The Final Days?

I think my manager may sense that I'm in my final days at the large governmental tax organization I work for. I won't tell you what it is (though I've told you before), but for simplicity, I'll refer to my employer as LIFE-SUCKING SPIRIT CRUSHER (or LSSC for short).

She senses it. She's got to.

I'm thinking that she may think I'm faking my injury and accompanying illness. Perhaps she thinks I'm taking advantage of my health insurance to its fullest before I quit. Damn, she's more perceptive than I thought. It's a pretty good health plan; I'll be sad to see it go.

Perhaps its the quality of my work. Think of Quality of Work on the Y-axis of a graph, and Time on the X-axis. As X increases, Y decreases. And it's not really a gradual thing. Pretty noticeable.

Mayhaps she's seen me pretend to hang myself in the miniblinds. I do this regularly for the amusement of my coworkers. But when nobody is around and I try it...it is not just for amusement.

I also regularly wonder aimlessly around the office. I feel that if I do this with papers in my hand, and stop to COPY those papers in the copy machine at least once, I'll look like I'm working. Sometimes I find candy on people's desks. If it's good, I eat it. If it's not, I present it to my coworkers as small gifts--to make them think I'm thinking of them. This goes back to my instinct as the primitive hunter-gatherer.

Sometimes I stand and watch out the window as traffic drives by. I think, "Wow, I could be standing in the middle of that highway. Instead, I'm standing here looking out at the highway I wish I was standing in the middle of." Zen.

But oh well. If I can make it to July 22nd, that's a Friday. On that Sunday, I go to Hawaii. I fuck around for a week, then come back and I'm on call for jury duty.

Sixteen days to what I'm hoping is an extended period without work. I'm not expecting to do the usual things to get me out of jury duty (such as in Curb Your Enthusiasm when Larry David is asked if he can think of any reason why he shouldn't serve on the jury and he answers, "Um, your honor, the defense appears to be a Negro."). I'll do my civic duty. Naturally, I'll do it on the taxpayer's dime.

For Hawaii, a lovely friend of mine has OFFERED to drive me all the way down to John Wayne Airport WAY out in Orange County (about an hour or so drive). On a Sunday morning. How will I make it up to her? A bread pudding? I love bread pudding. I must make her at least one. And steak. Who doesn't like steak? I could definitely bring her some nice Hawaiian coffee (the pure shit) and some chocolate covered mac nuts and coffee beans. And Roscoe's House of Chicken 'n Waffles. Mmmmm. Roscoe's...That is too nice of her. At first, I couldn't get over the guilt of the thought of her driving back the hour by herself...boring, long drive sans Ryan to entertain.

But hopefully the Roscoe's will make up for it. Roscoe's is the best.

Mele Kalikimotherfucker Means 'Merry Fucking Christmas, Gizzwad'

I'm thinking about moving to Hawaii. No, I'm not even kidding. I'm talking about the Kona region on the west side of the Big Island.

A friend of my family owns a candy company in Hawaii. He makes chocolate covered macadamia nuts and coffee beans. Attached to his business is an apartment. The dude that's living there is leaving. He and my father talked about this, and then my father called me and said, "Hey, you might be able to score that apartment."

I called the friend, and we discussed. He sort of groaned and said, "It's really boring here, Ryan. You'll get bored. It's an island for Chrissake." But I want to write--I need to be bored to write, right? So he said, "Before you decide to move here, come out and check it out. See if this is a place you'd want to live."

I just booked a flight on Aloha Air for the 24th to the 30th of July. It's pretty exciting. I haven't had an actual vacation where I actually packed my bags and went somewhere out-of-the-ordinary since I was about 12. Sure, I went on trips, but no vacations.

Jesus. What am I getting myself into? It took so long to make friends, and I'm considering leaving everything to fuck around for 6-12 months. Considering. Bad idea? Good idea?

How can I leave, though? There are engaged women that need my help planning their weddings! There are people who may want me to watch their dog while they're out of town! There are people who need me to...Okay, I guess nobody really needs me.

But free rent and utilities in a small apartment in Hawaii. There's other costs involved. I'd have to ship my car over and that's $2,000 round-trip. In America, we have to provide our own health insurance if our employer doesn't do it for us; that's about $100 a month. Car insurance would be about $110 a month for Hawaii (I checked). Groceries would probably run around $250 per month (more expensive than on the mainland). Incidentals about another $250. So far, I'm in the hole about $710 per month. Hmm. I guess I could swing that with a part-time job. I never foresaw the difficulties of trying to pull together $710 a month in grad school; I thought my days of part-time employment were over.

Maybe I'll just come back and decide to stay in sunny California. I don't know.

Things that make you go, "Hmmmmmm..."

I'll make my decision on my vacation, I guess. But...should I stay or should I go? Shit. I just moved here a year ago, and am already thinking of moving again. I hadn't even thought about moving until I found out about this apartment.

Things that make you go, "Hmmmmmm..."

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

Magnetic Resonance Impotence AND A CONTEST!

Yeah, all those magnetic fields around the gonad region (or "cock area" in scientific speak) probably will ensure that:
1) I won't have kids, or
2) They'll be retarded, or
3) They'll run for public office.

Basically, nothing good.

About 45 minutes I sat like a sandwich in between these huge magnets. "Don't move when you hear it knocking." Okay. That must be the devil trying to get out. Better pretend nobody's home. It basically sounded like I was laying under a car listening to it running. That's not bad. I just thought, "Okay, I'll pretend I'm in my driveway laying under the car listening to it run for 45 minutes...But why would I be doing that?"

And it's hard to remain completely still. Most of the time, I was trying to remember something he'd said. He said something like, "Don't move your ??? because it can move your spine." I couldn't move my spine, because this was what the MRI was for. Okay. No problem. But as soon as he'd said it, I was like, "Wait...what? Don't move my what? Shit, I forgot." I tried not breathing, but I knew that wouldn't last for 45 minutes. Besides, I don't think he'd said, "Don't more your lungs." Wrists? Buttocks?

I noticed he asked if I was having pain in my buttocks before we started (an oft-asked question when your back is fucked up). Buttocks. Not butt. Not ass. Buttocks. I imagine how threatening I'd sound if I told someone I was going to kick their buttocks. "I'm going to kick your MOTHERFUCKIN' buttocks, asshole!"

Imagine if we referred to our doctors in slang, too. Instead of, "I'm going to my OBGYN," it'd be, "I'm going to my cunt doctor. He's the best."

Or, instead of visiting the proctologist, you'd say, "I'm going to visit the assman."

Chiropractor? "I've got an appointment with my med school drop-out."

BLOCKED!
I blocked that person always making the wierd comments on my blog on myspace. It was kind of strange. I talked to her perhaps once--maybe twice--in college, and here she's posting all over my blog. I was subscribed to her blog, too, and she'd update it no less than 8 times per day (no exaggeration). Every time it updated, myspace would send an email saying that she updated. So I'd get excited that I'd have a shitload of email, but then I'd see eight of ten emails were from myspace telling me she updated her blog eight fuckin times. Jesus.



CONTEST
This is a contest contest. You get to choose the next contest. If you win, I'll send you an autographed copy of my book. Well, it's not really MY book--I'm going to grab a random book off my shelf (preferably one I've already read and didn't like), sign it, and send it to you. Add it to your collection of shit that you're probably going to throw away. So, just tell me what kind of contest I should have, and you'll win the contest if it's cool.

Haitus

The blog is on haitus for a day or two.

Email me if you have problems, or can't cope without my blog. Ya' putz.

No. You don't even understand.

I am exhausted. I shouldn't even be writing this. Because I'm exhausted.

But I thought that maybe I'd write something interesting because of it.

Nope. Same old shit, but I'm just tireder. And 'tireder' is not even a word. Damn, I'm pathetic.

I went to a family gathering today in Castaic. What made it better was that it wasn't MY family, but a friend's. Perhaps it was odd that she invited me, and odder that I accepted. I went, and it was quite lovely. I had fun. However, I was always introduced in a pretty lousy manner--maximal shock value, minimal likelihood of them saying, "Hey, that's cool!"

My friend could have introduced me in any of the following ways, and it WOULD have been acceptable:
1) "This is Ryan. He's a writer."
2) "This is Ryan. He works for the government."
3) "This is Ryan. He's unemployed." (a bit of a lie, but so what?)
4) "This is Ryan. He's just a nice freakin' guy."
5) "This is Ryan."

Instead, it was always, "This is Ryan. He works for the IRS." Ah, crap. And I'd talk to them for a minute and they'd start to think, "Okay, maybe I won't hate him." Then my friend would add, "He's in collections. He knocks on people's doors." Ahhh, for Pete's sake.

It tends to put people on their guard.

Meanwhile, I lost $20 playing Texas Hold 'Em while I was there. Goddamnit. That's almost a week's grocery money. That's at least 200 packages of Ramen noodles.

This Old Bitch at the Doctor's Office

Another doctor, and more waiting. Another doctor's office, and more forms forms forms. Doctor says, "Time for more x-rays." Go to x-ray place, get MORE x-rays.

There were some attractive women in the physical therapy office today. One even smiled at me--repeatedly. BUT it's a physical therapy office. They may think I'm a cripple. And who wants a cripple?

To make it seem that I was just fine, I tried to make it look like I'd simply escorted someone else. Hurriedly, I looked around the office and saw this old woman with a cane trying to walk up to the counter. Fast--I grabbed her by the arm to help her forward.

She did panic a little. She got this look on her face and tried pulling away from me. The girl that smiled at me--well, the smile was starting to falter. "DAMN IT," I thought. "I've got to make it look like I'm helping her!" I gently shook the old woman to try quieting her down.

Here, she began shouting at me in Armenian. I don't know Armenian, so I tried responding in Spanish. I don't really know Spanish, so I could really only yell out the couple of words I know, "Los pantalones! Los pantalones!" She kept yelling, and I yelled, "Por Espanol, prima dos!"

Unfortunately, the attractive girl knew Spanish AND Armenian. She asked why the woman was telling me to take my hands off of her, and I was telling her to press two? I said my grandma was insane, and tried convincing the woman that my grandma only THOUGHT she knew Armenian, but was only faking.

This did not work.

She didn't smile at me after that.

One of Those Things About Living in California

I had my doctor's appointment on Monday for my back. He wrote me a prescription for three weeks of physical therapy at three sessions per week.

I called the physical therapy group to set my appointment today. The woman said, "Okay, you'll be meeting with Dr. Hoodahay tomorrow at 1:30."

"Okay. And this Dr. Hoodahay does the physical therapy?"

"No, he makes the determination if you need physical therapy." Wait a second here.

"But...I thought the doctor that referred me already made that determination." There was a long pause. "Why am I seeing a second doctor?"

"Well, he makes the determination."

"But what was the point of the first doctor," I asked.

This time, another long pause. "He was an actor."

"What?"

"An actor. He wasn't a real doctor. He only makes referrals."

"But why?"

The woman asked if I was new to Southern California, and I said I was (relatively). She put me on hold and connected me to a woman who I assumed was her supervisor. "A lot of the medical professionals you meet are actors," she explained. "In California, there are a lot of out-of-work actors, but a shortage of doctors. To reduce waits for doctors and to improve medical care, a lot of offices started hiring actors to take the place of the doctors. These actors see you, make a very general diagnosis, and then, if necessary they make a referral."

This seemed odd to me. "But my insurance company sent me to this doctor!" I said. "They told me to go and he'd fix my back."

"The insurance companies pay for these actors. It costs far less to compensate actors than to pay actual doctors. And everyone's happy--less out of work actors, less waiting for our valued customers."

I guess it made enough sense at this point. I thought about it. As I thought about it, that x-ray machine did seem to resemble a xerox machine a little too much. "Oh...So 1:30 tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Buh-bye."

Transportation Aberration

I rode on a Segway today. Really, what is this but a wheelchair for people with working legs? I can't see the point. Maybe in 50 years, the country will transport itself on Segways everywhere (or the descendent of the Segway), but for now, they don't make sense.

I was surprised that my friend had brought his Segway to where we were. However, he said it was too far to walk, but too short to ride a bike or drive. So I said, "Your house and my house are equidistant from here. And I walked." Hmmm. Ryan 1, Segway 0.

My big question is this: When are they going to get Segways in the projects? When are we going to start seeing Segway drive-bys? And I haven't seen any dropped Segway low-riders.

I tried it out. Fascinating how it works. They say it's idiot proof, but I'm quite sure I could seriously injure myself. I should have consumed more liquor and given it another try, too. He wouldn't let me go crazy with it. I asked if he took it off any sweet jumps, but he said he hadn't. I'm positive I could permanently injure myself on a Segway--something even more likely to happen than if I were to just walk. Ryan 2, Segway 0.

How can you pick up women on a Segway? There's only room for one, so this is difficult in both the literal and figurative sense. Maybe she'll ride on the handlebars. And if she's a techie nerd geek, she'd probably like that. Hmm. And I'm not going to carry around some bitch on my shoulders. Okay, advantage goes to Segway. Ryan 2, Segway 1.

I want to see a TV show like Knight Rider (starring David Hasselhoff), but with a talking Segway. And it should shoot laser beams out the front and fly and talk to the driver. Yeah. I guess it does have entertainment potential. But I have more. I win. Ryan 3, Segway 1.

I'll Make a Hung Jury

Achtung!

I got my official Summons for Jury Service from Los Angeles Superior Court in the mail. I get to fulfill my civic duty, though I understand the chances of me actually getting picked for a jury are minimal. All well. We can only do our best to get picked. I've been thinking up things I should shout out at random with a hickish accent in the courtroom:
* "I can make farm animal noises! Name anything, and I'll do it!"
* "I done gone found me a hamster in my underpants this mornin'."
* "That big black guy in handcuffs turns me on."
* "He couldn't have committed murder! He's white! His lawyer did it, because he's obviously a Mexican!"

I went to the doctor and got some x-rays done, today. Everything looked relatively normal, and the doctor wants me to do physical therapy three days a week for three weeks. Awwww, man. I wanted surgery--a quick fix. Damn it.

I really miss going to my kickboxing classes. This sucks. Instead of kickboxing, today, I did laundry. How fulfilling.

Think of Passover

Help me figure this one out.

Tomorrow is Monday. I have a phobia of work. My intense hatred of my job has turned into a full-blown phobia. When I hear the phones ring at the office, I get really anxious. Maybe if I start crawling under my desk and singing to myself, they'll take my phone away. That would be so awesome.

I called in on Friday. What's that mean? That means work's going to suck tomorrow. At least I get to leave early for my doctor's appointment. What's THAT mean? That means I'll have even more work to do when I go back into the office on Tuesday. And it'll suck even worse.

July 26th. This is the day I put in my two weeks notice. Let's sit around the seder dish and talk about dayenu, shall we?

And it is decided.

IF my job was wicked awesome, I was paid lots of money, and there were hot bitches everywhere in the office, it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was wicked awesome, I was paid okay, and maybe there weren't hot bitches but at least some attractive girls walking around the office, it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was boring, I was paid very well, and there were maybe a few pieces of eye candy walking around, it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was neat, I was paid poorly, and there were some women walking around my office with 'good personalities', it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was okay, I was paid enough, and it was a complete sausage fest, it would have been sufficient.

Dayenu, motherfucker. Now eat your fuckin' matzoh.

I find that a computer could just as easily do my job at a far lower cost to the United States government, and thus the taxpayer. I monkey holding a carrot and a large stick could probably replace me and do a better job: the stick to beat the people who refuse to pay, and the carrot because he might get hungry. But wouldn't that be cool?

"The Internal Revenue Service has laid off 5,000 employees and hired a team of untrained, angry monkeys with sticks and carrots (because they might get hungry later) to replace them." Oh, we can only hope. We started with the Whitehouse, though; I guess we have to work our way down to the low-level government functionary.

Yeah, that's right. I'm saying Bush is a monkey. Deal with it.

My Motherfucking Kidney

My right kidney hurts sooooo bad. It hurts hurts hurts!!!!

I thought it was my back. Could it be my back AND kidney?

Ow ow ow!!

Tell Them You're a Cripple

Last night was a lovely evening. I made dinner for a couple of friends, Bernicia and Tabernacle. I made an old family recipe--perhaps of Yiddish descent, but I'm not sure. And by family recipe, not my family. The recipe was handed down by my grandmother, but my father says she got the recipe from her next-door neighbor.

We ate. And after, Tabernacle went off to hang out with one of her friends, and Bernicia and I went to Mi Piace.

There, we ran into Adam and his posse, as well as several hot lay-deez from my gym. Bernicia wanted to dance, but I couldn't dance much because of my back. I bought a six dollar bottle of water (imported from Norway, and in a neat looking bottle) and hung out.

To refresh you, I coughed. This threw my back out. My back goes out about every six months. Last time I threw it out by walking up the staircase to my apartment. I was in so much pain I could hardly crawl through my door. Before that, I threw it out by sneezing; I could hardly walk for three days. The back problem stems from stupidity at 17 and a car accident at 21.

So back to Mi Piace. I'm sitting there in the chair watching Bernicia dance. How exciting is this? This girl loves to dance--to any music, at any time. She shakes her booty, and gets mad if you don't watch. Well, I went ahead and watched for her. Then she spread the word that I had hurt myself and couldn't dance. I didn't know what she said, but she was talking to these other really hot girls from my gym, and then pointing to me. The next thing I know, one by one, they're dancing right in front of me, waving their be-hinds in my face and doing some right naughty things. One did unmentionable, fun-to-watch naughty things. Another laid on top of me and continued dancing as I sat in the chair. A couple more did many very fascinating, fun things. This was all quite enjoyable. A guy sitting next to me watched in awe with his friends, and then asked, "Is it your birthday, man?"

"No, man. They just like me."

And to think that Adam had just left perhaps ten minutes before with his cousin and her friends...He missed quite a lovely show.

Excitement
I sat with Bernicia for awhile drinking my expensive water. Then this woman walks in and starts yelling at Bernicia. She tells Bernicia, "Andy's my boyfriend. I'm Malta. I'm his girlfriend. Do you like Andy? Because we're getting married, and he's..." Here, I couldn't hear what she was saying.

Bernicia was a bit shocked at this. Andy is a chef. Dude has two Freightliner catering trucks, but that's besides the point right now. Andy's girlfriend was there. She'd followed Andy to Mi Piace, where she'd assumed he was going to hook up with Bernicia. But I was sitting there talking to her. Malta continued yapping to Bernicia, and demanded she go outside. She wanted Bernicia, Andy, and her to 'talk.'

So I went outside with Bernicia and put a protective arm around her. This seemed to throw Malta a curveball. Malta was rambling about how Andy was going to marry her, and what right did Bernicia have...then she noticed my arm around Bernicia.

"Is that your date?" the bitch demanded.

"This is my...friend," Bernicia said. I need to teach Bernicia some lying skills.

Here, Malta paused, then I guess she realized she'd gone too far. "Well, you need to come down here. We need to confront this RIGHT NOW." And there was poor Andy sitting in his car with his head in his hands--ostensibly from embarassment.

So we went back into the club and pretended that that hadn't just happened. At the end of the night, Bernicia said she was afraid they'd be waiting for us. So we again walked with our arms around each other to give the appearance of a happy couple. I talked about wedding plans, and nice things I was planning on buying her. Things really wealthy couples do (not a broke government employee).

We seemed to be in the clear. However, as we approached an alley by the parking garage, I said, "Oh my God...I think they'll be waiting in the alley." I was sort of kidding, but also felt a strange premonition.

We got to the alley, AND...nobody was there. But then a car pulled up, and Malta was yelling at us. She said she followed Andy because she wanted to see how much of a jerk he is, and who he's cheating on her with, etc. Crazy bitch stuff. Unfortunately, Bernicia tried reasoning with her like a rational human being.

Malta was obviously not rational--past hysterical, tear-streaked, possibly drunk. There was a very embarassed-looking girl in her front passenger seat trying to appear that she wasn't there.

I kept telling Bernicia, "Don't waste your time. We need to go. She's nuts. She won't listen." Bernicia kept talking. So I interrupted (you can call it the arrival of Mr. Bullshit).

Mr. Bullshit (that was me) said, "Listen, she and I (I said pointing to Bernicia) have trust. We trust each other. I trust what she does, and she trusts what I do. I don't have to follow her around. You're wasting your time out here."

Malta, fast to pick up on the earlier 'friend' comment said, "She's just your friend."

"What goes on between us is none of your business." I'd never acted this well in high school. I'd always been prone to stage fright, and once blacked-out and almost fainted awaiting my next scene in Romeo and Juliet. But here, I was relaxed--realistic. It was my best acting performance ever. Malta seemed royally confused at this point. I asked the embarassed girl if she felt safe, or if she wanted a ride. She said she was fine.

Bernicia tried talking a little more to her, but I told her, "She's nuts, dude. You're wasting your breath. Let's just go." And we left.

Malta didn't follow us after that. Perhaps because we went into the parking garage, and that shit costs five dollars.

Another Sick Day

I stayed home sick today, again. I caught up on my mental anguish. You know, I just don't spend enough time to myself thinking, "Jesus fucking Christ, how could life get any worse?"

Of course, I also read and watched part of a movie.

I cleaned up part of my apartment for some guests tonight. As much as I clean this apartment, it still screams, "SLOBBY FUCKING BACHELOR." That's a lie, though. Obviously, there's no "FUCKING" going on here. This is a Fuck-Free zone right now. It's sort of like the former No Fly Zones in Iraq, but, instead of planes, it's women.

And instead of the international community patrolling the No Fly Zone (led by the Americans), it's a conspiracy of women everywhere who have bonded together and have all decided, "No sex for that asshole." Who is leading this international sisterhood of women? Who is the leader in enforcement?

Right now, the Republic of Ryan is surviving these sexual sanctions, but barely. We've got an oil for sex program. However, this has proved a complete failure, as there is no space for an oil derrick in my apartment. I remember approaching ChevronTexaco about this:

ME: "Can you build a derrick in my apartment, and then construct a pipeline leading to Long Beach (since it's probably the closest port)?"

CHEVRONTEXACO: "How big is your apartment?"

ME: "550 square feet."

CHEVRONTEXACO: "Yeah, of course--Wait. Are you...Ryan, of the Republic of Ryan?"

ME: "Uh...No?"

CHEVRONTEXACO: "There's sexual sanctions against you. We can't do business in your apartment. The International Conspiracy of Women has imposed strict sanctions against you."

I got the same treatment from BP-Amoco, too. Assholes.

I did build my underground network of tunnels to hide my WMDs (well, my menorah, leftover Chanuka candles, and mezuzah) in case the Republicans attack.

My Other Blog
Check out these wierd-ass fucking comments on my other blog. This one girl keeps putting these really strange comments. I need someone else's take on these. I'm wondering if they're supposed to be entertaining and funny, rude, or just plain stupid. I don't get it. Please help. If you read some of the comments on my profile and in response to most blog posts, you'll see these responses that just seem rather...bizarre.

Enjoy, bitches!

EARTHQUAKE UPDATE

From deep within the rubble of today's earthquake, we're slowly trying to rebuild. I've moved all my perishables into a cooler and have started drinking the water out of the toilet.

Strange, since there's nothing wrong with the fridge or the toilet. I've started fashioning clothing out of saran wrap and tin foil. There's nothing wrong with my clothes, but I'm just preparing for the Big One.

I was on the highway when it happened. I didn't even know for another hour that I'd survived a mag 5.1 earthquake.

Damn.

Why I'll Be Dead by June 27th

I'm falling apart. Everything's going to shit, and my immune system is about to go on vacation.

Monday, I was feeling a little queezy and didn't go to work. I felt I got better, but I got a slight cough.

The cough seems to have turned into a full blown flu. Runny nose, aching all over, and the slight cough turned into major, body-wracking hacks.

Some of you know I have a chronic back problem. So one of these coughs threw my back out yesterday. I could still walk, though, and function quite normally. Basically, the full pain hadn't set in yet--like when you stub your toe, but the pain doesn't hit for awhile. So why not go to the gym? I went to the gym and started doing the body-sculpting class. Halfway through, things didn't seem to be going so well down in the lumbar area. I left.

At this point, I now have the beginnings of a flu and my back is basically out. But other than that, I've still got my health.

I called a friend, whose name we'll say is Tabernacle. She was about to go walk her dog and wanted to see if I wanted to meet for a cup of coffee. Off I went to see her and meet her dog--Pablo. Pablo's a big Goddamn bulldog. Lots of energy. Very muscular. These dogs--they don't seem to like it when you fuck with them.

LATER:
"OW!"

"What?"

"Nothing. I think...Yeah, I think he bit me."

And in fact, there really was no doubt. Pablo had in fact bit me. He bit my finger, and indeed almost bit it right off had I not realized, 'Wait a second...He doesn't seem to be playing.' Blood didn't SPURT out so much as it wouldn't stop. C'est la vie. She swears her dog's shots are up to date. And the blood HAS started to stop (though this happened about 20 hours ago). Of course, this is all due to my own retardation. I guess it's kind of fun to tease dogs until they try to bite off your fucking digits.

At the rate I'm falling apart, I figure I'll be completely dead by June 27th. But I won't mind, because I predict I'll fall into a coma around the 21st.

The Gaming Gang
I was walking to the grocery store today (though I really shouldn't walk or carry heavy items like frozen chicken). At the end of the street (near Colorado and Sierra Madre) is a gaming shop. No not video games; we're talking D&D, Magic, and other wierd shit like that. And these gamers hang out there pretty much 24-7. I've walked by and looked in the window at 2 AM and there's always people there playing. Always.

Today, I walked by them as they hung out in the parking lot behind the store, apparently taking a gaming break. They drank cokes and talked animatedly about gaming. One of them had what looked like what was supposed to be a representation of a light saber. After the grocery store, I was walking back to my apartment and I walked by these people. The guy with the light saber appeared to be doing some 'mad moves' in the parking lot, and the other gamers watched him with a mixture of delight and envy. He swung that plastic flourescent bar around like a man who'd watched Star Wars enough times to KNOW. This guy was obviously their...dare I say?...hero. They must have felt this guy really knew his shit with the light saber. He could have gotten any bitch (there was only one I saw) in that parking lot. To them, perhaps he was the closest thing to a Jedi they had.

But outside that parking lot, it was a different story. He was just some tool swinging around a plastic light saber.

Isn't that tragically poetic?

Adams Aplenty

I had a discussion with a senior coworker today. We discussed what dinosaurs would probably taste like.

Would it be "the other other white meat," or no? I said it'd probably resemble and taste like chicken, since birds are directly descended from dinosaurs. Ostrich, though--would not the T-Rex perhaps taste like ostrich?

Ostrich does not taste like chicken, though. It's more like ground beef. And they're herbivores, whilst the T-Rex is carniverous.

This left us wondering. I'm hoping the next big discovery is a completely in-tact, perfectly preserved dinosaur. I suppose we'll have to go looking in Antarctica to find the perfect sample, since elsewhere the meat would probably have broken down. If we could find a dinosaur, we could cut off a large slab, bring out the grill, and have a little barbeque. We agreed that this would be a fun thing to try. And naturally, there'll be so much meat left over we'd have enough for plenty of scientific observation and experimentation, as well as another barbeque.

I implore you to find this perfectly preserved frozen dinosaur. And don't look in your grocery store. Grocery stores won't have it. You may have to go to a place like Whole Foods or something.

Big Baller Wants to See the Bitches

I'm a rock star, and I really want to go to this lingerie party.

I have these new friends from the gym. They're cool, and they're hot. And one of them is throwing a lingerie party.

I said, "Great, what time should I be there?"

"No, no, no. You can't go. You're a guy."

"It's okay," I assured them. "I only want to watch."

When they described this party, it kind of sounded hot at first. A bunch of hot women sitting around in their hottest lingerie (underwear is utilitarian; lingerie is hot). Come on. And it's going to be catered by a chef. Like, a real chef--not just some guy who says he knows how to cook but is solely there to see something titillating and skintil--er, I mean scintillating.

"And then, the stripper arrives at 12," my friend said.

This sounded pretty cool. Until I realized I was a retard. "No way! A stripper?! That's awes...Wait a minute. Do you mean a male stripper?"

It stopped being hot right about here. But I said I could most definitely stay until 12, and then I'll just leave when the male stripper gets there so I can be out of the way. They said that this was fine--and would actually be better for me not to show up, and then I'll completely be out of the way.

I said, "No, no. You won't even know I'm there. I'll bring some books, maybe a couple of magazines. So that when your hot friends come in, I'll check their clothes in at the-"

"You'll check their clothes? What do you mean?"

"Oh," I said, "They'll strip down and I'll take their clothes for them. You won't even know I'm there. I'll just be reading for most of the evening. Can I bring a camera?"

And then they go prancing around at the gym handing out invitations to hot--and some not-so-hot--girls and they don't even give me one. Jesus fucking Christ.

I had to break out the big guns at this point. "Yeah, I'm having a video game party. You're not invited, so don't even ask. When we're playing my Playstation at my big party--and we're talking the CLASSIC Playstation--and eating our catered dinner of frozen Tombstone pizzas, you'll be sitting at home bored and alone. Because you're not invited."

I was aiming for a tit-for-tat, here. A sort of, "Okay, you come to my lingerie party if I can go to your sweet video gaming party."

Nope. Didn't happen. Goddamn it.

I met the chef catering it. Seemed pretty cool. He lives on my street and has a couple of these big fucking Freightliner catering trucks--like nothing I've ever seen (though I've only seen pictures). We'll see how cool he is--we'll see if he can sneak me in, perhaps inside an especially large creme brulee.

Starting a Band

I've been talking to my neighbor for awhile about starting a band. And by awhile, I mean I mentioned it today in passing, and he said, "Yeah. Okay."

"I'll write the lyrics and sing. You write the music and play the guitar."

"All right. I've got recording equipment in my apartment. You want to see it?"

"Nah, I've got to get my groceries in the fridge." We'd just gotten back from Trader Joe's where he went with to watch me buy groceries. "I'm serious, though. I want to start this band."

"Me, too," he said.

So we're going to start a band. I tried writing out some lyrics. I've never written any lyrics to any songs. I assume writing lyrics is like writing poetry. I've never written good poetry. Besides, most songs aren't written in rhyming couplets. I do best when writing in rhyming couplets. But rhyming couplets typically make bad poetry.

Maybe I could write a few haikus and turn those into songs? I have no idea.

Not that I've ever sung, either. Jay plays the guitar, but I don't sing. He's one of the best guitar players I've heard. I assume I'd sing about as well as any guy who doesn't sing. I probably sing as well as I dance.

This is why our strong points will have to be our:
1) lyrics
2) guitar,
3) band name, and
4) sweet outfits.

Possible band names:
Kitchen Sink
Medinski and Jigsaw (I'll be Medinski; he'll be Jigsaw. Why? Don't know)
Organ Harvesters (I have a friend that's an organ harvester)
Swamp Coolers (I just got one of these for my apartment)
The Afterschool Specials (sounds cool)
Exit Only (cause we're straight, but fully in support of gay rights)
Yield to Oncoming Traffic
The Cornish Hens
Do the Chickens Have Large Talons?
I Fucked Your Mom and Now It Hurts to Pee
2Jew4U (though Jay is Catholic)
False Advertising (honesty is the best policy)
I Love [sell this space to a company for a lot of money] Products! ($$$)
The Republican Party (we'll steal our shows from all other bands)
Civil Rights For All (nobody will listen to us or buy our CDs)

Subtitle Implants

You want to talk about good ideas?

You want to talk about brilliance?

Let's first talk about the inspiration for my excellent idea. Then I will share the idea.

INSPIRATION
I went to a beautiful wedding today in Azusa. Everything was near-perfect--the weather, the trees, the food. However, I had one problem: the language barrier.

The entire wedding was in Spanish. All the jokes? Spanish. The really moving, dramatic parts? Spanish. I asked my friend to translate the wedding for me. She is Korean, and has a degree in Spanish. At several points, I asked, "What did they just say?"

"I don't know," she'd say.

At the end of the ceremony, the priest said something, and I recognized the words 'photos' and 'por favor.' My friend volunteered the following: "I believe he just said that the wedding party is going to take some pictures, and thanks for coming." Hmmm...I have a degree in creative writing, and I somehow picked that up in the two words I understood.

IDEA
Americans enjoy foreign films, but don't like to learn new languages. I believe a device could be implanted in your retina so that when a foreign person speaks, you'll see the translation right below them. And if multiple people are speaking at once, word bubbles will appear so it'll be like you're reading a comic book. This idea is so brilliant. I am so original.

Another use would be like in Annie Hall. You could have these implants translate the subtext of every conversation. After a bad date, you could REALLY tell how bad it went. You'd see that "Yeah, hey, let's do this again sometime," really means, "I hope you try to eat some shards of glass." And the translation for, "Listen, I don't think we have a lot in common, so I don't think it's wise that we see each other anymore," would appear as, "I want you so bad."

Brilliant.

Butt-Fucked at General Motors

A Different Kind of Post
Today, I write about my worries of our economy. It'll probably be more dull than usual. But it's MY blog, so read it anyway.

Our economy is falling apart. The shit is hitting the fan.

General Motors has introduced relatively massive across-the-board discounts on all their vehicles (touted as Employee Discounts for the General Public!). At first, I was excited. After all, the Saab 9-2X is now wicked cheap since it's marked down from $27,000 to $19,500. It's a Subaru Impreza WRX, but the reduced Saab price makes it cheaper than a used Subaru. Hot damn. A 227 horsepower, 5-speed, all-wheel drive sportwagon?

If you know me, you know I love wagons. They're so unassuming...

But then I got worried.

Rewind to last month, GM and Ford's outstanding bonds were reduced to junk status (below investment grade). This only happens when there's a high chance of default on coupon payments. And then, to save money, last week they said they were laying off 25,000 people. 25,000 tax-paying, mortgage-holding people.

Now, they're massively discounting. What is this? Should I be excited to have the opportunity get a massively discounted vehicle?

Think of massive corporate failures dotting American history, and nothing really compares to the failure of the world's largest automobile company, right? Chrysler, Enron, and Continental Illinois all got huge amounts of money. Chrysler is owned by the Germans, Enron is gone, and Continental Illinois disappeared.

Continental Illinois, by the way, was the eleventh largest bank in the United States, and was considered as "too big to fail."

In the grand scheme of things, none of these vehicles is discounted. 25,000 jobs lost in the making of these vehicles, one of the largest companies in the world a major default risk, and discounting through factory subsidies to lower prices.

And also, basic economics says that the prices are dropping to stoke demand, but won't it cause panic (ie. Continental Illionois)?. This means that most or all GM vehicle prices will conceivably drop--both in the new and used market. Won't all other car company's prices drop as well?

And then from there, everything seems like it will end up in the shitter. Especially when GM starts asking the government for money to pay its bills. And since GM has sooo many employees, owns and operates so many factories, and affects sooo many industries (suppliers, suppliers' suppliers, utilities, etc.), the taxpayers will be put into the position where they'll have no choice BUT to dump their money in if they don't want the economy to collapse tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I'm going to go to a wedding. It's not mine, so I'm still single.

Single, bitches! YEAH!

The Teddy Bear Intervention

My cubicle mate* has a collection of stuffed teddy bears. They sit on her desk and give her cubicle a homey, this-isn't-an-office-but-more-of-a-bedroom feel. I usually make comments about them, or pretend one is a crack whore and the other a john, or grab a couple of them and recreate scenes from famous movies like Silence of the Lambs. I make one Buffalo Bill, another is the hostage in the pit in Buffalo Bill's basement, and the stuffed dog is Precious (Buffalo Bill's dog). I then...
Girl in Pit: My daddy will pay you lots of money if you let me go!
Buffalo Bill: It takes the lotion and puts it in the basket.
Precious: Woof!
Girl in Pit: Please, mister, I-
Bufallo Bill: Put the fucking lotion in the basket!
Precious: Woof!

But today, I set up all the teddy bears (except for one) on her office chair. One was perched on the seat back, three sat on the seat, one sat on the left armrest, and two sat on the right. And then I wrote things on post-its and stuck them on some of the stuffed bears. Each post-it had a number on it, because it was meant to be read in order.
1) "We wanted to have a talk with you. All of us did. It's very important."
2) "Now we're very concerned for our safety. You don't see what happens when you're not around..."
3) "He does things. Scary things. I won't say who, because we're not here to point fingers."
4) "We're not saying we're demanding that you make him go away...We just want you to be aware, and keep an eye on him."
5) "Why does he do this? What's wrong with him?! WHY?! WHY?!!"
And that last one I put in a dark corner on top of her desk far away from the other bears. I stuck the staple remover and a small, sharp letter opener in its little teddy bear arms and made it face the corner. It was the most sinister of all the bears, and it looked bizarre set up the way it did--scary.

I would have thought this would have gotten a positive reaction. You know how much time I spent setting this up? My cubicle mate didn't seem too amused. She told me I was insane. When I asked her if I thought it was funny, she stared straight ahead and repeated that I was insane.

What the heck?

That Down-Home Feeling
I work with a hard-core, red-blooded Texan. I hate Texans. A state of Goddamn morons. However, I admittedly am somewhat of a Texan having lived there a cumulative 9 years (about 4 in Round Rock, 3 in Houston, 1 in Sugar Land, and 2 months in Richmond).

And today, I was sorry to see my Texan coworker down. She just looked like she needed a pick-me-up. And also, today--Why today? Why at all?--I couldn't remember past the first verse of "Deep in the Heart of Texas." Damn it. And this isn't something I've been thinking about JUST today. I've been thinking for a this few months now, "What the fuck is after the first verse?"

So I yelled out, "EDNA! The stars at night, are big and bright--Deep in the heart of Texas!" And then she did the CLAP*CLAP*CLAP*CLAP! I yelled for her to go on, but she said she had no clue what the rest of the words were. "Damn it! That's why I sang it in the first place." Well, I decided this problem had to be nipped in the bud. I looked up the song online and ten minutes before I left stood up and sang out the following for the benefit of everyone still left in the office:

1. The stars at night
Are big and bright
Deep in the heart of Texas
The prairie sky
Is wide and high
Deep in the heart of Texas

2. The sage in bloom
Is like perfume
Deep in the heart of Texas
Reminds me of
The one I love
Deep in the heart of Texas

What the fuck is wrong with me?

* Cubicle Mate: One that has a cubicle that shares a wall or corner with your cubicle. Those that share a wall are direct cubicle mates; those that share a corner are indirect cubicle mates. I have three direct and two indirect cubicle mates. Do you dig?

STRATEGIC BLOG UPDATE

Posts will now be shorter.

Kitchen Gadgetry Before a Disturbance in the Office

The Hand Blender
I got a new hand blender. This is a great new thing in my life. It's not the FIRST hand blender I've had. I had another one, but somehow lost it. I lost a kitchen appliance. And since I never have taken it out of the kitchen, I don't know where I lost it to. I looked everywhere: above the fridge, in the fridge, the cabinets, the shelves. It's a small kitchen; my apartment is about the size of most peoples' homes, and I still lost my hand blender.

The new one has attachments. Oh boy. I love attachments. The hand blender's first use was to make a milk-shake. I wanted a blueberry shake. Plan? Put vanilla ice cream, frozen blueberries, vanilla extract, and milk in a cup and blend it into a perfect ice cream drink. Mmmm.

However, reality presented me with coffee ice cream, vanilla extract, soy milk, and 6 month-old frozen pineapple.

Here's a word of advice: never, ever mix coffee ice cream, soy milk, and frozen pineapple. The tastes work together much in the way that Fidel Castro, Pat Buchanan, and Russel Crowe would if put into a room. Which is to say that the tastes all declared war against each other and fought later on in my stomach.

I also used it in making an omelet. Using the food processing attachment, I put in some different kinds of cheese and a link of cooked sausage (chicken and turkey sausage from Trader Joe's). Though I thought it would sort of chop and grind everything up into large tasty chunks (or morsels of goodness as I was hoping), what I got was an extremely bizarre paste that strangely resembled (in taste, odor, color, and consistency) hummus. But it was cheese and sausage, not mashed up garbanzo beans. I still put it in my omelet.

All through the day I thought about the bizarre things that I could grind up into a paste.
1) bananas, cherries, and steak
2) chewing gum, raw fish, and an onion
3) frozen pineapple, frozen green beans, and scraps of rubber
4) raw eggs, tomatoes, carrots, and an old wrist watch
5) yogurt, cottage cheese, chicken hearts, frozen tater tots
Then, I could take these pastes to work with tortilla chips and see how many people would eat them.

The Office Visit
A friend from my gym came to visit me at work today. She begged and begged, and repeatedly told me she wanted to see what a government tax office looked like. She really really wanted to see it. I tried describing it: "Imagine a bunch of office supplies surrounded by cubicles." I showed her pictures of highlighters and pens. She STILL wanted to see my office. I told her there was nothing special about it, but we set up today as the day she'd come down and check it out.

Her hopes were high, and I kept telling her, "No, it seriously sucks. I hate it, and there's nothing there to see." But she kept thinking it would be some great magical place. To make up for this, I put together a souvenir package (the Government Office Tour 2005 Souvenir Package). I gave her an official United States Government Calendar, a keychain with the agency's logo, some tax publications, a seizure tag (used to mark property in asset seizures), a booklet entitled "How Do I Make My Federal Tax Deposits?", and a little plastic dinosaur. This seemed to make up for the lameness of my office.

When she came in, she called. But as I walked to the door, the asshole of the office said, "Uh, Ryan...You have someone waiting for you." I brushed past him into the hall and down to the elevators where she waited. This guy later remarked, "My head spun around like in the Exorcist." Yeah, that fat fucker needs to spin his ass into the fucking Weight Watchers. Perverted fat fuck.

All the guys were gawking at her and I took her up the hall with me, and we ran into my friend, Jeb.

Jeb just stood there staring. I said, "This is Jeb." He put out his hand. "Jeb, this is Bernicia." They shook hands and she said it was nice to meet him. He just stared at her and smiled, then walked right back into the office.

I was only AUTHORIZED to take her into a separate interrogation room off the main office. It had a window looking into the office. When we went in there, I said, "That's the office. We can go now." But then these guys--coworkers--stood there looking at her, smiling, and waving. One kept walking back and forth looking at her, and then he walked up and opened the door.

"Hi, I'm Frank," he said extending his hand. I told him she wasn't authorized to go into the office; we were in the interrogation room because she wanted to see the office.

Frank poo-pooed me and said to her, "Oh, of course you can come in the office. Friends and family members can come in. Come on in!" and she walked through.

Shit. This will result in a 'talking to' by tomorrow. At least my manager was out to lunch, but the 'talking to' WILL happen. Somehow, management will find out. It's not that I'm afraid of getting fired; I just hate being lectured to. I took her by my desk and showed my portrait of Willie Nelson (sort of a star in the annals of United States tax history), as well as my huge mess of papers. Then I got neurotic that my manager would walk in, so I pulled her out the door.

Then we ate Cuban. Mmmm. Cuban.

When she left and I went back into the office, it was like I'd brought in a celebrity. People who hadn't even met her were asking about her. Everyone, and not just guys. A female coworker/friend even said, "You have to get her back here. I need to see what they're all going on about."

I told them she was a CFO of a corporation. And this normally quiet, calm, and extraordinarily polite woman laughed, and said, "What kind of CFO?"

"Well, she's an officer of the corporation. I told her she was liable for the Trust Fund Recovery Penalty if...What are you laughing at?" And indeed, my coworker was laughing.

This religious woman, who I'd never heard say any work even remotely resembling profanity said, "I thought you were going to say, 'Chief Fucking Officer.' Because you always say things like that."

"But I meant Cheif Financial Officer...so I guess I always don't say things like that."

Jesus Christ.

Jimmy Bardolucci Says He's Going to Eat Your Spleen For Breakfast, Motherfucker

The Outcome of the Surprise
People seemed curious about what happened with our little surprise party. It started with our manager requesting we meet at Jeb's house to go out on a field call at 8 AM. I showed up extra early (7:45 AM) to make sure everything was in order for everything to work. I knocked on the door, and Jeb answered the door.

"This seems to be a bad start to our little joke, Jeb," I said. "Any reason you're still in your pajam-jams?" He said he was getting ready. "Dude, you just woke up out of bed. Did you at least do your part of the bogus case-file?"

The key to the success of the surprise was a bogus case file. I did my part; we just needed his.

"Uh...no," he said.

Damn. "Okay, get dressed and I'll try and stall Eduardo. In the meantime, I'll finish the case-file."

I called Eduardo on the phone. It was now 7:55 AM. I said, "Hey, we've decided to meet here--I mean at Jeb's house--at 8:15 or so. Can you handle that?"

"Where are you?" Eduardo asked.

"I'm still at home. I haven't left yet."

"Dude, I'm outside Jeb's house. I parked behind your car."

"Oh...Jeb's embarassed he's still in his pajami-jams and wanted me to call you to come later. We'll be out in a few minutes."

So I got busy finishing the bogus case-file. My skills at forging documents is almost unparalleled. My attention to detail is pretty amazing. Our fake case history looked completely authentic (enough to concern my manager later on). While I worked on the case-file, Jeb dressed.

But I said, "WAIT! He can't see you dressed! We need more time, and everyone wants us at the restaurant at 8:45. It's too early. Take off your shirt and tie, and go tell him you're running late."

Jeb ripped off his dress-shirt and tie, untucked his undershirt, and in his socked feet ran out to the driveway. He yelled out, "I'm running late, bro! I'll just be a few minutes!" and then ran back inside. An authentic performance better than most Hollywood actors. He redressed and I continued my work putting the case-file together.

Time passed, though, and I knew we couldn't just leave Eduardo waiting. He's impatient, and I knew he'd return to the office. I asked, "Jeb! You got trash you need to take out?"

"No," he said. "I'm not taking out the trash. My wife made me last night."

"You need some trash to take out! And go apologize to Eduardo that you're running late!" He did, and Eduardo continued waiting.

Then more time passed, and it was still too early to leave. And I yelled out, "Do something! Stall him some more! I've still got shit to do on the case file!"

So Jeb ran out and took a big bag of dog food from the garage into the house, and apologized to Eduardo. "Just a couple more minutes," he promised.

Finally, our case file was ready, Jeb was dressed, and it was time to leave for the restaurant. "How do we do this, though?" I asked. I am a horrible, transparent actor. I bullshit, but not because I'm good at it. "He'll see right through me. There's no reason for me to have stayed in the house the whole time." And we were already thinking our joke had fallen apart because:
1) Eduardo is smart
2) Jeb and I, combined, are stupid
3) We'd left Eduardo waiting far longer than would be considered polite or appropriate in most situations.
4) I'm incredibly impatient with others, and myself would have already left about 30 minutes before.

But then, I just marched out into the driveway with an extremely pissed look on my face and marched right up to Eduardo--sullen, stoic. "All fucking morning he takes. He should have been ready 45 minutes ago. Jesus Christ!" and I went and opened up my car. "I'm starting my car. Get in." Demanding, rude, pissed--basically, an attitude that said, "Don't ask, asshole."

Jeb came running out of his house dragging his briefcase behind him. He stopped halfway down his driveway and yelled, "I need my camera!" and turned around and ran back inside. Great. Why do we need a camera? Let's just TELL him it's a Goddamn surprise party. But instead, before Eduardo could ask why we even needed a camera, I started yelling at Jeb.

"God DAMN it, Jeb! We've been sitting here for 45 minutes. It's time to GO!" and I got in the car and started it angrily. Eduardo silently slipped into the back seat.

As I drove through the neighborhood, I loudly asked Jeb, "Why did it take you so long?"

"The dog was freaking out and I had to calm it down."

"You have a wife. That's what she's there for. She should have taken care of the dog," I said. Oh, how much of a bitch can I possibly be?

"My wife was taking care of the kids. She was busy with them, so I had to take care of the dog."

"Whatever," I said with this child-like, petulant wave of my hand.

We started driving east on the 210, and told Eduardo that the payer we were going to see was extremely dangerous and probably had mob connections. The payer? Jimmy Bardolucci doing business as Jimmy Marcino Storage in Claremont. My case file told him that the previous officer sent to deal with him was repeatedly harassed and intimidated by Jimmy Bardolucci. An excerpt from the bogus case history states, "Mr. Bardolucci threatened the officer with bodily harm and told him he knew where he lived. Mr. Bardolucci sent the officer pictures of the officer at grocery store." Mr. Bardolucci reported $15,000 of income on his taxes last year, yet somehow owned five pieces of property in Southern California, a Hummer H1, a Ferrari F355, a 1988 Mercedes 560SL, and a 2005 Bentley Continental GT. Freaky deaky stuff.

Eduardo started asking why we were being sent out to this. I mean, seems dangerous right? Jeb bullshitted about how it was a requirement that we go out before criminal enforcement officers are able to assist. "But these pictures from the grocery store? That's kind of...freaky. I don't know what I'd do." He went through, and talked about the cars. What's the deal with these cars? How can he own all this property and only report $15,000 per year? "This sounds kind of dangerous...right, guys?"

I claimed I wasn't scared at all. Eduardo gave this strange look, like of all people I should be the most scared.

We used the excuse that I needed coffee to stop at the restaurant where everyone from the office waited for him. We walked in and everyone yelled out, "Surprise!" Eduardo stood there, and looked behind him. He started backing away towards the door, but we had to tell him it was for him. "Uh, dude...this is for you." He looked at us, and then seemed to get it. And the case, of course, was fake. It seemed to go over well. He refused to talk to everyone for awhile, but he warmed up after a stiff drink.

Ironic, though. I'd told him to check out my blog several times. I told him, "Had you checked my blog the day before, you would have known the entire plan." He was dumbfounded.

Moral? Read my fuckin' blog if you want to know what's what.

Assisting the Victim
The victim of this surprise, Eduardo, is planning on leaving with his fiance on Sunday for their honeymoon. He did his best to keep all the details secret. They're going to Spain, and during the surprise party he admitted he's afraid she may have found out.

I gave him two possible ideas of how to throw her off:
1) Blythe Method: They pack for their vacation, and rather than heading to LAX (west), they head east. As they drive, he announces, "Our honeymoon is in Blythe!" And then he turns around. This one is less funny than the Biggest Ball of Wax Method. Now I don't know much about Blythe, but would you want to spend your honeymoon there?
2) Biggest Ball of Wax Method: They are leaving for the honeymoon in the evening on Sunday. In the morning, he needs to leave out a list of flight confirmation numbers from Orbitz.com (all fake). Next to that, he'll have a map and a small pile of tourist pamphlets. The flights will all be to towns such as Kissimmee St. Cloud, Florida; Boise, Idaho; Flint, Michigan; Dubuque, Iowa. It'll be a tour of shit-ass towns across the United States. And the map will have a line drawn from LA, to Kissimmee St. Cloud, to Boisse, to Flint, etc. so that it appears to be a Honeymoon Trip Across America. Which, in comparison to a honeymoon you thought you were getting in Spain, would be the Shittiest Honeymoon Ever--perhaps even 'anullment worthy. I call it the Biggest Ball of Wax Method, because I told him to get pamphlets of wierd tourist attractions--like the Biggest Ball of Wax, and the World's Longest Piece of Dental Floss, and shit like that. Genius.

Listen up, ya' bitches!

"Did the practical joke/surprise go well?" you ask? Yes. It went well. On tomorrow's blog, I will tell you what happened. Today's blog actually had both the finance thing AND the explanation of the surprise joke, but it was way, way long. So I chopped it in half and saved the rest for tomorrow.

I'll leave you off with some motivational words: "You are the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human fucking beings. You are nothing but unorganized grabasstic pieces of amphibian shit. Because I am hard, you will not like me. But the more you hate me, the more you will learn. I am hard but I am fair. There is no racial bigotry here. I do not look down on niggers, kikes, wops, or greasers. Here you are all equally worthless."

Your Mom and a Large Tub of Mayo. Mmmm...

I just got home from the dentist. Half my face is numb, and I can hardly speak. When I speak, I drool and slur my words together. And when I drool, I get my shirt wet. And all this together makes me look a little...odd.

So today we sprung our surprise on my coworker and friend. It was a success. He was surprised, and ready to shit his pants.

Kyle's Theory For Finance as it Relates to Women:
Men as the Current Value of Future Cash Flows
I knew a guy in grad school--Kyle. Kyle was a male chauvanist. In high school, the school bully. In college, the fucking aggressive asshole know-it-all. His hobby was cage-fighting. Pretty tough guy. And he'd talk about his fights (usually out of the cage) with folks that pissed him off, but not in a bragging way since he'd also talk about those that he lost. "Dude, they brought out bicycle chains. Who carries bicycle chains?!" He was the guy everyone thought would fail, but turned out to ace everything because he is secretly borderline-brilliant.

In the library, I was studying with him and a couple of other classmates for a corporate finance exam. And he was talking about women as objects--as the enemy. I do not advocate this attitude towards women. We were discussing women, and finance. The two somehow met. He said, "Women treat men like securities. Once you recognize that, you'll get laid all the time."

"What?"

"Bro, women don't care about men as sensitive, or loving, or caring, or whatever. Fuck that. They want money. They want him to be rich." I disagreed, but he said, "Bro, I'm the same way, though. I don't care about talking to girls. I don't care if they're funny, or nice, or smart. I have friends that I talk to. I can't have sex with my friends; that's what women are for."

"Jesus Christ," I said.

"No, it's true! Listen, women see men as the current value of all future cash flows. Think about it. Women like men with money. But they don't just take your money into account. If you have a master's degree in finance, that means you'll make more money in the future. Two men equal in all respects--one has an MBA from UNM, and the other an MBA from Harvard. Who's going to make more, and how much is that worth right now?"

I had to say that in a purely financial sense, this was understandable. "Go on," we prodded.

"And think about if you tell a woman you have that Harvard MBA and you bring her home. I have a friend that keeps boxes everywhere in his apartment. That way when a woman comes to his place and sees all the boxes, he just tells him he bought a house and it's in escrow. That way, she thinks he's packing up to move to this big house. She thinks he has money, and she'll fuck him."

"What if he has a shitty car?" I asked. Out of academic curiosity, of course.

"Then he fuckin' parks it down the block so she can't see it. You can't really explain away a shitty car. She sees a shitty car, she'll know you're dirt-ass broke and a fuckin' liar."

"But it is lying."

"She doesn't have to know that. So what if it's lying? Listen, I'll do anything to get a girl into bed. I'll lie, cheat, steal," he said with this huge grin. "The farce only has to last as long as you still have an erection."

"Jesus."

"I have a friend that gives girls his number on the back of bank deposit receipts."

"So?" we asked.

"So they're bogus. They're fake. He has a friend that sells fake deposit receipts that show checking balances of a few hundred thousand dollars. So the girl thinks you're rich."

We were all surprised by this reprehensible behavior. We had Kyle call this guy to find out how much he charged and how long it would take him to make them. This was all for pure academic research.

The theory is interesting though. Imagine two men equal in all respects that have $50,000 in the bank. One works at a convenience store, and the other goes to Harvard Law School. Who will have the higher future income? That's the way a security works; the market price of a security in the perfect market theory (I think I have the right theory) is simply the current value of all future cash flows.

Junk bonds vs. AAA rated bonds
OTC stocks/pink slip (volatile, smaller float) vs. large cap, low P/E, low beta

What do you think, asshole?

IMPORTANT NOTICE

I've been told that today's blog doesn't make much sense for non-Agency employees. It's not quite that funny, I've heard.

For this, I apologize. I hope I'll do better for you tomorrow.

Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.

The Practical Surprise

I was invited to dinner tonight by new friends from the gym. Nice people. And it sounded like the place would be pretty good. But when they asked, I said, "I'm sorry, I've got a bunch of shit to do tonight."

They asked what kind of 'shit' it is.

"I've got to prepare for a practical joke tomorrow." I said this in the way that somebody would say they were going home to catch up on their work for the next day at the office, or to prepare for a presentation or something important. But these are not important to me. I could give a shit about work, though. Practical jokes and cheap laughs--these are why I go to the office (and to pay my rent).

But they looked at me sort of funny. "A practical joke...You're serious?"

Of course. This is pretty good. And what makes this even bettter is that I--the slacker, the joker, the screw-around, the guy just begging to be fired--am NOT the mastermind behind this joke. I believe it was my manager.

The Background
My coworker and friend is getting married on Saturday. The manager decided to throw him a surprise party tomorrow morning at a restaurant in Arcadia.

The practical joke fits the definition: a joke for a practical purpose. We somehow need to get my coworker (who, for the sake of discussion, we'll call Eduardo) from our office in El Monte to the restaurant in Arcadia without him thinking something is up.

The Joke
How does one get somebody from a government tax office in El Monte to a restaurant in Arcadia, all while thinking it's a regular work day? Conundrum.

Let me stop to say that I'm proud of my workgroup (and especially my manager) for wanting to expend so much effort on this. It's like my fear of work has spread to everyone else.

Where does one start? One has to start with getting Eduardo out of the office. Why would he get out of the office? To assist another officer.

As many of you know, I work in collections for a government agency. Some of the people we collect from are Potentially Dangerous Payers (PDPs). You don't go alone to a PDP, or you're a Goddamn idiot. The manager requested, then, that Eduardo meet at Jeb's house tomorrow morning at 8 AM to assist him with a meeting at a PDP's business. I will be there already waiting for them.

We will get in the car, presumably to go to the PDP. I assume that Eduardo will want to see the casefile. You don't go into a situation like this with no case file. No case file? No practical joke. The case file has everything: an archive, an initial summary of available information, balances owed.

This is where I come in. We need that case file, and we need it to look real. And we need the PDP to sound dangerous. Because the more dangerous he sounds, the greater our lives are at risk--and that's fun stuff!

So Jimmy Cardolucci dba Jimmy Marcino's Storage in Claremont, California was born. History on the case will show that the previous officers who attempted to collect were threatened, and repeatedly intimidated. I was thinking of adding some criminal records of misdemeanor sodomy (Does that crime even exist? And is that a bit too racy for a work-related practical joke?). There's ample evidence that the payer has unreported offshore income, and also receives income he from a business he sold to his wife for a dollar (called a transferee liability). Jimmy Cardolucci lives in a humungous house, but reports $15,000 of income per year. This type of thing, dig?

And on the way there, I'm going to pull out my tire iron from under my front seat to show I'm ready--to show him I mean business. Fire with fire. That type of thing. And Jeb's going to explain our duties: I'll be in charge of taking an inventory of all items for later seizure in the name of the interests of the Government, and Eduardo will be in charge of "shadowing" the payer. Eduardo will be told to follow him to make sure he doesn't do something like grab a weapon, or make a run for it. This is shit that we, under no circumstances, are authorized to do under any circumstances. And we'll be so dead-set on doing it, I think we'll just confuse the shit out of Eduardo.

Since the restaurant is on the way to Claremont, we'll say we're stopping in for a cup of coffee. If we do a good job, he'll be shitting his pants. And at the restaurant, everyone will be there to surprise him and wish him congratulations on getting married (or ending his life, depending on how you look at marriage).

I may wear my trench tomorrow.

Possibility of Practical Joke Reversal
I'll admit, I'm nervous about this because it seems a little strange. Why would my group come up with a practical joke, unless it's aimed at the one that fucks with everybody? I'm afraid that Eduardo is in the 'know' and I'm the odd man out that everyone is trying to fuck. If this is a multi-layered practical joke (a joke within a joke), then I'll be even more impressed.

But I have nothing to celebrate. Eduardo does. So the chances are pretty great that this will be aimed at him, rather than me. Unless my manager came up with this great ceremony to fire me. That would be fucking awesome.

No More Simpsons, Please

The Sitcom Problem
I am an aficionado of the sitcom. Something about that formulaic medium that just draws me in. I make references to Seinfeld episodes on a daily basis. But other people do this too. I think we do this for a variety of reasons, but that's not really the point.

I watch sitcoms. I feel I know good sitcoms. And what I have to say next may shock you, but I'm a sitcom professional. I know some of you will disagree, and nay-say (You're such a nay-sayer! Always nay-saying!), but it's time to wake up and face the truth. After watching a bit of TV tonight, I've concluded the following:

The Simpsons has run its course and should have ended around the time Seinfeld ended. Seinfeld went out at its peak of popularity. The Simpsons continues to drag on. And think about it--they started around the same time time; they wore born in the same generation. Seinfeld ended eight years ago, though.

And have you actually sat down and watched an episode of The Simpsons lately? It's almost painful. They've used up all their good ideas. Now, there's no plot. The characters are old, dull, predictable. It's sad, really. I actually have a desire to read a Goddamn book while watching this show. Now that's pretty scary.

My Success Seminars
You think I'm kidding? You think I'm joking about giving seminars about how to be successful? If I weren't serious, would I have sat down and come up with a list of seminar TITLES? No, I'm much too lazy for that. I'm talking about holding seminars that will teach you--YES, YOU!--how to be successful like me--NOT QUITE LIKE ME, BUT CLOSE ENOUGH THAT I WON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT YOU COMPETING!

I got a lot of requests (okay, just a few (and by a few, I mean one--thank you, Le))) for the Walking Down the Aisle With Success, so I'll probably do this one next. But I'll need more than one person attending, so I'll put up some customer testimonial to convince YOU (my potential customers (NOT victims)) to plunk down your hard-earned cash for my seminar.

TESTIMONIAL FOR Walking Down the Aisle With Success...
Read what others had to say about this life-altering program.

Ed from the Fort Bend County Maximum Security Correctional Facility says, "Before this program, I was a wreck. I was scared and felt like a failure. I was in prison after all. But Mr. Medinski and his seminar helped me to realize that I was in a maximum security prison. You can't get any grander than MAXIMUM. So when the other fellas dressed me up and make me parade around like the block whore, I now feel a sense of purpose--a sense of success! Thank you Mr. Medinski!"

Rodney, the mayor of a southern Colorado town says, "Before the program, I felt like a big failure. I was caught using town property to help the South American cartels run drugs through to the north. But Mr. Medinski taught me that I wasn't a failure at being mayor, I was a success at international import/export. This really didn't have to do with walking down any aisles."

Edna from Blythe, California said, "I loved the program. Loved it! I love it. It was great. Can I get my heroin now? You said I'd get some NEW syringes if I said that I loved it. Don't be holding out on me. Don't call me a crack whore! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!!! I'm GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!!!!!"

Success Seminars!

Quick Bitch Fit:
You know what? They've made it much harder for honest guys like me to illegally download music that I don't want to spend my hard-earned money on. There's almost nothing to download anymore.

The Infamy of The Pet Goat
I watched some of Fahrenheit 9/11 again, almost a year after its U.S. theatrical release. I originally watched it in a theater in Houston, Texas (obviously a Republican strong-hold). I'm upset all over again--especially after the election. He's well into his second term and nothing has changed. Seeing it after his second election into office when some time has passed gives me new perspective on the film and the American presidency.

Coincidentally, I also watched Europa Europa this morning--which is the affects of World War II on a German Jew whose family moves to Poland. His family makes him and his brother, Isaac, leave ahead of the German invasion of Poland, where he gets separated from his brother and ends up in a Russian orphanage, is later captured by the Nazis, and disguises himself as a pure-bred German.

These two films hit harder when watched together, because together they raise some ripe questions: Who launched an invasion against an innocent people in the name of personal gain? Who gained support by reducing the enemy to faceless animals? Who manipulated and controlled the media to make it seem that their people was the strongest, most powerful, and yet at risk of losing everything? No. Not Tony Danza, you Goddamn idiot.

Seminars for Success
I'm thinking about putting together some seminars. And why not?

I hate my job. And people pay money to go to seminars. So, I'm going to put together a presentation in a professional seminar format and charge $400 a head for a two-day seminar. I think using really obscure, original terminology will confuse my potential customers, yet will make them open their wallets.

After all, "Success Without Conflatration!" sounds like an interesting seminar. "Conflagration? A large destructive fire? Hell, success without a large destructive fire sounds like that could help me! $400 sounds like a bargain!" The key is obfuscating the titles enough so that they make no sense; out of chaos comes order. And if you think I'm quoting Nietzsche and not Blazing Saddles, I'm successful here, too. But seminar titles that are stupid-sounding statements I think will be pretty hot sellers. I'll get full-houses for sure. Especially if each title has the word "success" in it. This will totally be a success.

So I'm working on coming up with titles for these seminars--odd-sounding seminars in high-end resorts in Brentwood and Scottsdale. This is a good idea, I think. Why not? I hate my job, and if this works, I will be successful. So if I do get enough people to attend these seminars, then I'll have proven myself as a success. I'll have found a good source of income while removing myself from my job. To me, that is success. Getting people to believe this? Another success.

So, tell me which seminars you'll attend and just make the check out to Medinski Motivational Success LLC. Our motto? "If you don't find success at one of our seminars, attend another and maybe you won't be such a Goddamn loser." We have a an iron-clad money-back guarantee: If you attend one of our seminars and have written documentation notarized and signed by four witnesses and stamped by the county assessor, you can attend another seminar. If you still don't feel it has provided you with insight to success, provide more written documentation notarized and signed by six witnesses (different than the first four), plus a minimum four page explanation of why you don't think it worked, and a check for $50 to cover processing, you will get your money refunded to you after an Administrative Review Panel reviews it and agrees with your position.

Upcoming Seminars
Success is Something You Breathe
Genital Herpes Vs. Congenital Success
Don't Let Success Sodomize You
Coordinating Success With Your Phlebotomist
Lobotomize Your Success Lobe!
Success: The Other White Meat
Creamy Success and Success Meat Pie
You and Success: The Loud Obnoxious Assholes at the Party
Walking Down the Aisle With Success
In-Flight Movie? Success
Don't Dismiss Success
Absent From School, Present For Success
Take the Bus of Success To Successville
Sucking the Cock of Mr. Success
Start Your Day With Some Success Cereal

Foot Pain and Road Rage

Yesterday was quite a strange day.

I saw two instances of angry road rage--and both directed towards me. But I did nothing wrong. What's going on in these peoples' heads? Man, I used to be into the road rage thing, but found it pisses people off more if you yell out apologies than epithets.

If someone yells out, "You need to watch where you're fucking going, asshole!"

An apology and, "I'm a Goddamn idiot!" confuses them--ends the fight, but leaves them defeated. People seem to want to fight over driving skills. Once you agree with them, they're deflated. "Well, okay, then...You ARE a Goddamn idiot...DAMN IT! HE WON!"

My First Normal Injury
My whole life, my injuries have been do to really stupid things. Things where when people asked, for example, "How'd you hurt yourself?" I'd have to say something as odd as, "I was playing Scrabble and fell." Yes. This did actually happen. No. I will not talk about it.

Yesterday, I hurt myself while kickboxing at the gym. I kicked the bag wrong. I accidentally landed a kick with the tips of my toes, rather than my foot and leg. I said, "I think I hurt myself when I kicked the bag...This is great!"

My kickboxing partner asked, "How'd you hurt it?"

"By kicking the bag wrong," thus repeating what I'd already exlaimed in pain.

"What kind of pain is it?"

"Bad pain."

"No, I mean...how's it hurt?"

"Bad."

"No. I mean, where'd you hurt it?"

"My foot. The right one."

"I know. I'm trying to find out what kind of pain it is."

"Bad pain. On my foot. My right foot."

Then he stopped asking.

But this is the first time I could say my injury was not completely from my own incompetence. Yeah, I accidentally kicked the bag wrong--which is somewhat stupid, but it was an honest mistake. When I tell people, though, that I hurt myself kickboxing, that's a good, normal thing. I sound like some sort of active guy. "Kickboxing, huh?"

Do you know that people will look at you funny when you tell them an injury was caused when you sneezed really, really hard? "Yes, I threw my back out when I sneezed." Also, more recently, I was known to say, "I threw my back out after walking up a flight of stairs."

I'd rather not give any more details about my Scrabble injury.

My Big Dumbass Injury
In college, I got bursitis in my right elbow. It really, really hurt and was starting to turn red. I was planning a doctor's visit for the next day. What did I do? Though I could hardly move my arm, I thought it'd be fun to fit in a game of racquetball with a friend. I figured I'd win, since this friend I was going to play was one of the worst racquetball players I'd ever played.

The first match, I won no problem. The second one, I noticed my game was falling apart. And then, halfway through this second match (and the score was tied, which should have told me how bad things had gotten), she asked, "Are you okay? You look terrible."

We decided to take a water break. Outside, the weekly meeting of the racquetball club had gotten underway and we went to walk by them, and a few of them asked, "Holy Christ, what the fuck happened to your arm?"

I was about to explain, "It's fine. Just bursitis. I probably shouldn't be playing, but I'm going to a doctor tomorrow anyway." Instead, I looked down to see that my elbow had grown to the size of a compact car. The whole racquetball club was looking at me. Some seem disgusted, but all looked at the freak with the oversized, red, painful-looking elbow. "Maybe you should see a doctor," the main racquetball club guy said. They all stared with a mixture of disgust and awe. "I've never seen anything like that before," he added.

I was playing with a rubberband and shot myself in the eye when it broke. That's another minor injury that I didn't want to have to explain. My problem is that I always tell the truth.

"Why's your eye red?" I was asked at work shortly after it happened. "And...are those tears?"

"I shot myself in the eye with a rubberband."

And then there was the half-questioning, "Oh." Said as a statement, but as much of a question as if they asked, "You shot yourself in the Goddamn eye with a fucking rubberband?"

"It wasn't on purpose." This I said as if it explained everything.

Then there was the time I was on crutches for cellulitis in my kneecap. That was embarassing and odd, because I could still walk. So I'd crutch everywhere, and if I got to staircases, I'd run up them. People tend to let you to the front of lines, too, when you're on crutches. Like the line for the shuttle bus at school. Of course, then they all looked betrayed when I crutched to the front of the line, took both crutches under one arm, and hop up on the bus. "Awww, I thought you were a cripple."

A Domain Name
Let's say I was preparing to purchase a domain name for the blog. Any ideas?

My Boss Puked in a Trash Can

I'll Start With This Oddity...
I was sitting there going over one of my cases with my boss. This is a composed, professional woman--a career federal employee in my agency for almost thirty years. I was seeking guidance on a particularly hairy issue. She kept coughing due to the drastic change in weather (or, as the locals call it, June Gloom). Then she had this really long coughing fit and said, "I think I'm going to puke."

I implored her to run to the bathroom, but she said she was joking.

Later in the day, I found out that my boss really did end up puking in her trash can shortly after I walked away. I was sitting in an interrogation booth with her while she chewed me out for screwing something up. I believe her puking may have been something she was trying to keep from me, but then a senior officer came in and said, "Hey, I heard you puked in your trashcan. Can I have the big chunks?"

"There's no big chunks," she said. "Just fluid, mostly. I didn't have much to eat before I vomited."

Then the senior officer said, "Don't look disgusted, Ryan. I'm all about recycling."

They both looked at me as if I was the fucked up one. I slapped myself across the face at this point, because I thought I was in the middle of one of those really strange dreams you get when you eat late at night.

A New Work Strategy
I've heard about this one woman in my organization (though not in my office) who has this horribly abrasive personality. They tried firing her twice--and twice, she sued. Twice, she won. Twice, she got large settlements. This lady is racist, and shoots her mouth off all the time; yet she charged the agency with discrimination against her because she is an older Jewish woman. Right now, she's in a position away from people where they basically just babysit her and make sure she stays away from other employees.

This woman is a model for us all. Of course, I must act disgusted when the managers or other officers tell me about this woman. "Oh, what a bitch," and "Oh, how can she do that?!"

But this woman has figured it out: she's paid to pretty much come to work and stay away from other people. Her coworkers and managers are especially happy when she doesn't show up to work (which is actually rare).

How do you get like that? How do you get it so everyone hates you and files grievances? And then they basically just pay you to keep quiet and not screw up anything. Wow. I think we should all take a lesson from this inspirational, amazing woman.

Deep Throat is again just an old porno.

America has very few great mysteries. We're a relatively simple, war-mongering people, after all. But Deep Throat was huge. Kept secret for years, nobody truly knew the identity of the man responsible for bringing down Nixon. Books have been written about this very topic. People devoted their careers to trying to figure out WHO Deep Throat was. And of course, there was the book and movie, All the President's Men.

But then, yesterday I turn on the TV and find out it's Felt. And they say it like it's no big deal--as if America hasn't been wondering for thirty-something years who saved the country from the president. They might as well have been saying something as obvious as, "Cigarettes cause cancer. And by the way, Deep Throat was W. Mark Felt." And I hear this from some two-bit hussy on the local morning news. It was depressing. Damn it. Not even someone cool like Tom Brokaw or Ted Coppel. And this was announced, because he deigned to have an article done for Vanity Fair. Let me repeat that: the biggest American mystery of our time was written up in Vanity Fair. Yes, that hard-hitting glamour magazine that has really been at the front of social, economic, and political commentary. Look out, Economist!

Now there's nothing. No big mystery, no big excitement. It was released in such an unexciting, pithy way. No pomp. No circumstance. No pomp or circumstance.

ANALogy
What if I told you I was going to do this great magic trick? Not only that, but I get you to believe it will be the most amazing trick you'll EVER SEE. You'll be like, "Wow, sounds great." And then I say, "Okay, wait right here. I've got to build up to it. You'll love it. Just wait...RIGHT THERE!! AND DON'T FUCKING MOVE! Because if you move, you'll ruin the trick--the most awesome trick you'll ever see!"

So I leave you standing there for 31 years. As time goes by, you wonder about this trick. "Wow, this trick must be amazing. I mean, it must be really great if he's leaving me standing here for 31 years." And then I come back and pull a coin out of your ear. You understand what I'm sayin ghere?

How Felt Should Have Made His Announcement
First of all, you must remember that Felt was the deputy director of the FBI. That means he has lots of connections as the former number 2 man at the F-fucking-B-I. All right, so he uses those connections to jam the signals of ALL TV stations in the United States (and what the fuck? Canada and Mexico too). So then he takes control of every channel in North America and has complete control of the airwaves. But he doesn't just SAY, "Hey, assholes. I'm Deep Throat." You've got to build up to an announcement like that.

Fade from black. You see a huge cannon. Then BANG, Mr. Felt is SHOT out of the cannon across the Potomac River. He lands on the other side and rolls a few times (no padding or helmet or anything). He then stands up, dusts himself off, and walks to a podium. As he walks, music plays--I'm thinking "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash. He says nothing. The music fades, and Felt holds up a large sign that simply says, "I am..." and then he puts it down and holds up another sign that says, "Deep Throat." Then, you hear a piano playing and the camera pans to Dave Brubeck, and he's playing "Take Five." Roll credits. Dissolve out.

Now THAT'S how you say you're the one responsible of changing the face of American politics. Sweet, huh?