Last we left off, my coworker “Spiderman” found someone to whom he could pimp his spider out for a long weekend in Dallas, was requesting transportation to Dallas for his horny male spider.
You new folks may still not realize I do not make this stuff up. Hang around a while and you’ll see little corners of the world you did not know, or perhaps ever wanted to know, existed. You’re welcome.I consider this a service in line with Public Service Announcements.
Back to the pimpin out of one of Spiderman’s numerous (30+ and growing) spiders.
We may rejoice! The spider is getting laid. The ride for the horny spider to spend a long weekend with a female of the same species has finally taken place.
As I mentioned in a previous post, Spiderman was quickly able to find a nearby mate for his spider through Facebook. Facebook is the place to hook your spider up for a weekend away with other spiders.
Mark Zuckerberg must be proud. When he helped create Facebook, he was probably thinking it would be a great arena for humans to hook up. Little did he know…
Fear not, my dear Kernutties, fans of Breaking Bad, Walter White is alive and well and living in Texas… posing as my boss.
But before we get to that, let’s recap what the new job has been like over the last few months:
In my first couple weeks there, I was quarantined with Roscoe the Racoon. (The update to that post is here.)
Also living in the office was a giant (pet) katydid, Cletus. In addition, one coworker, Spiderman, has over 30 pet spiders, six pet snakes, centipedes, lizards, gekkos, and probably a bunch of other stuff it’s better I not know about.
For those of you following the Spider Prostitution ring, as of a couple weeks ago the spider had not yet been pimped out for the hot weekend in Dallas, nor the trip to New Mexico. (I have no idea what the delay might be, but I’m starting to feel sorry for the little guy. He just wants some lovin’.) I will keep you posted should he get laid.
This is another episode of Tales From the RV Park, stories from the RV parks where I’ve camped. Disclaimer: These stories are fictitious, happened in nightmares, are hearsay, and/or are what others recounted to me. I am part Irish, so there is likely a good deal of exaggeration. The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. There is no relation to persons living, dead, or in jail, even if you think so. In other words, don’t bother trying to sue me.
It’s a shame you can’t buy common sense like you can buy deodorant.
It’s too soon for any wild tales from the new RV park, but not from the new job…
I arrive at the new job this morning, where I’m doing marketing, editing, and office administration for an oilfield services company at which I’ve worked only a couple weeks, and see this notice posted on the door:
It might as well say, “Rabies inside your new office.”
It says: ATTENTION: Do not let Rozko (“Roscoe”) out of office. He must be quarantined for 10 DAYS! If he shows signs or dies, I have rabies. Open door carefully in case he is loose! (signed by the boss)
It might as well say, “Rabies inside your new office, but don’t worry about it – you can keep working.”
I thought to myself, “The guys are joking with me, this can’t be serious.” Then I noticed the office dog, a sweet black lab (“Sadie”) is also outside of the office with me. She’s rarely outside alone.
In honor of the resurrection of the Hawaii Five-O CBS television series, I thought I’d tell you all about the time I carried hand cuffs.
For years I carried handcuffs. No, not in the hopes of finding someone hot to kidnap a willing victim. But that’s not a bad idea. Thanks!
In another episode of Jobs I Had: I was a licensed Bail Agent.
Yup, the State of California thought I was sane enough for a Bail Agent’s license. As long as you haven’t committed a felony, you too can get one.
Being a licensed Bail Agent meant I could go on bail “skips” (those who skip out of town or sentencing) and arrest the offender. Neato. Got my own handcuffs, too. This job was in conjunction with my time as a P.I. – my boss, the owner of the PI firm, also owned a bail bond agency.
With two exceptions, no one ever “made” (identified, spotted) me. If I got questioned by neighbors in the area I was staking out, I had a great cover: I was stalking my cheating boyfriend. They were so nice they would offer to help! People are cool.
A couple weren’t cool. Some men were nasty, and even threatened me. Too bad you can’t shoot someone for threatening you. If they’d only known I was armed. And dangerous.
Before you all go thinking: OMG! She was just like Dog the County Hunter! No, it’s not nearly as exciting as they make it seem. Well, not all the time.
But sometimes it is very interesting.
Case: A BIG dude who skipped bail on my boss. I had a mug shot to go by and night goggles.
So I’m waiting near his apartment. The complex has a gym where we know he likes to work out. I’ve been instructed to call for our off-duty police backup when I spot the skip.
I spot him working out at the gym. Score! My heart starts racing. Our off-duty police backup meets me, we ID the guy with the mug shot I have, and the cop handcuffs him. The guy doesn’t have his wallet or ID with him because he was working out, but he says he’s not the guy.
A likely story. Ya, we never heard that one before.
He insists he’s not the guy. He admits to being on parole for killing (Penal Code 187) a cop with his brother 9 years ago, but says he’s not our guy. But he’s a Dead Wringer (pun not intended) in the mug shot I have.
He’s really calm and polite. That’s rare. But it’s ok with me that he’s still handcuffed.
Anyway, we walk him to his apartment to get his wallet and ID. The photo looks like him, but the name isn’t the same as my skip. The cop runs a check on him, and finds only that prior crime he mentioned: The 187 . The murder.
He’s really not our guy. Ok, fine.
The cop goes to uncuff him, but he can’t find his handcuff key. It’s gone. Totally lost. He asks if I have mine.
Nope. Didn’t expect to be doing the handcuffing on this one. Plus my key was taken away from me. But that’s another story.
So the cop leaves me alone in the apartment with the handcuffed BIG dude. Who could head-butt me to death with one blow. Who is innocent of skipping bail. But not cop-killing.
I’m sure I oozed fear the whole fivty-thousdred minutes I was alone with BIG dude.
He was tame as a kitten with me. Very nice of him considering WE’D HANDCUFFED AN INNOCENT MAN.
I spied. A lot. I waited outside houses, often for hours at a time, waiting for him to leave. I followed him work, to his girlfriend’s house, to the dentist, to the grocery store, you name it.
Like a shadow, I followed him everywhere.
I was a Private Investigator.
You thought I meant FBI or CIA? Nope. Too crazy. (Me, not the government. Never the government.)
What? Oohhh, you thought I was a stalker?! No, not that either.
When you get paid to do it, it’s not called stalking.
Someone once described private investigation as 94% boredom and 6% pure adrenalin. They’re absolutely right. It’s the 6% adrenalin that makes up for standing in line all day at some courthouse waiting to pull court documents on the subject, then only to read how he got busted for being a loser (hitting his girlfriend, stealing, etc). Or for waiting for hours watching someone’s house and they never leave.
All day long. Not once do they go out. zzzzzzzz
But the 6% pure adrenalin makes up for all that. Like when you get the dirt on your subject: you get the photos of the suspected activity, you get the information the client was hoping wasn’t really there, you get to follow them somewhere. Anywhere, really. That’s fun.
About 60% of the cases were what we called “domestics”: a husband or wife wanting to know what the spouse was up to. I’m often asked the gender ratio of clients: Almost half and half, but weighted slightly towards women. While men were the slight majority of subjects, both genders were caught in the suspected activity equally. By the time you’ve decided to hire a P.I. and shell out $50-75 per hour, you’re pretty sure they’ll find something. Most of our clients just wanted proof.
The other 40% were a wide variety: local politicians wanting dirt on their opponent, employers wanting worker’s comp injury verification, employers wanting verification of citizenship, major injury cases, and even one major overseas car manufacturer who was losing massive amounts of merchandise on the black market.
There were also a lot of credit “skips” (skipped out on their credit or car payments) and all we had was old, or more often incorrect, data on the application forms. This was when pagers were still popular, and often the only viable piece information. Men were almost always the subjects in these cases.
But this was all we needed to find them. We had an 800 number service that would quickly fax us any phone number that called it. The thing about 800 numbers is while they are toll-free, they capture the number of the caller. My boss would use some line about being from some sort of sweepstakes clearing house, telling the subject he was a winner and needed to call the 800 number ASAP.
That worked ok, but mine worked every time…
I would call the pager/voicemail, and in my sexiest phone sex voice say: ‘Hi Big Boy. This is Roxanne and you’ve won 10 free minutes on my sex line. Just call me at 1-800-(rest of number) and enter code 1234 for your special time with me. I’m really horny and can’t wait to talk to you. Call me soon Sexy!’
They would keep calling, and calling hoping to reach the hot female. But there was no ‘Roxanne’ (or anyone) to answer, just the generic 800 number greeting. Poor horny saps. We’d get the number they were calling from, and the address from there.
It's called investigating, not stalking.
One client wanted her husband’s underwear analyzed for, um, female substances. We didn’t do that.
In another case, our client was the ex-boyfriend of a woman getting married. He wanted photos of her wedding. So I crashed the wedding, ate hors d’oeurvres, and took lots of pictures. He took the pictures and sent them to ex-girlfriend.
I thought someone’s ex wanting to know what the other one is up to now was going to be a “one-off” rarity. Oddly enough, we had several exes as clients.
A couple times we had someone’s mistress as a client. In both cases the “other woman” came to us to have photos taken of her with the married man, and then anonymously sent to the wife. I know one of the two women didn’t send the photos, bu instead confessed to the married man what she’d done. Very shortly after, he divorced his wife and married the mistress/girlfriend. They now have several kids.
My least favorite of cases was this: Since I was the only woman in the company, I got the “domestics” that involved staking out the local XXX parlor, or XXX book store. Even though I just sat in my car in the parking lot, a toe-headed white girl stands out like a sore thumb. Especially when there are a bunch of horny men near by. I was always getting hit on by the horny clientele. My boss thought it was funny. I did not. Let me just say: Eeeew.
Now you know the dirty details of spying. Kinda makes you not want to be one, huh?