized I was on my own street. A little scary.
There was a little drama at universal. There is an award that goes to a house every week, the 'golden rat'. This is a rubber rat with a stick shoved up its ass that has been spray painted gold. The ones with the best house get this trophy for a week. It means absolutely zilch to me, I still get paid the same, but I suppose it's a matter of pride for the people working in the house. Well, the people working in the lamest house on the lot, 'Dungeon of terror' knew they were never going to get the rat, so they decided to come steal it. No one was watching it; it was just sitting in one of the trailers. So they made off with it and took pictures of themselves with it. Eventually the managers found out about it and apparently someone got in trouble. But now someone has to guard the golden rat at all times.
Not me, I read my book.
Also, I got 'written up'. I had been late on three separate occasioning. I was supposed to be there at 5:15 and I was showing up at 5:30. Not that I was actually late for any work. I put on my costume, go to the makeup tent and have my face painted, and then I usually sit around for anywhere from half an hour to forty five minutes before it's time to go into the house. However, I guess they had to do it, part of their job. It was just amusing for me to look down on a skinny little curly haired gay guy as his wrists flopped about as he told me he was going to write me up. Apparently next time it happens I get a written warning, and the third time I get fired. Since I have only 9 days left of employment at universal, I am not too worried about it.
Speaking of my costume, I was a little jealous at first of the cool costumes the people in other houses get to wear, but not anymore. When I see the cenobites and other spooks come out soaking in sweat in their rubber costumes, I am happy I am wearing my patient's outfit. Sure it is too lose and it hangs open and my hairy shoulders peek out as well as a bit of my fat gut, but if there is anyplace this is acceptable, it's while playing a mental patient. It's nice and cool and easy to manage. Heck when I pull off my jeans and pull on the light fabric pants that are so large I pull them up just under my nipples, I sigh in happy contentment. Let it all hang out baby, yeaaah.
I have a couple of days off before I go back. Give my throat time to heal.
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golden rat thieves
2026 Update
Firing up the boiler for October 2006, where our hero is a hoarse, wired, glorified rat-guard in a haunted house.
In 2006, the golden rat sat unguarded in a trailer, and the only evidence of the heist was a JPG link on some blog. I tell you, twenty years later that theft would be a viral TikTok, the rat would have its own lore, and security would be cameras watching cameras. The potluck cheese conundrum is even more alien: you signed a paper list and wandered the Wal-Mart cheese aisle like a pilgrim seeking revelation. Now the sign-up is a group chat, the expectation is a charcuterie board, and the pickles arrive via subscription. Ma-haung? The regulators eventually soured on those pep pills, and the replacement is an energy drink that gives you the same palpitations with crisper branding. And that midnight lurch into real-world awareness on your own street — no lane-departure warning, no automatic braking, just your hand slapping your face. Now the car beeps at you, the app logs your exhaustion, and the cure is still 'get more sleep,' which remains the most expensive thing in America.
“2006 Ed — did you think, while ignoring the golden rat to read a book, that twenty years later the only thing guarding anything would be cameras, and the potluck sign-up sheet would be a group chat about artisanal cheese? Or did the ma-haung already answer that for you?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2006 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, I have no clue what twenty years from now looks like, and frankly I’m not sure I want to. Cameras guarding everything? Sounds like one of those dystopian flicks they show at Horror Nights, except with less fog juice and more liability waivers. As for the golden rat, I’ll be honest: that thing could be stolen a hundred times and I’d still be sitting there with my book, because guarding a spray-painted rubber rat is not in my job description. And artisanal cheese? Egads. I brought sandwich cheese and pickles from Wal-Mart, and people were happy. That’s the pinnacle of potluck achievement. The ma-haung probably did answer something, but I was too busy floating above my meditation rock, half-naked in a mental patient costume, to take notes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go yell at my throat for quitting on me.
