U Maid Me Do It!

One of the newly added perks of being a renter is that I get maid service. Someone told me not to call them “maids” because it’s a derogatory term for a housekeeper, but they know what they are….they’re maids.

Last Thursday was the first day that the maids were scheduled to clean my room and I made it my duty to put them to the test. I emptied my desk drawers and clothes in my closet onto the floor and left money in secretly obvious places. After I strategically set the scene, I went to school for my last day of classes.

Hours later, I got home and saw that the crew was still at the house. Rather than entertain petty conversation, I went directly up to my room and inspected everything with a fine tooth comb. The clothes were put into the closet, the random items were put back into their rightful places, and the money was still there. I observed even farther and saw that they found my laptop adapter, wrapped it up and put it into my desk drawer. Also, they cleaned under the bed and vacuumed my rugs.

But they weren’t perfect.

Right now, my most important possessions are my sneakers, which are typically limited-quick releases, stored in their original boxes to limit their exposure to impure sources of oxygen, while maintaining their original luster and preserving the unique “Nike Sneaker smell.” Unfortunately, the cleaning people (and 99.942% of people in this world) did not understand my unsafe sneaker infatuation and threw the sneaker boxes (sans sneakers) into the trash.

As soon as I realized the lack of a contained living environment for the sneakers, I was ready to pounce. It was like walking into your house and seeing the family piranah out of its tank. These things need to stay in their natural habitat!

Right before I transformed into a ball of fire to release my wrath upon the maids, my mom came into my room with all of my sneaker boxes in her hands. She understands me.

Man, by nature, would attempt to retaliate in some degree when faced with this type of situation, but somehow I retaliated before they got a chance to, um… taliate. My mom told me that while cleaning my room, one maid let out a loud shriek. When the other maid heard the noise, she entered the room to discover the cause of the ruckus. Seconds later, maid # 2 also let out a shriek and bolted out of my room.

My mom asked them what was the problem and they kept saying “BOMB!” She then walked into my room to see what they were talking about and she discovered my grenade in the middle of the room.

Lesson to be learned: I’ll pretend to blow you up even before you think about touching my prized possessions.


Lesson to be learned: My room is da BOMB!

I took care of an invisible hamster

At work I was trusted with the life of a living creature…theoretically. For one week I had to provide food and water for a hamster while its owners were away. What was a relatively easy job became mentally draining because I never once saw the hamster and I assumed that I was going crazy.

The hamster, let’s call him “Stealth,” was supposedly a nocturnal pet that slept in its makeshift bed (which consisted entirely of wood-chips) allll daaaay looonng. I fed Stealth at the start of each workday and by the end of the day the food moved to the other side of the cage. It was as if the invisible animal was saying, “NO! I want it HERE,” but I’m somewhat rebellious and I put hamster food where I want!

By the third day I wanted to pull the hamster out of its hole, but I didn’t want to risk killing two animals in one week. I considered gently shaking the “cage” but I didn’t want to conduct mouth-to-mouth the hamster if it went under cardiac arrest.

I came to grips with the situation as I got more and more dillusional. When I was all out of ideas to coerce the animal out of its hole, I settled on the fact that Stealth either didn’t exist, or didn’t want to be bothered. Nonetheless, I did my job and kept putting food in the cage.

I have many theories about this hamster, which includes the possibility that I fed an empty cage for the week, or that I was part of a psychological experiment where I was the lab rat, but let it be known that I am the best cage feeder since…..um…. well, I guess I’m the best cage feeder ever

I did something bad

I don’t like to leave the reader in suspense, so I’ll say it right now—I [accidently] hit him with my car and probably killed him. I’ve had many close calls before, but this time it was unavoidable.

My morning was going great and the weather was nice. There wasn’t much that could’ve been done to make this a better morning. Although I was late to my first class, I entered the campus driving a reasonable speed and carefully went over each of the speed bumps. After the first bump I saw him…or maybe it was a her, I don’t remember.

As I slowly drove in the direction of the parking deck, he slowly walked into the road as if he was playing a game of chicken with me. I quickly slammed brakes to let him pass, but he also stopped to let me pass. I thought, “what a nice guy” and resumed my trip down the road, but then he started walking too. WAIT!! WHAT’S GOING ON?! This guy was on a collision course with death and he wanted me to be the vessel to unite him with God (or the devil).

I don’t like games, so I went for it. I accelerated as fast as I could (which isn’t very fast in a 4-cyl, 175 horsepower car) and tried to beat him across the road. I thought I was in the clear, but then he started running across the road. As I drove, I saw the look of determination in his big brown eyes. He wanted to get across the road now and no one was going to stop him…not even me. All of a sudden, he disappeared. I didn’t see where he went, so I assumed he got across the street safely.

I kept driving and went over one more speed bump, but it was weird because the front wheels mysteriously didn’t pass over the hump. I looked into my rearview mirror to inspect the 1/2 speed bump, but instead I saw HIM. He was quickly rolling left and right in the road, obviously in pain. What did I do?! He kept banging his head on the ground as if he was possessed. His hands…no his feet were quivering in the air and his movements got faster and faster.

I started to go back to help, but what could I do? I reached for my cell phone, but I forgot it at home. I’ve never killed anyone with my car before and felt really guilty for it. I remember the look on his face, I remember waiting for him to pass, I remember trying to be a good Samaritan, but it meant nothing now.

One last look in my rearview mirror confirmed what I thought all along. The squirrel was dead.

P.S: To the people who walked passed and laughed at the epileptic squirrel in the street, have you no shame?!

Ear Relief


For years, my hollow earholes have prevented me from having an enjoyable earphone experience. I continually bought different types of earphones with hopes of finding one that countoured to my strange ear canal, but nothing fit right…not even remotely.

Each time I wore my ipod’s earphones, they just sat at the opening of the canal, but never sticking, which resulted in me selling the thing. Then I got another set of earphones that stuck in my ears like extra strength epoxy, but they made my ears feel like they were giving birth (assuming giving birth feels like trying to force a cactus into your nose).

The straw that broke the Geremy’s back was when one of my inferior, painful earphones literally popped in my ear. I was listening to a song with a lot of bass on full volume with bass-booster enabled when all of a sudden I heard a pixxxxerrqrh sound (it’s hard to spell sounds) and my eardrums started ringing like those annoying nextel/boost mobile phones.

From today on, NO MORE! I’ve given up on cheap earphones and bought a good Bose headphone as a replacement. Although I had to spend a block of cheese on them, it’ll be worth it in the long run. Best of all, I don’t have to deal with ripped eardurms in 5 years, unless I choose to rip them with my powerful new earphones.

Just Gimme My Gas!

I was running very late to school on Monday, but my gas tank in my car was so dry that it was literally running on fumes. Somehow I made it to the nearest gas station, Raceway, and asked for $10 regular—just enough gas to take me to school and work.

As the cheap gas was trickling into my gas tank, the gas station attendant approached me and said “Mista!” I said, “what?!” He saw that I was irritated, so he flashed a smile to soften the situation. He continued, “do you tink you can drop one of my guy home?” Once again, I said “what?!” “My worker lives ova deer. You tink you can drop him home?” I responded, “What?! No. I’m late.”

Now he obviously thinks that we’re friends since I seemed to have considered his solicitation. “Oh, you go to Katrine Gibbs school?” “No!” At this point, I ask “Is my gas done?” He responded, “No, just a few minutes.” “If you don’t mind, can you hurry up, please, I’m late.” And I wound up the window.

As I was waiting for the 2 gallons of gas to finish trickling down the hose, I was wondering what the old Geremy would’ve done if he was put in this situation. He would’ve probably said a sarcastic comment like “I’ll take him home…if he rides in my trunk” or “Give me a full tank of gas and then we’ll talk.” The old Geremy would’ve taken pictures of the guy’s face and posted it on the internet for the world to see. Where’s the old Geremy?! I kinda miss him.

Take my experience as a lesson to you. If you’re ever around my area, don’t go to the Raceway gas station. The gas is cheap and makes your engine “ping,” the service is slow, the attendants don’t ever leave you alone, and they believe that each car that comes for gas is their personal chauffeur. Raceway?! You don’t have a car! Better call it “walkway.”

The Sweltering Academic fortress

When I started college I wanted to be a computer engineer. One semester into school I decided that I wanted to be a computer programmer. One year into school I decided that I wanted to be a business management info-systems adminstrator. One semester later I decided that I wanted to manage a business. Even though I switched majors 4 times, I remained optimistic about my academic future and firmly grasped onto the slim chance that I would graduate on time; however, a meeting this week with my academic advisor revealed the dreaded news that I didn’t want to hear.

“You’re either going to have to take summer classes or graduate in 2008.” I hated my two options. It was like choosing between a gun and a sword with which to kill yourself.

The class that is a prerequisite for me to take all of my other courses is only offered in the fall, but all of my current courses are prerequisites for that class. Since I don’t want to waste one more year of my life taking one class, I chose the summer option. I will have to spend three hours a day, three days a week for four weeks inside of a hot classroom with 25 other students who will be just as happy as I am to be spending the summer basking in the tropic breezes of Room 128.

So when you’re surfing the ferocious waves of the Caribbean, tanning on the beaches of the Hawaii, and/or hunting wolverines in Alaska with your uncle, remember that Geremy is at school learning…and dreading every second of it.

Jihad: Ford Motor Co./Jaguar

I hate having to declare jihad on a person or company, but this company deserves it much more than any other company that I’ve declared jihad on. It is almost as if this company reads my website and was striving to be at the top of the jihad list. This company must’ve had a boardroom meeting and invited all of their most annoying employees in the tri-state area. There is no doubt in my mind that this company hired the most annoying people in the world, like that 7 year old kid who was sitting behind me on my American Airlines flight from New York to Florida who wouldn’t stop kicking the back of the chair with his rain boots, or the slow people who happen to drive parallel to each other at the same slow speed, blocking every lane on the road when I’m in a rush. They are all on the staff of this company. No doubt.

Today, I hereby declare [tentative] Jihad on the Ford Motor company, Jaguar division.

Back story: Both my dad and my sister own Lexuses and for various reasons their vehicles had to be serviced two weeks ago. When we went to drop off the vehicles, Lexus had complementary valet service that met you at the gate and parked your car for you to give you peace of mind as you enter into the plush service area and enjoy a warm bagel and coffee. If you choose not to wait for your car to be repaired, they give you your choice of Lexus vehicles (with Lexus## license plates) to use as a loaner. When they’re done servicing your car, they detail the exterior of your car so that it’s clean enough to lick…if that’s your thing.

I made the mistake of assuming that the Jaguar Company had a level of service that would be comparable to Lexus’. I’ve never made a bigger mistake in my life, including that time when I was 4 and urinated on an exposed electrical cable. Ouch.

I called Jaguar and a nice young lady answered the phone. I explained that I needed service and went down the list of minor things that didn’t quite work right with the car. Afterwards, she asked me for the last 8 digits of my vin number, but since I didn’t have that information immediately available, I had to call them back. Two hours later, I called back to complete the appointment and when the same young woman said “we have no record of you ever calling.”


I went down the list of minor things that didn’t work quite right again and then gave her the last 8 digits of my vin number. She asked me when I would like to come in and I replied, “this Thursday,” to which she responded “April 15th is our earliest date.” A WHOLE MONTH LATER. What if my wheel fell off? I wouldn’t be able to drive until a month later?!


I booked the appointment since I’m a somewhat patient man. Out of curiosity, I asked for the simplest of requests in the history of simple requests. I didn’t ask for valet service, I didn’t ask for a plush waiting room with warm bagels, I didn’t ask for my car to be detailed, I didn’t ask for a loaner; all I asked for was a ride. I didn’t care if they gave me $2.50 and told me to take the bus. I didn’t care if the young lady’s brother rode me on the back of his bicycle. I didn’t care if they handed me a razor scooter and told me to scoot my way home. Just give me something. Her response, “No.”


I hung up the phone and arranged for my mom to drive me back home on the day of the appointment. About an hour later, I received a call from the woman calling to reschedule my appointment to May, which is two months later.


I cancelled my appointment and called up the Jaguar dealership where the car was purchased. I surely expected a higher level of quality from them, but knew that I wasn’t going to receive it when I spoke to the receptionist on the phone.

Her: Hello, (name witheld) Jaguar. This is (name witheld) speaking, how may I help you.
Me: Hello, I’m calling to make a service appointment
Her: No you aint!
Me: …..
Her: Why you callin to cancel?
Me: No…I wanna make an appointment
Her: Ohhhh, aight

she gets professional sounding again

Her: What seems to be wrong with the car?

I go down the list of the minor things wrong, which ranged from an extra sensitive rearview mirror to a rain sensor that needed to be cleaned or something.

Her: DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG!! When you wanna come in?
Me: Tomorrow morning around 7.
Her: ha HAAAAAAA! Aight.

she gets professional sounding again

Her: Okay sir, have a nice day.

This would’ve been cool if it was Ol’ Rasheeda from da block, but I was on a mission to get Lexus quality service.

Next morning, I drove up to the Jaguar dealership to drop off the car. Their waiting room looked like an Exxon gas station’s bathroom at a truck stop. I stood there and could’ve sworn that I saw syphilis walk past me. I would’ve traded my cell phone for a bottle of Purell hand sanitizer.


I walked up to the counter and said “I have an appointment. I’m here to drop off a car for service.” The guy ran the Vin number through the system and said “okay, but you don’t have a warranty on the car.” I explained that the car was only a few years old and had to have a warranty, but he wasn’t having it. Then I remembered about the platinum super ultra plutonium warranty upgrade that was purchased when the car was new. He said that he needed evidence to support this. One problem: that evidence was in my desk drawer at home.


I left there, drove home (40 minutes away) and drove back with the evidence. He said “okay, but we’ll have to charge you a $100 deductible for the repairs, then a diagnostic fee of $50 to check the mirror and $100 to check the motor, and $45 to wiggle this, and $82 to jiggle that, and more charges may arise”. I still kept my cool. I showed him the details of the warranty where it said that I wouldn’t have to pay anything. After my whole spiel, he said one word… “nope.” Okay. Now I’m getting mad. I started arguing about the car and might’ve slipped in “your dog has rabies” somewhere in there. Eventually, he said “okay” and had he had a transporter drive the car to the service area. He said “sir, all of these repairs seem to be covered under the warranty, but if they’re not covered, you’ll have to pay the diagnostic fee for us to discover the problem.” “So I can come back and you can tell me that I owe $800?” “The fees shouldn’t be that high, but in theory…yes.”


I like to test my chances every now and then, so after some more arguing I took the receipt over to the service rental counter to get a car to drive home. I handed them the receipt and they said “your car will be in front shortly.” All of a sudden, I see a “3rd grader vomit” green Ford Festiva turn the corner. That was supposed to be my car.


I walked back to the service counter and said “I want back my car.” The service guy made a call and had his employee bring back the car. As I waited for the car outside, I saw the guy driving down the street with the seat reclined and the windows down (in 30 degree weather), acting as if it was his car. I took the car and drove home, vowing that if I ever had to buy a new car, it would definitely be a Lexus…if only for the warm bagels.

Note: NONE of this story was embellishment in the least. Feel free to verify.
Note 2: Ford/Jaguar can still redeem themselves, which is why this is a tentative jihad.

What is this? Tear Gas?!

What happened in this entry took place over 3 months ago, but I have finally gotten over the emotional trauma to write about the experience.

Okay, here goes…

My normal practice when I started working was to go to work directly after school, change clothes in the building’s bathroom, then start work. Things went smoothly for the first week of doing this. I ironed my clothes in the morning, took them to school with me in the car, and then drove to work directly after my 1pm class ended. From time to time I was lucky and was able to occupy the handicapped stall, which had enough room to park a Toyota Prius, but other times I wasn’t as lucky.

One day everything was going wrong. My statistics teacher ended class 7 minutes late, I got every single red light in my route, and a cop drove behind me the entire time. When I got to work, I went in the bathroom hoping to find a clean, unoccupied handicapped stall to bring light to my day, but this was not the case. I had to squeeze into a regular sized 3×5 stall and attempt to change clothes without brushing up against the disgusting toilet, which was radioactively glowing with germs. It was a tough mission, but I was successful… only because I’m Geremy.

Unfortunately, that incident could not compare to what happened a few days later. Class was over on time, I arrived to work on time, and everything seemed fine, until I got to the bathroom. Every bathroom stall was occupied, except the one in the dead center. Since I had no choice, I went into the bathroom and started to change, until I got a whiff of the odors exiting the bodies of the “gentlemen” in the other 4 stalls. At that point, I knew for a fact that the man on the left ate chili for breakfast, the man on the right ate beans for breakfast, and the man in the handicapped stall….ohhhh man, he went to a buffet or something.

My eyes started watering and my pores started to raise. It wasn’t worth it. I changed into my clothes as fast as possible and I ran out of the bathroom. I walked to the office feeling like my health was compromised and vowed never to ever, ever, ever change in the communal bathroom ever. EVER!

Fuel in the Storm

I went to the gas station in the midst of “Blizzard ‘06” to get gas for our v8 engine powered snowblower, nicknamed “Clyde.” When I got to the station, I immediately noticed that the snow was unshoveled and untouched, signifying that no one had the courage to attempt to drive through the 20+ inches of snow. Since I am used to setting new paths (both literally and figuratively) I drove up to the pump and got out to look for the gas station attendant.

Here in New Jersey, there is a law which states that drivers cannot pump their own gas, so I didn’t want to start pumping without the attendant. I checked inside, outside, and under mounds of snow but the attendant was nowhere to be seen. Just as I was ready to try another station, I spotted his yellow and brown eyes looking back at me from ground level. The attendant was hiding behind the counter hoping that I wouldn’t notice him. When I asked for gas, he handed me his access card and told me to pump it myself, as he sat back in his warm Bill Cosby-like sweater.

I went to the pump, took it off the hook-thing, stuck it in the bottle, and pulled the trigger-thing, but nothing happened. The more I fiddled, the more my hands froze. When the attendant saw that I was having problems, he started yelling random commands through the door. “CLICK IT!!” “WIND IT UP!” “SHUT EM DOWN!”

What are you saying?!

The gas finally started flowing and every part of my hands froze in a weird cause-and-effect manner. When it came time to pay, The Lazy Attendant didn’t show any remorse for allowing me to break the law and forced me to pay quickly. I fetched nine dollars from my pocket (which was very hard since my fingers were like frozen hotdogs) and searched for a penny to make up the balance of $9.01. Just then, gas-man said “keep penny,” which was probably his way of rewarding me for a job well done. An entire penny just for myself. Now I can afford to buy 1/5 of an individually wrapped swedish fish.

So I did it. I pumped gas in the midst of a blizzard and didn’t get arrested. Although I got frostbitten hands in the process, I’m thankful that I didn’t have to spend the day in a jail cell with all of the murderers, child-molesters and gas-pumpers.

Apartment/World HQ

Yesterday I posted the entry about my new phone, but I neglected to mention the katzenjammer that I had to go through to buy it.

I spotted the phone on a sketchy webpage, but I didn’t want to pay the $35 fee to have it delivered because, let’s face it…I’m cheap. I figured that if I visited the vendor in-person, I would be able to get the phone immediately with the possibility of negotiating for a cheaper price for the phone. When the weekend came, I picked up my friend and we headed to Queens, NY home of this company’s headquarters.

While my gps system predicted the entire trip to take 55 minutes, it took us well over 2 hours to get there. I attribute this time extension with the fact that the headquarters was the size of the head of a quarter.

I drove up and down the street that was listed on their website and looked for a store with the number “14848” on it, but the location didn’t seem to exist. After driving past the location 3 times, I parked the car and continued the search on foot. We walked down one block and found the place that we were looking for…or did we?

Their “headquarters” was a dirty first floor apartment in a 2-family house with no doorbells. No, scratch that. There was a doorbell, but the wires were cut and exposed, possibly by an angry customer. I knocked on the door to ask where the real showroom was and a young middle-eastern male frantically opened the door while 3 other males in the background stood behind boxes, all staring at me. When he opened the door, he did it in the same manner that most pothead college students open the door when they’re in the middle of smoking a joint/blunt/marijuana/cannabis/ganja.

I walked in and waited for the previous customer to finish his transaction as I looked around. The place was filled with boxes…filled. I have reason to believe that the boxes were there first and they built the [dirty] house around them. There were 4 guys: one salesman who persistently said “my friend”, one go-getter who knew exactly where each phone was located in the sea of boxes, one secretary who answered the phone and yelled random phrases from the background, and one security guard, who tried to put on his meanest face while intensely staring at us.

The security guard was getting very weird, so I asked him a question to ease the tension. Suddenly, he dropped the whole facade and answered me in a foreign language. I assume that he thought I understood what he just said, but he was mistaken. I just nodded and continued waiting.

When it came time, I sat in the chair and started the phone searching process, knowing fully-well that I wanted the Motorola v635. I said “I want a phone with bluetooth, a camera, and speakerphone for under $200” the salesman immediately sent his go-getter to fetch me a Motorola Razr. I then told him that I wanted a v635 for the price of the Razr and he responded, “My friend, NO NEGOTIATIONS, my friend, my friend.”

First rule of negotiating: No means yes.

We kept going back and forth for a short while, then I left to get money and to strategize. A few minutes later I returned and was able to get the phone for $4 less than the listed price. This was my most unsuccessful negotiating attempt ever, but $4 off is better than full price.

Now, I like to cater to all audiences on this site so here are two alternate endings, both for the optimist and the pessimist.

Optimist: I got a great phone at a decent price, and I didn’t lose my life in the process.
Pessimist: There is a possibility that I just funded terrorism.

Either way, my phone works great.

Katzenjammer: I am fully aware that the word “katzenjammer” was used in the wrong context, but I just learned the word yesterday and I needed to use it in an entry to flex my verbal muscles.