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This past weekend was the annual “Bring Your Asshole Pet to the Doolittle Shopping Center” event.

I can’t even begin to describe the asinine amount of morbidly obese couples who decided that today, of ALL days, was the best time to not only drag their crippled mutt from its doggy-bed to my Sear’s Customer Service counter, but also return their Zark Brand Homemade Pasta Machine.

It seems as though they were disappointed when, instead of healthy homemade pasta helping them lose weight and thereby see their toes or genitals for the first time in decades, they returned the appliance because they can’t follow instructions.

You see, Myrtle and Dwayne failed to read the very important bit that read, and I quote, “MUST COOK PASTA AFTER USING MACHINE”. These people are about as inept as the Karnatakan Congress!

I digress..

Not only am I completely fed up with human beings at this point, somehow I’ve grown to dislike the animal kingdom with a burning white heat. My trusty pet ferret Mindaugus aside, I could go without ever having to see another furry, four-legged, crotch-licking, anus-sniffing, haggard excuse for a life-form for the rest of my exemplary life.

My aversion to animals other than Mindaugus stems from their insufficient mental capacity. This could have something to do with their supposed “Master” treating them as though they were a true member of their “family”.

With Mindaugus and I, it’s more of an understanding than a blood-bound familial relationship. He knows that his TRUE duty is to rid me of the rats and mice that have been boring holes in my walls, effectively increasing my rent by 1.445x.

In his ferret-y eyes, I exist to fill his dish, clean up after his defecations and, once in a while, scratch the back of his ear where his minuscule little arms just aren’t able to reach. Truth be told…he does the same for me.

Either way, I’m going to make a STRONG case in front of the board of directors at the Doolittle Shopping Center to once and for ALL banish the annual “Hey, Moron! Bring Your Asshole Pet to the Doolittle Shopping Center” day.

Greetings, most gracious readers. As I sit here at my desk in the Customer Service Department at the Doolittle Shopping Center Sears, I’ve become quite clear of one thing: I would like to find someone.

My last real girlfriend was Loretta Chung. She didn’t seem to think my passion for 17th Century Central Asian Law was a good enough excuse to forget our first year anniversary. The nerve of some people. Truth be told, Loretta wasn’t really right for me.

It’s just so hard to meet that special someone among all of these knuckle-dragging Neanderthals. My standards might be what some call “unrealistic”, but I’ve never settled for anything in my 34 years of solitude, from my modest but sufficient apartment to my perfect pet ferret - Mindaugus.

I certainly don’t plan on settling on a life partner.

Speaking of Mindaugus, I need to find him a more suitable living container. I got home last night after a grueling eight hours of getting RETURN after RETURN after RETURN of a recently recalled baby pacifier, which was said to have traces of rat excrement, when I stumble upon Mindaugus just laying on his back, staring at the top of his cage with that far away stare - looking off into sweet oblivion.

I’ve seen that look before…

Every time I glanced into a reflective surface and caught a glimpse of my mug before I moved in to this apartment. Let’s just say my previous living arrangement was…undesirable to mind, body and ferret.

I digress.

To all the females - I wish to extend an invitation. If you’d like to spend evenings with a man and his ferret, discussing the pros and cons of Peruvian Prime Minister Jorge Del Castillo, then you’re the one I’m looking for. Just come down to the Customer Service Department at the Doolittle Shopping Center Sears Store.

So help me God, though, if you’re returning a pair of elastic waist pants that you thought your “big boned” grandmother would love…don’t bother.

I recently took an afternoon off at my Sears Customer Service post to enjoy what I thought would be an afternoon of culture and class.

I was sorely mistaken.

My ill begot endeavor began innocuously enough. I jumped in my 1999 Toyota Tercel and started my supposed day of culture with a trip to a local coffee shoppe. I ordered the usual (coffee – black, bagel – dry) and sat down with my copy of European Politics Today.

Suddenly, there comes a miserable racket from across the café. I peer over to an underwhelming group of idiots to get a glimpse of their buffoonery when I notice something in the air.

But it was too late.

The doltish collective were firing spitballs my way. After regaining my composure and wiping my glasses clean - I scowl at the perpetrators. Those peons thought it to be absolutely HILARIOUS.

I needed to get out of that sophomoric hellmouth.

So, after that shockingly idiotic display of humanity, I went down to the park to see the local theater company’s weekly Shakespeare production. Now THIS, I thought, would bring me the kind of sophistication that I desire…nay…NEED.

What passes for culture these days makes me want to turn in my fashionable tweed jacket and push the proverbial daisies. Apparently, all you need to become a member of high society is a foldable lawn chair, a box of wine and the lovely ability to drink said box of wine before the end of the first act.

I swear to you, my faithful readers, this scene resembled some sort of brutish rock concert rather than the cultural outing it should’ve been.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I get all the culture I need at the Sears Customer Service Desk. I mean…where else can you, in the span of fifteen minutes, talk to a 16-year-old mother of three, a man with one leg and a variable smörgåsbord of depression?

Woe is me…

It has come to the attention of Mindaugus and myself that the Herkimer name has taken a lashing on this here website.

To my dismay, fellow editorial writer Gerald Gunderson has made numerous attacks on me, my faithful ferret and General E. Herkimer, who lost his life while fighting side by side with one of the “Gundoz”.

Mr. Gunderson has called on me to join him in his World of Warcraft realm to settle this centuries-old dispute, once and for all.

It has been suggested by the owner of this site, Mr. Julius Bloop, that it is not fair to solve our dispute this way considering I don’t play said game.

To which Gerald replied: “If Lionel is a 14-28yr old male and doesn’t play he’s a fgt anyway LOL”

For your information, “sir”, I am 35-years-young. I know what you’re inferring, though. “Lionel, why is an intelligent adult relegated to working in the Doolittle Shopping Center’s Sears Customer Service Department?”

I suppose the only answer I can give is - fate.

For whatever reason, the Gods above have decided to hand me the short end of the stick in every aspect of my life.

No matter how much more cultured I am than the miscreants I encounter, they always come out the victor. Just last week I came upon a particularly ghoulish customer who, in a most scurrilous manner, sauntered up to my desk, hurled her enormous arms in my direction, and plopped down what she THOUGHT to be the latest trend in clothing.

I can see where she might’ve been confused. Culottes are very ambiguous as far as time periods go.

The entire time I interacted with this beast, I was taking “privileged mongoloid” inventory. Bluetooth? Check. Enormous diamond ring (on her enormous digits)? Check. No less than 6 credit cards? Check.

This barbarian has been able to waddle through life without the least bit of effort, and has wealth and success to show for it. Lionel Herkimer, on the other hand, has had it a little different.

My mother was not so much…around when I was young. My father, Lloyd Y. Herkimer said it had something to do with the fact that, “Pin monkeys with a receding hairline, a size 52 waist and a passion for huffing hobby glue out of a Ziplock bag just aren’t attractive these days.”

So Mom left at an early age and the next 33 years of my life were spent in mild obscurity. People don’t exactly find me…attractive, interesting, hygienic, etc.

Not spoiled enough to afford a proper stay in academia, I was forced to obtain knowledge in a less conventional way. I, along with my then newborn Mindaugus, lived in my father’s basement.

I had…acquired a few political journals through the local library, and my life was changed. I spent hours upon hours in that basement reading those journals, engulfing every last word, until I had every passage committed to memory.

Years passed, I got more reading material and eventually I was given an ultimatum by my father. I believe his exact words were, “If you and that fucking ferret don’t get a goddamn life and get the fuck out of my basement, I’m going to rip your fucking ears off and sick a rabid dog on you.”

It was clear that I needed a change of scenery.

So, I scoured the job ads and stumbled across the Doolittle Shopping Center’s Sears Customer Service Department. The rest, as they say, is history.

So, Gerald, I know that the Gundersons have always been well-off, as evidenced by the lush neighborhood in Gary, Indiana you call home. So, next time you call someone a “fgt”, you should do some research.

Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.

Thing is, it just gets so hectic around here at the Sears Customer Service desk, I rarely have a free minute to collect my thoughts.

Whenever there’s an opportunity for a little Lionel-time, some troglodyte comes to me with the most asinine set of complaints. Do they have any idea how miniscule their grievances sound when compared to the political strife of the Turkish ultra-nationalists?

I can only listen to these clods for so long before tuning them out and planning my blog response to Mustafa Akyol’s latest opinion piece about the shadowy Ergenekon group!

But I digress…

I live in a very modest apartment with my pet ferret, Mindaugus - named, of course, after the former King of Lithuania who united the lands in 1236.

The best thing about my apartment has got to be my new Hot Plate. It was left outside by an old (re: dead) neighbor of mine and doesn’t get hot enough to cook my hamburger helper in time for Murder She Wrote…but patience, as they say, is a virtue.

My landlord, Mr. Arpejito, says that if I turned off my “goddamn computer” every once in a “coon’s age,” my Hot Plate wouldn’t take “three trips around the dang moon” to heat up. I keep telling him I need to have my computer on to continue my extensive research into the City of Boerne v. Flores Supreme Court ruling of 1997.

Goddammit…Here comes another 45 year old lady wearing a Mickey Mouse sweater…

Until next week, my faithful readers.

It seems more and more every day that my job at the Sears Customer Service counter is just not for me.

If I receive one more complaint about the rotting hole in the ceiling of the woman’s changing room, it will be the straw that breaks the monkey’s back.

It’s everything I have in me not to tell them they’re lucky that Reginald from the custodial staff has run out of videotapes.

Why can’t you people just be happy?

So, your size 15 maternity dress has what looks to be pre-existing stains on them.

Guess what? If I told you HOW those stains got there, and WHY Rosalynn and Doug are no longer employed here, you’d probably be way more angry.

I swear that if everything isn’t up to your pregnant-sized standards, you think it’s my responsibility to fix it.

You really expect me to put down my Ruth Bader Ginsberg interview transcript? You really expect me to just drop everything in my world and cater to your every need? I think you’re grossly misinformed.

The moral of the story is this: If your new elliptical machine is missing parts, if the shawl you bought your grandmother has succumbed to the effects of moths or if little junior’s bouncy chair no longer fits his unhealthy, bulbous frame….

I don’t care.

I never have cared. I don’t see myself caring any time in the foreseeable future.

Maybe this job isn’t for me…