My recollection of this is unclear, but I think I sleepwalked last night. I'm not positive, but I think I did. I have no witnesses, but I remember it kind of like a dream. And there were other clues.
I have a paranoia of earthquakes for some reason. I've mentioned this in the past. They happen all the time in LA, supposedly, but we can't feel 99.9% of them because they're so small.
So here we go to my sleepwalking. I awoke because I swear I felt a huge jolt. Of course, perhaps it was just me jolting awake and I somehow took that as an earthquake. It was, after all, 2 in the morning--not my peak time for logical, cohesive thought. I know it was 2:00 AM because I looked at my alarm clock. What came next, I don't know. I thought I should check around my apartment. Why? Fuck if I know. I, for some reason, equated EARTHQUAKE with SOMEONE MUST BE IN MY APARTMENT. I have no idea why I thought this. I hadn't had anything to drink before bed.
So I got up, and walked around my apartment. From there, things get a little fuzzy. I remember walking into my living room and standing there for a long time. Nothing had fallen off the shelves, so I continued to the kitchen, where I opened the fridge and closed it again. Here is where there is a huge gap. All I remember next is tripping over my shoes and then staggering to my bed.
Bizarre isn't it? And when I looked back at the clock, about an hour had
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Big Ding Dong
No blog for today. You'll have to come back tomorrow. Now I'll tell you why I'm not writing a blog today: I have decided to party hearty. I have chosen not to be productive and write in my blog. I instead have decided that hemmoraging money would be a good way to spend my weekend.
Therefore, I cannot write a blog for today.
It's late. My new Car and Driver came. I'm excited to read it. You should be excited for me. And I only got about three or four hours of sleep last night, which definately isn't enough. I have to cut into my sleep to read this magazine. That's a bit stressing. And I can't add having to update my Goddamn blog to this stress.
I hung out with my new friend today--the engaged one. She warned me that she possibly wouldn't recognize me. And she sure didn't. I wouldn't have recognized her either, except she was a small Asian girl in the section of the bookstore where she said she'd meet me.
Did you know there's a Goddamn castle in Pasadena? The Green Castle. Who would have thought? Right in the middle of a block and *BAM* a Goddamn castle. Whoa, where'd that come from? For my reader's benefit, here's a word of advice: Don't try hopping the fence to try getting into Green Castle, because evidently there are many, many surveillance cameras.
Hey, Schlomo...Stay Jewish.
Therefore, I cannot write a blog for today.
It's late. My new Car and Driver came. I'm excited to read it. You should be excited for me. And I only got about three or four hours of sleep last night, which definately isn't enough. I have to cut into my sleep to read this magazine. That's a bit stressing. And I can't add having to update my Goddamn blog to this stress.
I hung out with my new friend today--the engaged one. She warned me that she possibly wouldn't recognize me. And she sure didn't. I wouldn't have recognized her either, except she was a small Asian girl in the section of the bookstore where she said she'd meet me.
Did you know there's a Goddamn castle in Pasadena? The Green Castle. Who would have thought? Right in the middle of a block and *BAM* a Goddamn castle. Whoa, where'd that come from? For my reader's benefit, here's a word of advice: Don't try hopping the fence to try getting into Green Castle, because evidently there are many, many surveillance cameras.
Hey, Schlomo...Stay Jewish.
Another Rejection
Last night, I went out and got drunk with a couple of friends. However, I've got a low tolerance for alcohol, so it didn't take as much for me to get toasted, though I wasn't blasted or "fucked up."
What was fucked up was when my friends said there is really little difference between me when I'm sober and when I'm really drunk. I was a bit surprised, maybe a little insulted.
"Well?" they said, "You act the same either way. You actually seem pretty normal right now. For you."
I'll grant that I walk into things. I slur my words a little. I get dizzy. I say idiotic things. I do all of this when I'm drunk, too, but I figured there'd be some sort of visible difference.
Another Rejection
Fast on the heels of last week's excitement of hitting on the engaged woman, I tried my hand at wooing another girl. This time, this girl was prescreened by my friend: really nice, about my age, Asian, not married, not engaged, no children.
I was already drunk when she arrived at the Howl at the Moon in Universal City. My friends, however, swore they couldn't tell. So I bought her a shot--I had to try to even the score. And so we hung out. It was so loud, we could hardly talk. However, I mostly (stupidly) talked about how I was drunk, but how I always insist on using correct grammar. And then we all left after listening to some music, and I bought us some chicken tacos. Great. Chicken fucking tacos. Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "I'll worry about how much I'm spending when I sober up." I spent money like I wasn't a broke government employee.
After the chicken fucking tacos, I sobered a little (which was a downer) and we went to the Rumba Room and we danced. Okay, that was pretty fun. But before dancing, she was really nice and seemed to be really receptive to me. Then after dancing, I could sense that my skills on the dance floor had been so poor, she'd lost all respect.
And here it is. I asked if she wanted to hang out, go out, do something sometime. I'd noticed my approval rating rapidly dropping--DROPPING--but it wasn't to "Governor of California" levels yet, so I didn't want to beat around the bush any more than I had to. Her answer? "Oh, I hang out with these guys (my friend and his fiance, who are both her friends as well) every week."
So there it was. Rather than a 'no,' I got, "I hang out with these guys every week." This meant that if I go out next Friday, I'll be able to see her. Translation: "Go fuck yourself."
Hmmm.
This single thing doesn't seem to be working out too well. I need to find an inventive, unique way to get the lay-deez. And why are all the cool chicks engaged? Fuck!
What was fucked up was when my friends said there is really little difference between me when I'm sober and when I'm really drunk. I was a bit surprised, maybe a little insulted.
"Well?" they said, "You act the same either way. You actually seem pretty normal right now. For you."
I'll grant that I walk into things. I slur my words a little. I get dizzy. I say idiotic things. I do all of this when I'm drunk, too, but I figured there'd be some sort of visible difference.
Another Rejection
Fast on the heels of last week's excitement of hitting on the engaged woman, I tried my hand at wooing another girl. This time, this girl was prescreened by my friend: really nice, about my age, Asian, not married, not engaged, no children.
I was already drunk when she arrived at the Howl at the Moon in Universal City. My friends, however, swore they couldn't tell. So I bought her a shot--I had to try to even the score. And so we hung out. It was so loud, we could hardly talk. However, I mostly (stupidly) talked about how I was drunk, but how I always insist on using correct grammar. And then we all left after listening to some music, and I bought us some chicken tacos. Great. Chicken fucking tacos. Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "I'll worry about how much I'm spending when I sober up." I spent money like I wasn't a broke government employee.
After the chicken fucking tacos, I sobered a little (which was a downer) and we went to the Rumba Room and we danced. Okay, that was pretty fun. But before dancing, she was really nice and seemed to be really receptive to me. Then after dancing, I could sense that my skills on the dance floor had been so poor, she'd lost all respect.
And here it is. I asked if she wanted to hang out, go out, do something sometime. I'd noticed my approval rating rapidly dropping--DROPPING--but it wasn't to "Governor of California" levels yet, so I didn't want to beat around the bush any more than I had to. Her answer? "Oh, I hang out with these guys (my friend and his fiance, who are both her friends as well) every week."
So there it was. Rather than a 'no,' I got, "I hang out with these guys every week." This meant that if I go out next Friday, I'll be able to see her. Translation: "Go fuck yourself."
Hmmm.
This single thing doesn't seem to be working out too well. I need to find an inventive, unique way to get the lay-deez. And why are all the cool chicks engaged? Fuck!
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Your Taxes Pay These People's Salaries (unless you're from Canada or Australia)
I've spent this entire week in training. This is where I sit with my colleagues in a classroom and listen to lectures. Imagine sitting in a room for eight hours listening to people read--yes, read--the United States tax code (otherwise known as United States Code Title 26, Internal Revenue Code) out loud. Tax law. Eight hours. To pass my time, I've decided to grow a brain tumor.
I keep hoping my heart stops. When my heart stops, my pain stops. And then, there is peace.
I observe those around me. There are people in government service that you just don't see outside in private industry. I watch and learn; by this, I mean I watch the others and think, "Why are these people walking around without helmets on their head?" What a bunch of fuckin' putzes. I write about those that stand out...
The Questioner
This one woman repeatedly asks questions and makes comments that just don't seem to connect--with anything. She averages one question per 5 minutes, or approximately 96 questions or bizarre comments during a single day.
Let me try and illustrate what this woman does. Let's say the lecture is in the neighborhood of a balance due on a personal income tax return. Let's say it's $455, and this wasn't paid because the person died right as they wrote the check to send to the IRS. All right, a decedent case; you check the probate records and find the executor of the estate--oh, Shanika, you have a question?
"Yeah, what happens if the taxpayer was writing the check to pay the $455 with a red pen? Because let me tell you something, I know somebody who died once because they choked on a piece of raw chicken. How they were eating raw chicken in the first place, I don't know. Because don't you think she'd have died of Salmonella anyway, because you can get that from raw chicken? And what was odd was that she had a checkbook in her hand when she died. So...what about that? Do you see? I mean, what happens with that $455 and the Salmonella?"
And the instructors stand there and stare at her completely befuddled, and then attempt to answer her question as if she's a reasonable, intelligent human being. There is no such thing as a stupid question? Oh, I beg to differ. The instructors have started just letting her ramble on, and then answer her questions with, "Okay...So we're just going to go ahead and move on."
The Fucking Genius
Well now, this is the person that knows the answer--to every single question you could possibly think of. He puts in his two cents at every opportunity, because he obviously knows the answer. Obviously. Today, he was telling the group some wierd horseshit law about seizing and liquidating securities (stocks, bonds, poop, etc.) in Nevada, since states have different laws about certain asset seizures. And then he said, "I have a good understanding of this. My wife is a financial advisor--excuse me, I mean a certified financial advisor."
I immediately turned to my neighbor and wrote him out a prescription for Percodan. My parents are both pharmacists and my uncle is a doctor. Why not? Obviously, if his wife is a certified financial advisor and she took some finance courses, that makes him suddenly qualified to pontificate freely about securities and finance (things he knows nothing about). Therefore, I am qualified to write out prescriptions. I excused myself so I could wash up for surgery. I decided to remove my neighbor's tonsils to prove my medical expertise.
Obviously, this guy's wife taking a few finance courses and getting some horsecock frou-frou certification means more than my Goddamn masters degree in finance. Fuck.
The Government Lifer
This is the situation with many of the instructors, but one in particular stands out. He worked his way up through the ranks. He put himself through college and started a family while working up through public service. He works at the same office he started at almost 30 years ago. He seems to love it. This man takes his job very, very seriously.
If I spend another year at my job, I will probably eat a box of rat poison. He's been there 30 years. I wonder how people can spend so much time in such a slow-moving, boring environment. I can't even figure out how I'm going to make it to the end of next week. If I were him, and I woke up one day to see I'd spent 30 years of my LIFE working for the same agency in the same organizational division in the same city in the same office, I would cry. I would cry, and cry, and then quit my job and move on a kibbutz. I would sky-dive without a parachute. And then I'd probably do something drastic.
I keep hoping my heart stops. When my heart stops, my pain stops. And then, there is peace.
I observe those around me. There are people in government service that you just don't see outside in private industry. I watch and learn; by this, I mean I watch the others and think, "Why are these people walking around without helmets on their head?" What a bunch of fuckin' putzes. I write about those that stand out...
The Questioner
This one woman repeatedly asks questions and makes comments that just don't seem to connect--with anything. She averages one question per 5 minutes, or approximately 96 questions or bizarre comments during a single day.
Let me try and illustrate what this woman does. Let's say the lecture is in the neighborhood of a balance due on a personal income tax return. Let's say it's $455, and this wasn't paid because the person died right as they wrote the check to send to the IRS. All right, a decedent case; you check the probate records and find the executor of the estate--oh, Shanika, you have a question?
"Yeah, what happens if the taxpayer was writing the check to pay the $455 with a red pen? Because let me tell you something, I know somebody who died once because they choked on a piece of raw chicken. How they were eating raw chicken in the first place, I don't know. Because don't you think she'd have died of Salmonella anyway, because you can get that from raw chicken? And what was odd was that she had a checkbook in her hand when she died. So...what about that? Do you see? I mean, what happens with that $455 and the Salmonella?"
And the instructors stand there and stare at her completely befuddled, and then attempt to answer her question as if she's a reasonable, intelligent human being. There is no such thing as a stupid question? Oh, I beg to differ. The instructors have started just letting her ramble on, and then answer her questions with, "Okay...So we're just going to go ahead and move on."
The Fucking Genius
Well now, this is the person that knows the answer--to every single question you could possibly think of. He puts in his two cents at every opportunity, because he obviously knows the answer. Obviously. Today, he was telling the group some wierd horseshit law about seizing and liquidating securities (stocks, bonds, poop, etc.) in Nevada, since states have different laws about certain asset seizures. And then he said, "I have a good understanding of this. My wife is a financial advisor--excuse me, I mean a certified financial advisor."
I immediately turned to my neighbor and wrote him out a prescription for Percodan. My parents are both pharmacists and my uncle is a doctor. Why not? Obviously, if his wife is a certified financial advisor and she took some finance courses, that makes him suddenly qualified to pontificate freely about securities and finance (things he knows nothing about). Therefore, I am qualified to write out prescriptions. I excused myself so I could wash up for surgery. I decided to remove my neighbor's tonsils to prove my medical expertise.
Obviously, this guy's wife taking a few finance courses and getting some horsecock frou-frou certification means more than my Goddamn masters degree in finance. Fuck.
The Government Lifer
This is the situation with many of the instructors, but one in particular stands out. He worked his way up through the ranks. He put himself through college and started a family while working up through public service. He works at the same office he started at almost 30 years ago. He seems to love it. This man takes his job very, very seriously.
If I spend another year at my job, I will probably eat a box of rat poison. He's been there 30 years. I wonder how people can spend so much time in such a slow-moving, boring environment. I can't even figure out how I'm going to make it to the end of next week. If I were him, and I woke up one day to see I'd spent 30 years of my LIFE working for the same agency in the same organizational division in the same city in the same office, I would cry. I would cry, and cry, and then quit my job and move on a kibbutz. I would sky-dive without a parachute. And then I'd probably do something drastic.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
G-d Damnit!!
Australia seems to make waste as much a part of their government system as ours does.
I just feel that if all the money spent on waste in the operation of our Government were instead spent on education, we'd have a bunch of brilliant little bastards running around understanding calculus by the 4th grade, and speaking Latin in the halls of public schools. If the money were instead spent on defense (and let's face it, there's a better chance that the money would go towards the president's dry-cleaning fund than education), every American would have a built-in Commie-seeking laser gun built into their forehead. I suppose waste, though, is a necessary cost of government. '
Speaking of Waste...
Meanwhile, my major accomplishment of the day was building a tower out of candy. Is this what my life has come to? Forget reading an exciting new book. Forget writing a poem, or even a haiku, or G-d (yes, let's be Jewish for a moment) forbid a short story. The very highlight of my day was taking several candies and stacking them into a tower. Granted, it was a large tower, and everyone else in the room thought it was distracting. And they also all got angry that I was taking their candy to build my tower. But I told them, "Listen, this is the cost of progress. You've got to give up some of your candy for us to move forward." They're so fucking close-minded.
I was thinking of taking Legos tomorrow. Fuck the candy. You can't snap candy together. And when I ran to the john, people ate part of the tower. People won't eat the Legos.
Also, I ate lunch in the building where Judge Ito (you remember him from the OJ trial) works. Isn't that crazy? It's a federal judicial building. They've got an okay cafeteria. They don't serve liquor, though. But then no federal building does, I guess. I asked some friends if they thought I'd get in trouble if I went in reeking of alcohol and stumbling drunk. The general concensus? No. But they'd be concerned.
I think it's experiment time.
I just feel that if all the money spent on waste in the operation of our Government were instead spent on education, we'd have a bunch of brilliant little bastards running around understanding calculus by the 4th grade, and speaking Latin in the halls of public schools. If the money were instead spent on defense (and let's face it, there's a better chance that the money would go towards the president's dry-cleaning fund than education), every American would have a built-in Commie-seeking laser gun built into their forehead. I suppose waste, though, is a necessary cost of government. '
Speaking of Waste...
Meanwhile, my major accomplishment of the day was building a tower out of candy. Is this what my life has come to? Forget reading an exciting new book. Forget writing a poem, or even a haiku, or G-d (yes, let's be Jewish for a moment) forbid a short story. The very highlight of my day was taking several candies and stacking them into a tower. Granted, it was a large tower, and everyone else in the room thought it was distracting. And they also all got angry that I was taking their candy to build my tower. But I told them, "Listen, this is the cost of progress. You've got to give up some of your candy for us to move forward." They're so fucking close-minded.
I was thinking of taking Legos tomorrow. Fuck the candy. You can't snap candy together. And when I ran to the john, people ate part of the tower. People won't eat the Legos.
Also, I ate lunch in the building where Judge Ito (you remember him from the OJ trial) works. Isn't that crazy? It's a federal judicial building. They've got an okay cafeteria. They don't serve liquor, though. But then no federal building does, I guess. I asked some friends if they thought I'd get in trouble if I went in reeking of alcohol and stumbling drunk. The general concensus? No. But they'd be concerned.
I think it's experiment time.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Can't Sleep, Won't Sleep
I've attempted to explain to a friend what it's like to have a government job.
My explanation actually also answers everyone's question at work: "Ryan, why do you always look tired?" I always tell them it's my contacts. But that's not it.
Every night, I go to bed later and later. I go to bed later and later, because the later I go to bed, the longer I'm awake. Once I go to sleep, that means I'll have to wake up. And when I wake up, I have to go to work. So I stay awake, because it seems to put off me having to go to work. And that is why I always look tired. It is procrastinated insomnia--a disorder of my own invention.
"Ryan, you look like you're about to fall asleep." I get this all fucking day at work. People say this because I have bags under my eyes and my eyes are bloodshot. However, no matter how little sleep I get, I can't fall asleep. I don't sleep in public places.
I go to work for eight hours, plus 45 minutes for lunch. Those eight hours stretch out. This morning already feels like it happened a week ago.
Of course, most of my colleagues seem to enjoy it. They really seem to be able to wrap themselves into the role of a mindless low-level government functionary. I seem to be having problems adjusting. I've been thinking longer and harder about delving into alcoholism as a new hobby, but my blog might suffer.
And we can't have that.
Anybody else out there have a government job? Does it suck balls as bad as mine?
My explanation actually also answers everyone's question at work: "Ryan, why do you always look tired?" I always tell them it's my contacts. But that's not it.
Every night, I go to bed later and later. I go to bed later and later, because the later I go to bed, the longer I'm awake. Once I go to sleep, that means I'll have to wake up. And when I wake up, I have to go to work. So I stay awake, because it seems to put off me having to go to work. And that is why I always look tired. It is procrastinated insomnia--a disorder of my own invention.
"Ryan, you look like you're about to fall asleep." I get this all fucking day at work. People say this because I have bags under my eyes and my eyes are bloodshot. However, no matter how little sleep I get, I can't fall asleep. I don't sleep in public places.
I go to work for eight hours, plus 45 minutes for lunch. Those eight hours stretch out. This morning already feels like it happened a week ago.
Of course, most of my colleagues seem to enjoy it. They really seem to be able to wrap themselves into the role of a mindless low-level government functionary. I seem to be having problems adjusting. I've been thinking longer and harder about delving into alcoholism as a new hobby, but my blog might suffer.
And we can't have that.
Anybody else out there have a government job? Does it suck balls as bad as mine?
Monday, May 02, 2005
UPDATE
So I talked to a friend about the proposal to be this girl's friend. He didn't think it sounded as odd or preposterous as I did. I told him I thought it was odd because I felt like a motherfucking moron for hitting on an engaged girl.
"Come on, Ryan, she wants to be your friend. Why not? I mean, so you're friends. You hang out with her, you talk to her, maybe you go to lunch with her or something. Hang out. What's so bad about that? She seemed nice," he said. I had to agree. "You know, why can't you just be friends with a girl without her being your girlfriend or what have you?" And I pointed out that most of my friends back home are women. "And what if she has friends that are hotties?" Well, you know, that'd be cool, but it's good to have friends. She was fun to talk to--good friend material.
"What if she has hotty girlfriends that like women, but are still straight?" Okay, friends are great, but straight lesbians that want men--those are cool.
"Maybe she has hot girlfriends that like Jewish guys to watch." Hmm. Hot lezzy action.
"Maybe those hot girlfriends will want you to watch and occasionally join in and do what you want with them." And then I pointed out how odd it was that this girl's friendship proposal had so quickly turned into an erotic lesbian daydream. However, he was right. So we hung up and I took a quick cold shower.
I then called her and said, "Yeah, all right, let's do this friends thing. Why not?"
So I have a new friend. I still feel like a motherfuckin buffoon, though.
All well. Hot lesbian action, here I come...
"Come on, Ryan, she wants to be your friend. Why not? I mean, so you're friends. You hang out with her, you talk to her, maybe you go to lunch with her or something. Hang out. What's so bad about that? She seemed nice," he said. I had to agree. "You know, why can't you just be friends with a girl without her being your girlfriend or what have you?" And I pointed out that most of my friends back home are women. "And what if she has friends that are hotties?" Well, you know, that'd be cool, but it's good to have friends. She was fun to talk to--good friend material.
"What if she has hotty girlfriends that like women, but are still straight?" Okay, friends are great, but straight lesbians that want men--those are cool.
"Maybe she has hot girlfriends that like Jewish guys to watch." Hmm. Hot lezzy action.
"Maybe those hot girlfriends will want you to watch and occasionally join in and do what you want with them." And then I pointed out how odd it was that this girl's friendship proposal had so quickly turned into an erotic lesbian daydream. However, he was right. So we hung up and I took a quick cold shower.
I then called her and said, "Yeah, all right, let's do this friends thing. Why not?"
So I have a new friend. I still feel like a motherfuckin buffoon, though.
All well. Hot lesbian action, here I come...
Make Them Give You the Finger
ADMISSION (5/13/2005): Some parts of have been edited to protect the innocent involved in this heinous event. Continue reading.
I went to the club this past Friday night. The Highlands in Hollywood. I'm still trapped in a serious error I made.
You see, as a man, I look at women in a linear fashion: face, ring finger, bosom, buttocks, and legs. Up to down.
And if I only have a split second to look at a girl to make a lightning-fast judgement, then I switch up the order: ring finger, face, followed by whatever else I have time to see.
These two Female Assessment Models work.
However, I met a woman in this club. I don't know what happened. I somehow ran through the full assessment--and she received a very high score. HOWEVER, I missed one very important attribute. We'll come back to it later.
We partied, talked, and danced all night. I bought her a drink; she bought me one. We danced. Nice girl. I asked if she wanted to go to dinner sometime over the weekend, and she said yes--she'd like to, and I asked about Sunday? Sunday's fine. I handed her my phone and asked her to put her number in. My friends, she could have said no. She could have entered a fake number. But she didn't.
And then come Saturday, I called her and she said she was busy, but she'd call me back. She said she needed to talk to me. TALK TO ME? Why? I met this woman in a bar. I hadn't had sexual relations with this woman. I hadn't impregnated her. I hadn't kissed her. Why did she have to "talk to me?"
But then she called. She said, "I don't know if you know this but...I'm engaged." Come again? She was engaged--fuckin engaged. She hadn't thought to mention this all motherfucking night. About three or so hours we danced and hung out and what have you. Engaged. So I told her I guess that this meant we weren't going to dinner, and she apologized. Okay. Have a nice life, I'm going to go feel like a dumbshit now.
I thought about this, though. Is it possible that I--with my proven female evaluation methods--missed that ring? Obviously, she wasn't wearing the ring, and perhaps it was even an excuse that she didn't want to go out with me. My friends, I obsessed over the ring.
Was she wearing an engagement ring?
Was she wearing any ring?
Ring? Ring? RING? RING?! RING??!!!!
So I called her. "Hi, this is Ryan--that idiot from the bar who didn't know you were engaged. Were you wearing a ring?" And she said...YES, she was indeed wearing her ring. And I apologized profusely and hung up.
Later that night, I told my friend, "Remember that girl I was hanging out with at the club? She's engaged." And he asked why I was so surprised, what with her ring and all. GOD DAMNIT!
And then today, she called. Yes, she called ME. "Are you busy?" I was doing paperwork to seize someone's house. The group manager was staring at me wondering why I was answering my cell phone when I had all this shit to do, so I told her I'd have to talk to her later.
When I called, she told me she wanted to be friends. With me. Her and me. Friends. Friends? What is this? A joke? "Um...you want to be...friends?" And she said she did.
"This is really strange for me. Here I was hitting on you all night in a bar, flirting, and you're engaged, and you want to be my...friend?" She said she did, though it sounded odd. I am, after all, a great, really nice guy. I agreed with her. Hmm. "Gee, uh, listen. This is really nice of you that you want to be my friend, but this is all way too odd for me."
She told me that everything would be okay, and I'd meet someone. I have no major problems or defects. I'm a pretty good guy, she said.
"Oh...okay. Thanks. Well, take care of yourself."
And that was the last (I think) of a hot, intelligent Vietnamese girl from the bar whose major flaws seemed to be engagement, and of course naivete. Damn.
*sigh*
I went to the club this past Friday night. The Highlands in Hollywood. I'm still trapped in a serious error I made.
You see, as a man, I look at women in a linear fashion: face, ring finger, bosom, buttocks, and legs. Up to down.
And if I only have a split second to look at a girl to make a lightning-fast judgement, then I switch up the order: ring finger, face, followed by whatever else I have time to see.
These two Female Assessment Models work.
However, I met a woman in this club. I don't know what happened. I somehow ran through the full assessment--and she received a very high score. HOWEVER, I missed one very important attribute. We'll come back to it later.
We partied, talked, and danced all night. I bought her a drink; she bought me one. We danced. Nice girl. I asked if she wanted to go to dinner sometime over the weekend, and she said yes--she'd like to, and I asked about Sunday? Sunday's fine. I handed her my phone and asked her to put her number in. My friends, she could have said no. She could have entered a fake number. But she didn't.
And then come Saturday, I called her and she said she was busy, but she'd call me back. She said she needed to talk to me. TALK TO ME? Why? I met this woman in a bar. I hadn't had sexual relations with this woman. I hadn't impregnated her. I hadn't kissed her. Why did she have to "talk to me?"
But then she called. She said, "I don't know if you know this but...I'm engaged." Come again? She was engaged--fuckin engaged. She hadn't thought to mention this all motherfucking night. About three or so hours we danced and hung out and what have you. Engaged. So I told her I guess that this meant we weren't going to dinner, and she apologized. Okay. Have a nice life, I'm going to go feel like a dumbshit now.
I thought about this, though. Is it possible that I--with my proven female evaluation methods--missed that ring? Obviously, she wasn't wearing the ring, and perhaps it was even an excuse that she didn't want to go out with me. My friends, I obsessed over the ring.
Was she wearing an engagement ring?
Was she wearing any ring?
Ring? Ring? RING? RING?! RING??!!!!
So I called her. "Hi, this is Ryan--that idiot from the bar who didn't know you were engaged. Were you wearing a ring?" And she said...YES, she was indeed wearing her ring. And I apologized profusely and hung up.
Later that night, I told my friend, "Remember that girl I was hanging out with at the club? She's engaged." And he asked why I was so surprised, what with her ring and all. GOD DAMNIT!
And then today, she called. Yes, she called ME. "Are you busy?" I was doing paperwork to seize someone's house. The group manager was staring at me wondering why I was answering my cell phone when I had all this shit to do, so I told her I'd have to talk to her later.
When I called, she told me she wanted to be friends. With me. Her and me. Friends. Friends? What is this? A joke? "Um...you want to be...friends?" And she said she did.
"This is really strange for me. Here I was hitting on you all night in a bar, flirting, and you're engaged, and you want to be my...friend?" She said she did, though it sounded odd. I am, after all, a great, really nice guy. I agreed with her. Hmm. "Gee, uh, listen. This is really nice of you that you want to be my friend, but this is all way too odd for me."
She told me that everything would be okay, and I'd meet someone. I have no major problems or defects. I'm a pretty good guy, she said.
"Oh...okay. Thanks. Well, take care of yourself."
And that was the last (I think) of a hot, intelligent Vietnamese girl from the bar whose major flaws seemed to be engagement, and of course naivete. Damn.
*sigh*
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Out of the Shithouse
It's time for me to concentrate on my career. Of course, I don't really have one, but when I do, I'll have to concentrate on it.
I'll be having a guest series over the next week from the failures of business and industry. Typically, people seem to look to the heroes of business: Jack Welch, Warren Buffett, the Pillsbury Doughboy. But I think we can learn more from the failures. People you might not know about, perhaps because they're in jail, the witness relocation program, or rehab.
Today's guest is Andrew Pendergasht, former chief executive of Sheisshaus Toys.
And now, our first guest post in the series, Andrew Pendergasht...
I thought kids looked up to municipal workers.
I thought kids wanted Terrance the Trashman as a role model.
A lot of kids don't go to college. A lot of kids don't want to be superheroes. Their reality is sometimes unionized municipal labor. Sometimes they look forward to being a mid-level city employee for their entire career.
So, I took all of our firm's available capital, and dumped it into my big Plan. Our company took out bank loans using not only all available corporate assets as collateral, but our houses, cars, and retirement monies. The future of toys? Municipal workers.
It's funny how things work. It's funny that 67% of the kids we asked said they would likely enjoy eating dog feces over playing with Terrance the Trashman--or even being a garbage collector. What's funnier was how fast--how very fast--all that money disappeared...*POOF*...into thin air. One day, I was yelling into the phone to get the plants to push out more Boyle the Busdriver dolls, and the next, the plants have been seized from the IRS and state tax board for failure to pay payroll taxes (since we used our tax money to invest in the Municipal Action Figure lines).
Ah, but who wants SUPER heroes, when you can have everyday heroes--dog catchers, bus drivers, meter checkers?
I learned my lesson, though. My ideas were just too progressive.
I'll be having a guest series over the next week from the failures of business and industry. Typically, people seem to look to the heroes of business: Jack Welch, Warren Buffett, the Pillsbury Doughboy. But I think we can learn more from the failures. People you might not know about, perhaps because they're in jail, the witness relocation program, or rehab.
Today's guest is Andrew Pendergasht, former chief executive of Sheisshaus Toys.
And now, our first guest post in the series, Andrew Pendergasht...
I thought kids looked up to municipal workers.
I thought kids wanted Terrance the Trashman as a role model.
A lot of kids don't go to college. A lot of kids don't want to be superheroes. Their reality is sometimes unionized municipal labor. Sometimes they look forward to being a mid-level city employee for their entire career.
So, I took all of our firm's available capital, and dumped it into my big Plan. Our company took out bank loans using not only all available corporate assets as collateral, but our houses, cars, and retirement monies. The future of toys? Municipal workers.
It's funny how things work. It's funny that 67% of the kids we asked said they would likely enjoy eating dog feces over playing with Terrance the Trashman--or even being a garbage collector. What's funnier was how fast--how very fast--all that money disappeared...*POOF*...into thin air. One day, I was yelling into the phone to get the plants to push out more Boyle the Busdriver dolls, and the next, the plants have been seized from the IRS and state tax board for failure to pay payroll taxes (since we used our tax money to invest in the Municipal Action Figure lines).
Ah, but who wants SUPER heroes, when you can have everyday heroes--dog catchers, bus drivers, meter checkers?
I learned my lesson, though. My ideas were just too progressive.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
A Responsibility to the State of California
Gotta Support the Gov...
I have an offer on the table from the governor's staff and the California Republican Party to insert a blurb in support of their organization in each blog in return for a little cashola, some tax breaks, and a position on Schwarzenegger's staff.
I'm thinking about it. The money sounds good, and I understand you get discounts on your dry cleaning if you're on the governor's staff. They're introducing their new fiscal and political plan to improve the governor's ratings. "Ryan," they told me, "We've got to get as many people in support of the governor's plans to seal up the borders of California. As an immigrant to this country, he finds it really difficult to get a lot of support right now. We think this is wrong. Just because he's an immigrant and talks with an accent doesn't make him any less of a person. That's why we need to stand behind him so we can keep out those Goddamn dirty immigrant pieces of dog shit."
Let's help him out.
The Hollywood Sign You Can't Fucking See at Night
I went to Hollywood last night. I don't usually go. But I noticed something really, really strange.
"Where's the Hollywood sign?" I asked.
"Over to the right somewhere," my friends told me. I looked, but saw nothing.
"It's dark. I don't see anything."
"Well, you can't see it at night," they said.
I looked again, and got confused. "What do you mean? Why not? In the movies it's always lit up at night."
Then they told me, "That's in the movies."
So there I was in Hollywood looking for the Hollywood sign which is always lit up at night in every Hollywood movie I've ever seen, and I can't see it because it's dark and in real life the sign isn't lit up at night. And this is all obvious to everyone else. What the fuck is going on here?
I have an offer on the table from the governor's staff and the California Republican Party to insert a blurb in support of their organization in each blog in return for a little cashola, some tax breaks, and a position on Schwarzenegger's staff.
I'm thinking about it. The money sounds good, and I understand you get discounts on your dry cleaning if you're on the governor's staff. They're introducing their new fiscal and political plan to improve the governor's ratings. "Ryan," they told me, "We've got to get as many people in support of the governor's plans to seal up the borders of California. As an immigrant to this country, he finds it really difficult to get a lot of support right now. We think this is wrong. Just because he's an immigrant and talks with an accent doesn't make him any less of a person. That's why we need to stand behind him so we can keep out those Goddamn dirty immigrant pieces of dog shit."
Let's help him out.
The Hollywood Sign You Can't Fucking See at Night
I went to Hollywood last night. I don't usually go. But I noticed something really, really strange.
"Where's the Hollywood sign?" I asked.
"Over to the right somewhere," my friends told me. I looked, but saw nothing.
"It's dark. I don't see anything."
"Well, you can't see it at night," they said.
I looked again, and got confused. "What do you mean? Why not? In the movies it's always lit up at night."
Then they told me, "That's in the movies."
So there I was in Hollywood looking for the Hollywood sign which is always lit up at night in every Hollywood movie I've ever seen, and I can't see it because it's dark and in real life the sign isn't lit up at night. And this is all obvious to everyone else. What the fuck is going on here?
Friday, April 29, 2005
The Office Revolution
A comment from a previous post says that this blog is unstoppable. This is how I do things: unstoppable.
At work today, I found a letter on my desk from the union. I read it. It basically said that my employer will soon be handing out the 2005 SURVEY. The union has withdrawn their support for the survey, and urges all union members to not take it. Why? They don't like the wording of questions.
I had to tape that letter up on the wall. I had to do this to remind myself where I'm dumping about 40 bucks down the drain every month. I could have cable. I could buy 3 CDs every month. I could buy some books to read and enlighten myself. Instead, I'm burning up 40 bucks so people can argue over a fucking survey. This is the epitome of government waste. That and the two sets of timesheets: the Form 3081 biweekly timesheet and the Form 795 daily timesheet. And how you're supposed to fax AND mail certain items to other departments. And the fact that they employee people that don't work, that just sit around all Goddamn day doing nothing--people like me.
So I asked my manager (non-union), "What's so great about the survey?"
"If you want something to change or improve, you do the survey," she said.
"I want an espresso machine next to the toaster." Our group has a toaster, microwave, and coffee maker. But I want an espresso machine. "This would be an improvement."
"You're not getting an espresso machine."
"Not for the group," I said. "For me. At my desk. In my cubicle. Mine."
"No."
"WHAT?" I exclaimed. 'This is horseshit,' I thought. "You mean I have to bring my own from home? That's horrible! What kind of sweatshop is this?" So I went over to the group 13. They still had cake leftover from Secretary's Day (what a bizarre holiday), so I ate some, and then followed it up with some Oreos from group 11.
At work today, I found a letter on my desk from the union. I read it. It basically said that my employer will soon be handing out the 2005 SURVEY. The union has withdrawn their support for the survey, and urges all union members to not take it. Why? They don't like the wording of questions.
I had to tape that letter up on the wall. I had to do this to remind myself where I'm dumping about 40 bucks down the drain every month. I could have cable. I could buy 3 CDs every month. I could buy some books to read and enlighten myself. Instead, I'm burning up 40 bucks so people can argue over a fucking survey. This is the epitome of government waste. That and the two sets of timesheets: the Form 3081 biweekly timesheet and the Form 795 daily timesheet. And how you're supposed to fax AND mail certain items to other departments. And the fact that they employee people that don't work, that just sit around all Goddamn day doing nothing--people like me.
So I asked my manager (non-union), "What's so great about the survey?"
"If you want something to change or improve, you do the survey," she said.
"I want an espresso machine next to the toaster." Our group has a toaster, microwave, and coffee maker. But I want an espresso machine. "This would be an improvement."
"You're not getting an espresso machine."
"Not for the group," I said. "For me. At my desk. In my cubicle. Mine."
"No."
"WHAT?" I exclaimed. 'This is horseshit,' I thought. "You mean I have to bring my own from home? That's horrible! What kind of sweatshop is this?" So I went over to the group 13. They still had cake leftover from Secretary's Day (what a bizarre holiday), so I ate some, and then followed it up with some Oreos from group 11.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Spreading the TRUTH, Comrades
I got in trouble at work again.
"Ryan, I understand you're spreading Communist propaganda."
"But wait; let me explain," I said. "How can you call it propaganda if it's the truth?"
Oh, this called for an explanation. I had just told my colleagues that the sooner they recognized that we can't separate the proletariat workers from the bourgeois managers, the sooner we could overhaul the organization and start a humanitarian revolution--in the style of Che Guevara. This would lead to a more efficient, human-centered government agency.
But therein lays the rub, evidently.
"Uh..." She seemed at a loss for words.
"Yes, Ms. Krumpet?" I asked, trying to prod her along. I had stacks of work I still had to get to on my desk.
"Who do you work for?" she asked.
"You."
"No," she said with a smack to her forehead. "Who do you work for? More than just me. It's a lot of organizations and agencies, and they make up a great big thing, and you work for this thing."
"The United States government," I said. "So?"
"So you can't be spreading Communism."
"Why not?" I asked. "It's not really COMMUNISM so much as it is anti-imperialism and anti-capitalism."
"Ryan," she said. "You have too much work to do to be spreading Communism. Just stop doing it and concentrate on your work." She looked through her papers on her desk. "I show you're behind most of the group in your assignments and case studies."
"Yes," I said, "I agree. However, I've conquered most of the group. You don't manage us anymore. We're free from your tyranny."
"Am I really going to have to write you up for Communism?" she asked.
"We are a peaceful people," I told her. "However, any act of agression will be returned with an equal or greater act of agression."
"What does that mean? I'm your manager. You can't write me up."
"You can't write me up," I said leaning back in my chair and pulling out a huge cigar. I lit it and took a puff.
She took her shoe off her foot and smacked it on the table several times. She'd totally lost her cool. Meanwhile, the April 28th Movement is gaining momentum in the office. Today, most of my work group has been conquered and the proletariat has joined me. By next week, our Rebel Forces plan to take over the north side of the 4th floor, as well as the fax machine and copier. Our movement will gain so much strength once those weapons are captured. We'll be unstoppable. I can hardly wait for that triumphant walk through the building and up to the snack bar on the fifth floor where I will announce the new office political system.
"Ryan, I understand you're spreading Communist propaganda."
"But wait; let me explain," I said. "How can you call it propaganda if it's the truth?"
Oh, this called for an explanation. I had just told my colleagues that the sooner they recognized that we can't separate the proletariat workers from the bourgeois managers, the sooner we could overhaul the organization and start a humanitarian revolution--in the style of Che Guevara. This would lead to a more efficient, human-centered government agency.
But therein lays the rub, evidently.
"Uh..." She seemed at a loss for words.
"Yes, Ms. Krumpet?" I asked, trying to prod her along. I had stacks of work I still had to get to on my desk.
"Who do you work for?" she asked.
"You."
"No," she said with a smack to her forehead. "Who do you work for? More than just me. It's a lot of organizations and agencies, and they make up a great big thing, and you work for this thing."
"The United States government," I said. "So?"
"So you can't be spreading Communism."
"Why not?" I asked. "It's not really COMMUNISM so much as it is anti-imperialism and anti-capitalism."
"Ryan," she said. "You have too much work to do to be spreading Communism. Just stop doing it and concentrate on your work." She looked through her papers on her desk. "I show you're behind most of the group in your assignments and case studies."
"Yes," I said, "I agree. However, I've conquered most of the group. You don't manage us anymore. We're free from your tyranny."
"Am I really going to have to write you up for Communism?" she asked.
"We are a peaceful people," I told her. "However, any act of agression will be returned with an equal or greater act of agression."
"What does that mean? I'm your manager. You can't write me up."
"You can't write me up," I said leaning back in my chair and pulling out a huge cigar. I lit it and took a puff.
She took her shoe off her foot and smacked it on the table several times. She'd totally lost her cool. Meanwhile, the April 28th Movement is gaining momentum in the office. Today, most of my work group has been conquered and the proletariat has joined me. By next week, our Rebel Forces plan to take over the north side of the 4th floor, as well as the fax machine and copier. Our movement will gain so much strength once those weapons are captured. We'll be unstoppable. I can hardly wait for that triumphant walk through the building and up to the snack bar on the fifth floor where I will announce the new office political system.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
I'm Still Fucked
There was no post yesterday, 4/26/2005.
This blog was on a short haitus. I hired a Blog Improvement Consultant and met with him yesterday. My blog's readership is falling. Though readership has improved greatly over this period last year, I didn't have a blog this time last year. However, after the initial excitement of BLOGFEST 2005 and my GRAND OPENING SALE (though I really didn't have anything to sell), I felt it wise to meet with the Blog Imrpovement Consultant.
He told me, "You are aiming too high. Most people who read do so in short bursts because they have a very short attention span." He was going to continue, but pulled out a Pez dispenser and ate a Pez (well, it looked like Pez) and something caught his attention outside the window and he insisted on running around outside and chasing it.
So when he came back in, he said, "Oh...okay, where were we? Oh, right! Next, another important thing to remember is that people read in short bursts because they have a short attention..." and then he sort of trailed off. "SEX!" he screamed. "You need sex!"
I agreed.
"No!" he screamed again. "On your blog! Talk more about sex! Have links to sex! Have pictures of sex!"
He looked on his screen at my blog. "I notice you don't use a lot of explanation points," he said, getting somewhat serious. "Why NOT?!!" he yelled.
"I don't like exclamation points," I said backing up a few steps. He was twitching in his chair. "They're kind of...stupid."
"STUPID?!! THEY'RE NOT STUPID! AND WHY IS EVRYTHING SPELED RITE?!" he screamed at me. "AND ALL THIS PUNCTUATION WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR BETTER THEN ME?!!!"
And then he exploded and I got blood and pieces of flesh all over me. Too bad I'd already written him the check. I don't know how this is going to get more people to my blog.
This blog was on a short haitus. I hired a Blog Improvement Consultant and met with him yesterday. My blog's readership is falling. Though readership has improved greatly over this period last year, I didn't have a blog this time last year. However, after the initial excitement of BLOGFEST 2005 and my GRAND OPENING SALE (though I really didn't have anything to sell), I felt it wise to meet with the Blog Imrpovement Consultant.
He told me, "You are aiming too high. Most people who read do so in short bursts because they have a very short attention span." He was going to continue, but pulled out a Pez dispenser and ate a Pez (well, it looked like Pez) and something caught his attention outside the window and he insisted on running around outside and chasing it.
So when he came back in, he said, "Oh...okay, where were we? Oh, right! Next, another important thing to remember is that people read in short bursts because they have a short attention..." and then he sort of trailed off. "SEX!" he screamed. "You need sex!"
I agreed.
"No!" he screamed again. "On your blog! Talk more about sex! Have links to sex! Have pictures of sex!"
He looked on his screen at my blog. "I notice you don't use a lot of explanation points," he said, getting somewhat serious. "Why NOT?!!" he yelled.
"I don't like exclamation points," I said backing up a few steps. He was twitching in his chair. "They're kind of...stupid."
"STUPID?!! THEY'RE NOT STUPID! AND WHY IS EVRYTHING SPELED RITE?!" he screamed at me. "AND ALL THIS PUNCTUATION WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR BETTER THEN ME?!!!"
And then he exploded and I got blood and pieces of flesh all over me. Too bad I'd already written him the check. I don't know how this is going to get more people to my blog.
Monday, April 25, 2005
William Shatner Says That You Are Going to Die
I went to a local SBA (Small Business Administration) office today. I told my manager I felt sick at work and drove out to the local office.
I walked in and talked to a nice, older fella named Max. I told him I had a great business idea, but have no idea where to get started--I mean, where does one even start to research where they're going to open a business.
Max successfully started and ran his own businesses, then sold them and went into retirement. His hobby is to help other entrepraneurs get started.
"So, son, what are you looking at doing?" he asked me.
"Well," I said searching for the right words. "I want to kill people."
"What?" he asked. He sort of leaned back in his chair and clutched his cane.
"That came out wrong. I totally didn't--whew! I totally said the wrong thing." He looked suspicious, but relaxed a little and waved for me to continue. "I want to kill people and get paid for it. Like old people. You know, people who are going to die anyway. But some old people are just living off the inheritance they're supposed to give to their next-of-kin."
"Oh, boy," he said rolling his eyes.
"So there'd be some sales skills involved. I'd have to go and approach people and ask if they have an elderly family member they want to kill. I think that it really has great upside potential, especially as the baby-boomers age," I said. But then I shrugged, because here was the problem, "But I don't know how to attack this. I don't know how to advertise it, or where to set up shop. It's not contract killing, and it's not really mercy killing."
He shifted forward in his chair. "You want to kill old people?" he asked aghast (he seemed shocked, perhaps, at the simple brilliance of my plan). "For their inheritance?"
"No," I said. "Not their whole inheritance. Just a small percentage." I looked him up and down, then asked, "Max, do you have any terminal diseases? And kids--how many do you have?"
I think it was right about there that he asked me to leave (in a very loud, demanding voice). I guess our time was up or something.
Meanwhile, check out the new William Shatner album, Has Been. It's actually quite excellent. I think it's pretty rare to find an album this original and amazing.
I walked in and talked to a nice, older fella named Max. I told him I had a great business idea, but have no idea where to get started--I mean, where does one even start to research where they're going to open a business.
Max successfully started and ran his own businesses, then sold them and went into retirement. His hobby is to help other entrepraneurs get started.
"So, son, what are you looking at doing?" he asked me.
"Well," I said searching for the right words. "I want to kill people."
"What?" he asked. He sort of leaned back in his chair and clutched his cane.
"That came out wrong. I totally didn't--whew! I totally said the wrong thing." He looked suspicious, but relaxed a little and waved for me to continue. "I want to kill people and get paid for it. Like old people. You know, people who are going to die anyway. But some old people are just living off the inheritance they're supposed to give to their next-of-kin."
"Oh, boy," he said rolling his eyes.
"So there'd be some sales skills involved. I'd have to go and approach people and ask if they have an elderly family member they want to kill. I think that it really has great upside potential, especially as the baby-boomers age," I said. But then I shrugged, because here was the problem, "But I don't know how to attack this. I don't know how to advertise it, or where to set up shop. It's not contract killing, and it's not really mercy killing."
He shifted forward in his chair. "You want to kill old people?" he asked aghast (he seemed shocked, perhaps, at the simple brilliance of my plan). "For their inheritance?"
"No," I said. "Not their whole inheritance. Just a small percentage." I looked him up and down, then asked, "Max, do you have any terminal diseases? And kids--how many do you have?"
I think it was right about there that he asked me to leave (in a very loud, demanding voice). I guess our time was up or something.
Meanwhile, check out the new William Shatner album, Has Been. It's actually quite excellent. I think it's pretty rare to find an album this original and amazing.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
My Beloved Job
Make it stop!!
Unemployment can't be this painful. So monotonous. So boring.
I do plenty of things that could get me fired, but then the union intercedes on my behalf (bastards) because they like me. They tell me I'm a favorite (kind of like a race horse, I guess).
So I keep pushing and pushing. I started by talking about stealing office supplies. And then, in the middle of the afternoon, seemingly at a random time, I backed my car up the front door of the building and loaded up my car with two laser printers, several boxes of toner, some paper, and some empty filing cabinets. It was a tight squeaze, but then that's what twine is for--to keep shit from falling off the top of your car. I stood the filing cabinets upright, so it looked odd. I walked back inside, though, and asked my manager how I should apply the time to my timesheet. She told me to put it in 602 Administrative Time on my Form 795 Transmittal Sheet.
Anybody want to buy a laser printer?
Unemployment can't be this painful. So monotonous. So boring.
I do plenty of things that could get me fired, but then the union intercedes on my behalf (bastards) because they like me. They tell me I'm a favorite (kind of like a race horse, I guess).
So I keep pushing and pushing. I started by talking about stealing office supplies. And then, in the middle of the afternoon, seemingly at a random time, I backed my car up the front door of the building and loaded up my car with two laser printers, several boxes of toner, some paper, and some empty filing cabinets. It was a tight squeaze, but then that's what twine is for--to keep shit from falling off the top of your car. I stood the filing cabinets upright, so it looked odd. I walked back inside, though, and asked my manager how I should apply the time to my timesheet. She told me to put it in 602 Administrative Time on my Form 795 Transmittal Sheet.
Anybody want to buy a laser printer?
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Pass out at Passover
Word of advice: At Passover dinner, don't suggest putting some ham on top of some matzoh for flavor. Granted, matzoh tastes little better than particle board, but this is unacceptable. It is not kosher. And I'd say that Passover is all about being kosher.
Of course the fact that I'd made a large ham and brought it with did not help matters.
I said, "Look, Grandma! I made you a ham!" I handed her the ham platter as she handed me my yarmulke to put on my head.
She didn't even serve my ham.
Of course the fact that I'd made a large ham and brought it with did not help matters.
I said, "Look, Grandma! I made you a ham!" I handed her the ham platter as she handed me my yarmulke to put on my head.
She didn't even serve my ham.
Friday, April 22, 2005
The Shortest Post So Far
I walked across some police tape, today. "POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS..." It's so inviting. It seems so dangerous. And I was thinking, "If they really want to keep people out, they should put up tape that says, 'WATCH REALLY FAT PEOPLE HAVE SEX WATCH REALLY FAT..." and "YOUR GENITALS WILL FALL OFF IF YOU CROSS THIS TAPE YOUR GENITALS WILL...", or even "FREE ANAL RAPE TEN STEPS AHEAD FREE ANAL RAPE TEN STEPS AHEAD FREE..."
I'm thinking about spending the time I use doing my blog to instead build a large brick wall around my parking space so nobody FUCKING LOOKS AT MY CAR. But then how will I back out of my space?
A conundrum.
I'm thinking about spending the time I use doing my blog to instead build a large brick wall around my parking space so nobody FUCKING LOOKS AT MY CAR. But then how will I back out of my space?
A conundrum.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Vegetarian Judaism
Passover is upon us. Or you can say 'Pesach' around the gentiles and they'll think you're really Jewish. Suddenly, your correct pronunciation of this holiday can make you an instant authority on Judaism.
And this is good, because you can start telling people interesting tidbits.
"Well, the Jews wondered through the desert for 40 years because they were looking for a resort."
"In the middle of the desert?" would be the likely reply.
"Hey, why do you think there's so many Jews in Palm Springs? It's genetic. We need resorts in the desert to relax and eat unleavened bread."
Or you can tell them,
"Chanuka lasts for eight days because the Macabees had enough oil for one day, but it lasted for eight."
"Really?" would be the response. "Why did they run out of oil?"
"Because OPEC hadn't been formed yet to regulate the flow of oil, so they ran out. Chanuka is what led to the formation of OPEC."
"Wow."
I think that some might believe that
"The Irish Potato Famine was caused because so many people converted to Judaism and everyone wanted to make potato latkes at once, so they drained the world's supply of potatoes."
"Wow. Why did so many people convert at one time?"
"Because that was the year our people started wearing yarmulkes on their head. Everyone wanted a yarmulke. It was the hip thing. Also, we'd just gotten the new health plan, so that was part of it."
I myself celebrate Judaism like I do vegetarianism, though. I'll occasionally celebrate the main courses (perhaps a nice soy quiche, or a lovely spring salad), but for the rest of the meals, I'm aiming for steak.
And this is good, because you can start telling people interesting tidbits.
"Well, the Jews wondered through the desert for 40 years because they were looking for a resort."
"In the middle of the desert?" would be the likely reply.
"Hey, why do you think there's so many Jews in Palm Springs? It's genetic. We need resorts in the desert to relax and eat unleavened bread."
Or you can tell them,
"Chanuka lasts for eight days because the Macabees had enough oil for one day, but it lasted for eight."
"Really?" would be the response. "Why did they run out of oil?"
"Because OPEC hadn't been formed yet to regulate the flow of oil, so they ran out. Chanuka is what led to the formation of OPEC."
"Wow."
I think that some might believe that
"The Irish Potato Famine was caused because so many people converted to Judaism and everyone wanted to make potato latkes at once, so they drained the world's supply of potatoes."
"Wow. Why did so many people convert at one time?"
"Because that was the year our people started wearing yarmulkes on their head. Everyone wanted a yarmulke. It was the hip thing. Also, we'd just gotten the new health plan, so that was part of it."
I myself celebrate Judaism like I do vegetarianism, though. I'll occasionally celebrate the main courses (perhaps a nice soy quiche, or a lovely spring salad), but for the rest of the meals, I'm aiming for steak.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Steal Your Way to Unreported Income
Make Lot of Fuckin' Money!
Everyone notices when you steal office supplies. Rubberbands, paperclips, computers, staplers, staple removes, telephones. Somehow, people figure it out.
I noticed after multiple experiments, though, that nobody notices if you wear the office supplies and walk out the door. I told my supervisor this and proceeded to hide an entire pile of paperclips in my hair. Then I put some charcoal pencils behind my ears and put about 50 rubberbands on my leg. While she went to send a fax, I unplugged her keyboard and secured it to my body by wrapping the cord around my leg. I unplugged her phone and wrapped the handset around my torso and tied it in a knot so it wouldn't fall off.
She came back and gave me this strange look, which I construed as her thinking that something was amiss...but she wasn't sure what. She had no idea I had all these office supplies until I told her. I removed them. But I think I've really figured out a way to get some eBayable items from the office.
No Disneyland For Me, God Damn it
My manager (non-union) and supervisor (union) always somewhat joke about firing me. I don't think they do this with others. I'm a new hire. All new hires are on a one-year probation period. During this time, they can let you go as they please--if you part your hair wrong, if you mess up, if they don't like the color of your shirt. They don't have to really give any reason. Perhaps this is why they like to joke about firing me.
Of course, I do my job well and everyone knows it. This means I know there's very little chance of them firing me.
So, today when my manager was talking about getting rid of me again, I started thinking of what would happen if they really DID fire me. And then I knew how bored I was by my job when I decided I would prefer that they fire me.
I thought of what I'd do. Hell, my lease is up. I could temporarily move to my parents' house in Arizona. My mom would be thrilled (not about the 'no income' part of it, but they miss me and keep telling me they'd love if I lived closer (though they probably didn't mean inside their house)). They just got the entire east wing of their house redone, and that's where I'd be able to stay. I could wake up late, go for a swim in the pool, play with the dogs...Getting fired would be like a vacation!
And then I snapped back to reality--my supervisor saying maybe she SHOULD let me go (with a little chuckle), and I told her, "You're not going to fire me." But I said it in the way that an 8 year old thinks he's going to Disneyland, then realizes that his mom and dad will probably just end up taking him to Walmart instead, and says, "You're not taking me to Disneyland."
Everyone notices when you steal office supplies. Rubberbands, paperclips, computers, staplers, staple removes, telephones. Somehow, people figure it out.
I noticed after multiple experiments, though, that nobody notices if you wear the office supplies and walk out the door. I told my supervisor this and proceeded to hide an entire pile of paperclips in my hair. Then I put some charcoal pencils behind my ears and put about 50 rubberbands on my leg. While she went to send a fax, I unplugged her keyboard and secured it to my body by wrapping the cord around my leg. I unplugged her phone and wrapped the handset around my torso and tied it in a knot so it wouldn't fall off.
She came back and gave me this strange look, which I construed as her thinking that something was amiss...but she wasn't sure what. She had no idea I had all these office supplies until I told her. I removed them. But I think I've really figured out a way to get some eBayable items from the office.
No Disneyland For Me, God Damn it
My manager (non-union) and supervisor (union) always somewhat joke about firing me. I don't think they do this with others. I'm a new hire. All new hires are on a one-year probation period. During this time, they can let you go as they please--if you part your hair wrong, if you mess up, if they don't like the color of your shirt. They don't have to really give any reason. Perhaps this is why they like to joke about firing me.
Of course, I do my job well and everyone knows it. This means I know there's very little chance of them firing me.
So, today when my manager was talking about getting rid of me again, I started thinking of what would happen if they really DID fire me. And then I knew how bored I was by my job when I decided I would prefer that they fire me.
I thought of what I'd do. Hell, my lease is up. I could temporarily move to my parents' house in Arizona. My mom would be thrilled (not about the 'no income' part of it, but they miss me and keep telling me they'd love if I lived closer (though they probably didn't mean inside their house)). They just got the entire east wing of their house redone, and that's where I'd be able to stay. I could wake up late, go for a swim in the pool, play with the dogs...Getting fired would be like a vacation!
And then I snapped back to reality--my supervisor saying maybe she SHOULD let me go (with a little chuckle), and I told her, "You're not going to fire me." But I said it in the way that an 8 year old thinks he's going to Disneyland, then realizes that his mom and dad will probably just end up taking him to Walmart instead, and says, "You're not taking me to Disneyland."
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Rejection: You Make Me Single and You Eat My Cashews
My old friend, Rejection, came and paid me a visit today. He's been making semi-frequent appearances ever since I moved to this city. Another girl turned me down. God dammit.
"Well, Ryan," he said to me, "You can't win them all."
He was sitting on the edge of my desk eating some cashews out of the baggy of snack mix I brought with me to work. He wore a long black robe and I couldn't see his face. Oh, and he had a scythe.
"Listen," I said, "You can't be hanging around here."
"Why not? I go anywhere I please," he said. What a self-righteous fuckshit.
"You're starting to piss me off. You make the girls not want to go out with me."
"What?" he asked. He started to pick out the raisins from my snack mix and eat those, too (that bastard).
I told him, "You're Rejection. Every time I try to talk to a girl, you come and visit me, and the girl doesn't want anything to do with me." And it was true. I asked this attractive girl from work (but from another floor) to lunch, and it's not that she said 'no,' but she gave a tentative, extremely general 'yes' since she's so swamped with her work. I felt like a winning $2 lottery ticket--she could cash it in at any time, but why cash in a $2 lottery ticket? "Can't you let me go out with a couple girls, have some good times, and just leave me alone?" I asked Rejection.
Then Rejection turned to me and picked up his scythe. "Uh, listen, Ryan. I think you have the wrong idea about me. I'm here to collect your sou-"
"RYAN!" my manager yelled. She walked up to my desk with a bunch of work I'd fucked up. "Who's this?"
"This is Rejection," I said.
"Did he sign in?"
"No," I told her.
"You'll have to get him a visitor's badge," she told me dropping the file on my desk. "And do this all over. It's terrible. Do you even know what you're doing?"
"No. But it's government work. Who cares?" I asked.
"Get him a visitor's badge. NOW," she said. And then she walked away.
Rejection took his scythe and a few more cashews from the bag. "Eh, don't worry about it. I was just leaving."
And then he left. I hope he fucking leaves me alone. What an asshole.
Meanwhile, check out this acapella singing Nintendo stuff. Brilliant. Awesome stuff.
"Well, Ryan," he said to me, "You can't win them all."
He was sitting on the edge of my desk eating some cashews out of the baggy of snack mix I brought with me to work. He wore a long black robe and I couldn't see his face. Oh, and he had a scythe.
"Listen," I said, "You can't be hanging around here."
"Why not? I go anywhere I please," he said. What a self-righteous fuckshit.
"You're starting to piss me off. You make the girls not want to go out with me."
"What?" he asked. He started to pick out the raisins from my snack mix and eat those, too (that bastard).
I told him, "You're Rejection. Every time I try to talk to a girl, you come and visit me, and the girl doesn't want anything to do with me." And it was true. I asked this attractive girl from work (but from another floor) to lunch, and it's not that she said 'no,' but she gave a tentative, extremely general 'yes' since she's so swamped with her work. I felt like a winning $2 lottery ticket--she could cash it in at any time, but why cash in a $2 lottery ticket? "Can't you let me go out with a couple girls, have some good times, and just leave me alone?" I asked Rejection.
Then Rejection turned to me and picked up his scythe. "Uh, listen, Ryan. I think you have the wrong idea about me. I'm here to collect your sou-"
"RYAN!" my manager yelled. She walked up to my desk with a bunch of work I'd fucked up. "Who's this?"
"This is Rejection," I said.
"Did he sign in?"
"No," I told her.
"You'll have to get him a visitor's badge," she told me dropping the file on my desk. "And do this all over. It's terrible. Do you even know what you're doing?"
"No. But it's government work. Who cares?" I asked.
"Get him a visitor's badge. NOW," she said. And then she walked away.
Rejection took his scythe and a few more cashews from the bag. "Eh, don't worry about it. I was just leaving."
And then he left. I hope he fucking leaves me alone. What an asshole.
Meanwhile, check out this acapella singing Nintendo stuff. Brilliant. Awesome stuff.
Monday, April 18, 2005
What's in a name? Not much, unless your name is Fucking Shiteater.
I'm thinking about changing my name. No, I'm fucking serious.
A call came in the other day to my workgroup's line, and a coworker answered. And then my coworker announced, "Uh...this person wants Ryan Magellan."
We sort of looked at each other. "Um...That must be for me."
So I picked up the phone and said, "Hello, this is Ryan Magellan." And let me tell you, it sounded quite natural. I said to myself, 'Yes, I do believe I feel like a Magellan.' The conversation continued, and I continued referring to myself as Mr. Magellan--probably more than I should have. And then I thanked her profusely for opening my eyes when we got off the phone.
I have a plan for when I change my name. I could change history (or at least peoples' perceptions of it). I think we need more Jewish heroes, so the conversation would go something like this:
"I'm directly decended from Ferdinand Magellan, the great Spanish Jewish mariner."
And of course, here's where I work my magic with history. The other person would say, "What? Magellan sailed for Spain...during the Spanish Inquisition."
"Of course! All the great Spanish explorers were Jewish! The Spanish were anti-semitic, though, so they tried keeping it secret that everyone making all these discoveries was Jewish."
"Really?"
"Of course! All the great explorers were Jewish. In fact, Ferdinand Magellan's real name was Ferdinand Magellansberg."
I'm sure at least a few people will believe me. And then they'd start talking about it as truth. And then someone--yes, all it takes is one--would add that extra little detail in the history books. And then all the great Spanish explorers (yes, even Christopher Columbustein) would become Jewish.
Oy! Won't my parents be proud!
A call came in the other day to my workgroup's line, and a coworker answered. And then my coworker announced, "Uh...this person wants Ryan Magellan."
We sort of looked at each other. "Um...That must be for me."
So I picked up the phone and said, "Hello, this is Ryan Magellan." And let me tell you, it sounded quite natural. I said to myself, 'Yes, I do believe I feel like a Magellan.' The conversation continued, and I continued referring to myself as Mr. Magellan--probably more than I should have. And then I thanked her profusely for opening my eyes when we got off the phone.
I have a plan for when I change my name. I could change history (or at least peoples' perceptions of it). I think we need more Jewish heroes, so the conversation would go something like this:
"I'm directly decended from Ferdinand Magellan, the great Spanish Jewish mariner."
And of course, here's where I work my magic with history. The other person would say, "What? Magellan sailed for Spain...during the Spanish Inquisition."
"Of course! All the great Spanish explorers were Jewish! The Spanish were anti-semitic, though, so they tried keeping it secret that everyone making all these discoveries was Jewish."
"Really?"
"Of course! All the great explorers were Jewish. In fact, Ferdinand Magellan's real name was Ferdinand Magellansberg."
I'm sure at least a few people will believe me. And then they'd start talking about it as truth. And then someone--yes, all it takes is one--would add that extra little detail in the history books. And then all the great Spanish explorers (yes, even Christopher Columbustein) would become Jewish.
Oy! Won't my parents be proud!
Sunday, April 17, 2005
A Contaminated Ding Dong
"Shut up, Ryan. You're such a motherfucking fag."
I was told this today by a friend today. He yelled this at me over the phone. And then after a long, awkward pause he said, "Hey, can you put that up on your blog?"
And I said, "Eat shit."
"Hey," he said, "Listen, you should put that on your blog. But don't tell everyone I perform oral sex on myself at every opportunity."
And I, of course, was like, "Uh...you perform oral sex on yourself at every opportunity?"
"No. I was just...You took it out of context," he answered.
I shifted the phone on my ear to make sure I was hearing him right. "What context? There's no context to take it out of. You said that you perform oral sex on yourself."
"No, no, no," he laughed at the other end of the phone. "You misunderstood me. I said anal sex."
There was a long, long pause. "I mean..." he started to say, "I don't do that anymore. Listen, just forget it. Don't put anything on your blog."
And I said, "But I've got to put somethin'."
I was told this today by a friend today. He yelled this at me over the phone. And then after a long, awkward pause he said, "Hey, can you put that up on your blog?"
And I said, "Eat shit."
"Hey," he said, "Listen, you should put that on your blog. But don't tell everyone I perform oral sex on myself at every opportunity."
And I, of course, was like, "Uh...you perform oral sex on yourself at every opportunity?"
"No. I was just...You took it out of context," he answered.
I shifted the phone on my ear to make sure I was hearing him right. "What context? There's no context to take it out of. You said that you perform oral sex on yourself."
"No, no, no," he laughed at the other end of the phone. "You misunderstood me. I said anal sex."
There was a long, long pause. "I mean..." he started to say, "I don't do that anymore. Listen, just forget it. Don't put anything on your blog."
And I said, "But I've got to put somethin'."
A Little Help From Craigslist.org and Women With Low Self-Esteem
It's time to make me unsingle. I put a personal ad on Craigslist.
Before you cast the first stone calling me a motherfuckin' pathetic loser, give me a chance to defend myself...and might I add, you're the motherfuckin' pathetic loser.
So we'll see how many beautiful babes shoot me an email. I'm kind of bored being single, and hopefully this will turn the tide.
As mentioned, I posted the ad on Craigslist, and you can see it here or below. They take their ads off after 10 days, though.
Lower your standards even further and I'll seem like a good catch
Reply to: anon-68804978@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-04-17, 1:28AM PDT
Love is in the air. I can feel it; well, I can't really. But let's talk anyway.
ABOUT YOU:
You have low standards. You say you like men with aspirations, but typically settle for men with no future. Let's continue this cycle.
You are over-educated, unappreciated, and enjoy jogging.
You cook well. I do too, but why should both of us have to cook?
You enjoy dealing with petty, self-centered men. You enjoy paying for every meal, because you're very, very giving.
ABOUT ME:
I like to take money out of Santa's Salvation Army collection bowl. Why not? It's not stealing if they're donations.
I talk during movies.
When you ask me what I'm thinking about, I'll either say, "Nothing," or I'll tell you the truth and say, "Breasts."
I eat meat. I am not a vegetarian. I have contempt for religious people. I have contempt for people who disagree with me, because they just don't get it. I have contempt for people who agree with me, because I feel they're just trying to get on my good side. I have contempt for those with high blood pressure (I can't really explain this one).
I'm claustrophobic (but only in crowded, closed-in places like nightclubs). I have a fear of heights. I have a fear of polo mallets. I am a germophobe (but my apartment's pretty clean).
I tell stories that have no middle or ending. Like this time that I went to the mall to buy shoes. They didn't have the shoes I wanted in my size, but they had plenty of shoes I didn't want in my size. Then I noticed that everyone was looking at me kind of funny.
Email me a picture or two and your likes and what-nots.
Before you cast the first stone calling me a motherfuckin' pathetic loser, give me a chance to defend myself...and might I add, you're the motherfuckin' pathetic loser.
So we'll see how many beautiful babes shoot me an email. I'm kind of bored being single, and hopefully this will turn the tide.
As mentioned, I posted the ad on Craigslist, and you can see it here or below. They take their ads off after 10 days, though.
Lower your standards even further and I'll seem like a good catch
Reply to: anon-68804978@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-04-17, 1:28AM PDT
Love is in the air. I can feel it; well, I can't really. But let's talk anyway.
ABOUT YOU:
You have low standards. You say you like men with aspirations, but typically settle for men with no future. Let's continue this cycle.
You are over-educated, unappreciated, and enjoy jogging.
You cook well. I do too, but why should both of us have to cook?
You enjoy dealing with petty, self-centered men. You enjoy paying for every meal, because you're very, very giving.
ABOUT ME:
I like to take money out of Santa's Salvation Army collection bowl. Why not? It's not stealing if they're donations.
I talk during movies.
When you ask me what I'm thinking about, I'll either say, "Nothing," or I'll tell you the truth and say, "Breasts."
I eat meat. I am not a vegetarian. I have contempt for religious people. I have contempt for people who disagree with me, because they just don't get it. I have contempt for people who agree with me, because I feel they're just trying to get on my good side. I have contempt for those with high blood pressure (I can't really explain this one).
I'm claustrophobic (but only in crowded, closed-in places like nightclubs). I have a fear of heights. I have a fear of polo mallets. I am a germophobe (but my apartment's pretty clean).
I tell stories that have no middle or ending. Like this time that I went to the mall to buy shoes. They didn't have the shoes I wanted in my size, but they had plenty of shoes I didn't want in my size. Then I noticed that everyone was looking at me kind of funny.
Email me a picture or two and your likes and what-nots.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
"Where's my beans, motherfucker?"
Ah, the words of a winner.
Look, you bastards! Someone won a can of beans--and it wasn't you (unless you're Dash Bradley).
The beans thing was done on a whim. I came in after having a little too much to drink, and decided, "It's about time I start giving out some beans." I figured if my writing didn't draw visitors to my blog, beans would. Beans have the power to do a lot to improve society--if people would just give them a chance.
So Mr. Dash Bradley will be enjoying his very own high-quality can of beans from Trader Joe's. And the rest of you will starve. You'll envy this man. He already has something over most of us: he's Canadian.
Of course, the face of Canada has changed recently. I always thought of it as a haven. As the tentacles of the christian conservative right-wingers spread through our country forcing their way into every corner of our lives, I always said, "At least there's Canada." I saw it as a safety raft. Those people up there are progressive, polite, and...well, they're Canadians. And they were there for us. But now with Paul Martin and his party appearing to be in trouble, the Conservatives THERE are making moves to take power. Then what?! No safety raft. The safety raft will sink, and soon they'll be teaching intelligent creation in school, and women will go back to second class citizens.
DASH BRADLEY, you and your Canadian brothers must mobilize and somehow stop this from happening. If I send more beans, perhaps this would help the cause. There's that other Canadian from Winnipeg who reads my blog. Yeah, you two--show them other Canadians how to do it!
By the way, the stipulation of my Big Bean Giveaway was that foreign addresses must take care of the logistics of the shipping of the beans. Ergo, you may pick up the beans here in Pasadena, or you can send a truck to pick it up.
Look, you bastards! Someone won a can of beans--and it wasn't you (unless you're Dash Bradley).
The beans thing was done on a whim. I came in after having a little too much to drink, and decided, "It's about time I start giving out some beans." I figured if my writing didn't draw visitors to my blog, beans would. Beans have the power to do a lot to improve society--if people would just give them a chance.
So Mr. Dash Bradley will be enjoying his very own high-quality can of beans from Trader Joe's. And the rest of you will starve. You'll envy this man. He already has something over most of us: he's Canadian.
Of course, the face of Canada has changed recently. I always thought of it as a haven. As the tentacles of the christian conservative right-wingers spread through our country forcing their way into every corner of our lives, I always said, "At least there's Canada." I saw it as a safety raft. Those people up there are progressive, polite, and...well, they're Canadians. And they were there for us. But now with Paul Martin and his party appearing to be in trouble, the Conservatives THERE are making moves to take power. Then what?! No safety raft. The safety raft will sink, and soon they'll be teaching intelligent creation in school, and women will go back to second class citizens.
DASH BRADLEY, you and your Canadian brothers must mobilize and somehow stop this from happening. If I send more beans, perhaps this would help the cause. There's that other Canadian from Winnipeg who reads my blog. Yeah, you two--show them other Canadians how to do it!
By the way, the stipulation of my Big Bean Giveaway was that foreign addresses must take care of the logistics of the shipping of the beans. Ergo, you may pick up the beans here in Pasadena, or you can send a truck to pick it up.
You Are Retarded, So You Get Beans, MOTHERFUCKER!
Nobody reads the blog anymore. I found that most people who read it got offended and I scared them away. And then everyone else (uh, that would be one person) told me that my posts were too long.
And so it must end in its current form.
I don't know what the American people want. Bad grammar? You want me to talk more about celebrities? You want to see naked people? You want sex?
I know what you want. You want a can of beans. Yes, I will send you a goddamn can of beans--a real motherfuckin can of beans. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO is email me AND leave a comment on this post. You assholes probably won't do it. The first person to do this wins a can of beans. The rules? If I know you, you get no can of beans. If you're at a foreign address, you must come and pick up the can of beans or organize pick-up and delivery yourself.
People seem to like beans. Because beans make people fart. And you want an excuse to fart. "Oh, I just got these beans." The problem is that you'll have to eat them to make sure you can use that excuse. You don't want people to say, "You farted so much I think you shat your pants...and yet you're holding an unopened can of beans in your hand and you're saying that they're to blame."
People will think you're retarded. Almost as much as I know you're retarded.
And so it must end in its current form.
I don't know what the American people want. Bad grammar? You want me to talk more about celebrities? You want to see naked people? You want sex?
I know what you want. You want a can of beans. Yes, I will send you a goddamn can of beans--a real motherfuckin can of beans. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO is email me AND leave a comment on this post. You assholes probably won't do it. The first person to do this wins a can of beans. The rules? If I know you, you get no can of beans. If you're at a foreign address, you must come and pick up the can of beans or organize pick-up and delivery yourself.
People seem to like beans. Because beans make people fart. And you want an excuse to fart. "Oh, I just got these beans." The problem is that you'll have to eat them to make sure you can use that excuse. You don't want people to say, "You farted so much I think you shat your pants...and yet you're holding an unopened can of beans in your hand and you're saying that they're to blame."
People will think you're retarded. Almost as much as I know you're retarded.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
A Gift For My Reader (or really just a gift to myself...)
I was told my posts are too long. And if they're too long, nobody can read them. You know, because they're too motherfucking lazy.
Ergo, today I unveil my REVOLUTIONARY PLAN 2005 VERSION 1.
REVOLUTIONARY PLAN 2005 Version 1
My revolutionary plan is to make my shit shorter. I've got to go back to my core audience. I've got to dummy down my writing to a first grade level, so the average American can understand it.
FAQ's
"Why were your posts so long? I can't sit for more than two seconds without wetting myself!"
I was writing for myself. Because I'm self-centered. But people tell me that it'd be better if it was shorter. Fine.
"Why am I such a vagina?"
It's genetic. I dare you to close the garage door on your head.
"Why did you write about me? I never gave you permission."
Any similarities between actual persons, living or dead are purely coincidental. Even if I write in the first-person and describe actual events.
Ergo, today I unveil my REVOLUTIONARY PLAN 2005 VERSION 1.
REVOLUTIONARY PLAN 2005 Version 1
My revolutionary plan is to make my shit shorter. I've got to go back to my core audience. I've got to dummy down my writing to a first grade level, so the average American can understand it.
FAQ's
"Why were your posts so long? I can't sit for more than two seconds without wetting myself!"
I was writing for myself. Because I'm self-centered. But people tell me that it'd be better if it was shorter. Fine.
"Why am I such a vagina?"
It's genetic. I dare you to close the garage door on your head.
"Why did you write about me? I never gave you permission."
Any similarities between actual persons, living or dead are purely coincidental. Even if I write in the first-person and describe actual events.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
My Take on Poetry (not that I'm a poet, but I've tried to get in some of their pants)
Writing poems is hard.
Actually, it's easy. But to write one that people don't make fun of and say, "This is the shittiest poem I've ever read; you have a degree in creative writing?" about is a pretty big challenge.
I tried explaining that I studied fiction, not poetry. They are two different things. I did not study poetry. Because I hate poetry. Partially because I hate poets. Not all of them, mind you.
This is not one of those random, baseless hatreds. It's not like racism or bigotry. These are based on prejudice--judging before you KNOW you despise something. I've had enough experience to learn a few things about self-proclaimed poets. There are certain things many do.
MYTH #1: It's Better if I Read it in a Melodramatic Voice
No it's not. It's just as shitty as you're hoping it's not. Take off your top!
MYTH #2: My Poetry is Better if I Make it Really Short, and Really Unclear What the Fuck I'm Talking About
Your two line pretentious poem is shitty. You are shitty. But you know what wouldn't make listening to it as shitty of an experience? If you took your top off.
MYTH #3: It's Better if I Attempt to Pay Homage to the Poets That Inspire Me By Writing About Them--In My Fuckin' Poem
You and your poetry are pretentious if you think you are at the level that you can even put yourself on the same plane as Bukowski or Ginsberg. Or me. But I'll let you take your top off.
MYTH #4: My poem about My Lord and Savior Jesus Christ is Original and Inspirational!
No it's not. You're a Goddamn tool. You might love Jesus, but he and I both hate your poetry. We'd hate it less if you took your top off.
MYTH #5: Nobody's Ever Been in Love as Much as Me, so I Write a Poem That Tries to Capture What I Feel
He only wants you for your body. He says he loves you, but he wants you to take your top off. You might thing he wants to read your poetry; he really just wants to bang you. And if you're a guy writing a poem about love, you're gay. Your poem is secretly about gay love, and gay sex, and how you're really, really gay underneath what you hope is a masculine-looking shell. But we know you're gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm just saying, denile isn't just a river in Africa.
MYTH #6: Poetry Slams Are Totally Awesome!
Poetry slams are totally lame. Just because Malcolm-Jamal Warner does it doesn't make it cool. Taking your top off would make it really cool, though.
Actually, it's easy. But to write one that people don't make fun of and say, "This is the shittiest poem I've ever read; you have a degree in creative writing?" about is a pretty big challenge.
I tried explaining that I studied fiction, not poetry. They are two different things. I did not study poetry. Because I hate poetry. Partially because I hate poets. Not all of them, mind you.
This is not one of those random, baseless hatreds. It's not like racism or bigotry. These are based on prejudice--judging before you KNOW you despise something. I've had enough experience to learn a few things about self-proclaimed poets. There are certain things many do.
MYTH #1: It's Better if I Read it in a Melodramatic Voice
No it's not. It's just as shitty as you're hoping it's not. Take off your top!
MYTH #2: My Poetry is Better if I Make it Really Short, and Really Unclear What the Fuck I'm Talking About
Your two line pretentious poem is shitty. You are shitty. But you know what wouldn't make listening to it as shitty of an experience? If you took your top off.
MYTH #3: It's Better if I Attempt to Pay Homage to the Poets That Inspire Me By Writing About Them--In My Fuckin' Poem
You and your poetry are pretentious if you think you are at the level that you can even put yourself on the same plane as Bukowski or Ginsberg. Or me. But I'll let you take your top off.
MYTH #4: My poem about My Lord and Savior Jesus Christ is Original and Inspirational!
No it's not. You're a Goddamn tool. You might love Jesus, but he and I both hate your poetry. We'd hate it less if you took your top off.
MYTH #5: Nobody's Ever Been in Love as Much as Me, so I Write a Poem That Tries to Capture What I Feel
He only wants you for your body. He says he loves you, but he wants you to take your top off. You might thing he wants to read your poetry; he really just wants to bang you. And if you're a guy writing a poem about love, you're gay. Your poem is secretly about gay love, and gay sex, and how you're really, really gay underneath what you hope is a masculine-looking shell. But we know you're gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm just saying, denile isn't just a river in Africa.
MYTH #6: Poetry Slams Are Totally Awesome!
Poetry slams are totally lame. Just because Malcolm-Jamal Warner does it doesn't make it cool. Taking your top off would make it really cool, though.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Meetings and Royal Ass Kickings
Today was a Meeting.
I love meetings. Some people like their jobs and the work they do for a living. I enjoy Meetings, because they take you away from work; I dislike work. It's like field trips in elementary school. You knew that you wouldn't be expected to do anything on the day of a field trip. And then that was it--no homework, no other responsibilities. Go home and play with your friends, watch cartoons, eat dinner. Yeehaw!
I got to work at 8. Messed around, emailed friends, etc. And then the meeting started at 9. There were muffins, fruit, croissants, juice, coffee--a regular continental breakfast (all paid by you, the taxpayer; thanks!).
I even had LESS responsibilities than all of my counterparts. My manager cornered me before the meeting and said, "The area manager is going to be there. I don't want a single word to come out of your mouth." I asked if observations about what the area manager's name rhymed with would be in line. Her response, "Zip it. Don't say anything. If they open the floor to questions, or ask for feedback on something, or talk to you--don't even open your mouth." Sweet!
The meeting was supposed to go until noon, and then reconvene at 12:55. But instead, it only went until 10:45, to reconvene at 12:30. That's almost 2 hours of fuckaround time! And then we came back (after a delightful lunch with friends near the shops on Lake here in Pasadena) and continued with the Meeting. I even wrote a poem for a coworker of mine.
It was great. I got almost NOTHING accomplished, and yet that's okay--because it's a Meeting.
I love these things. I wish there were more.
Meanwhile, my manager saw this poem I wrote. She compared my writing to the writings of Ted Kacazynski. I told her that the Unabomber was caught because of recurring grammatical errors; my writing is free of grammatical errors.
And the woman I wrote my poem for faxed it to her husband. He's going to kick my fuckin' ass.
She'd gotten mad because she had lost some weight and was getting in shape, but she felt I'd made a disparaging comment; I announced, "Body of a 20 year old!" She was about to thank me, but I said, "Oh, there I go talking about myself again," and she said her husband would kick my ass.
I love meetings. Some people like their jobs and the work they do for a living. I enjoy Meetings, because they take you away from work; I dislike work. It's like field trips in elementary school. You knew that you wouldn't be expected to do anything on the day of a field trip. And then that was it--no homework, no other responsibilities. Go home and play with your friends, watch cartoons, eat dinner. Yeehaw!
I got to work at 8. Messed around, emailed friends, etc. And then the meeting started at 9. There were muffins, fruit, croissants, juice, coffee--a regular continental breakfast (all paid by you, the taxpayer; thanks!).
I even had LESS responsibilities than all of my counterparts. My manager cornered me before the meeting and said, "The area manager is going to be there. I don't want a single word to come out of your mouth." I asked if observations about what the area manager's name rhymed with would be in line. Her response, "Zip it. Don't say anything. If they open the floor to questions, or ask for feedback on something, or talk to you--don't even open your mouth." Sweet!
The meeting was supposed to go until noon, and then reconvene at 12:55. But instead, it only went until 10:45, to reconvene at 12:30. That's almost 2 hours of fuckaround time! And then we came back (after a delightful lunch with friends near the shops on Lake here in Pasadena) and continued with the Meeting. I even wrote a poem for a coworker of mine.
It was great. I got almost NOTHING accomplished, and yet that's okay--because it's a Meeting.
I love these things. I wish there were more.
Meanwhile, my manager saw this poem I wrote. She compared my writing to the writings of Ted Kacazynski. I told her that the Unabomber was caught because of recurring grammatical errors; my writing is free of grammatical errors.
And the woman I wrote my poem for faxed it to her husband. He's going to kick my fuckin' ass.
She'd gotten mad because she had lost some weight and was getting in shape, but she felt I'd made a disparaging comment; I announced, "Body of a 20 year old!" She was about to thank me, but I said, "Oh, there I go talking about myself again," and she said her husband would kick my ass.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Hot Bitches With Big Fuckin' Brains
A friend of mine had a stunning success using the personal ads.
Well this is some strange shit. Especially if you met this particular friend. He used a popular Jewish dating service, jdate.com. Not only is this woman supposedly free of physical defects, but she's supposedly also attractive and smart. What the fuck?
From a personal ad?
I feel a bit left out. After all, when a friend enters a new relationship, you temporarily lose them. The honeymoon period of any relationship is a time-consuming, exhausting time. He's basically embarked on a full-time project in addition to holding down a full-time career. It's almost admirable, the way he's happily taking on these duties as "New Boyfriend," while still holding a job with a major taxing authority.
But I have to outdo him. He is my friend, after all.
I was going to take a half-page advertisement out on page 5 of the Los Angeles Times. Do you know how much that shit costs?! I told them if they were going to charge me that much (and only for a personal ad), they might as well switch it to page three and I'll just take the whole damn page. I ordered two of these (I'll explain below).
So there goes my Blog Marketing Expense for the month of April. Damn it. This means I had to cancel appearances at a couple of trade shows. And forget about my latenight cable infomercials. But I'm really thinking that I should get some responses to this. But I've really got to get into a relationship--and fast.
Not that being single is a bad thing. I'm trying to one-up my friend, here. I mean, some silly little personal ad versus a full-page advertisement in the LA Times? And if this works, who knows?
My ad seems like it will work. Actually it's a series of two ads that will run consecutively. It says, "You are nothing without Ryan," in huge bold print in the middle of the page. I also put a picture of a palm tree and a child kicking a human head around (an homage to Robert Rodriguez's El Mariachi). Then, the second ad says, "Ryan offers everything you'll ever need."
I couldn't afford the third ad, which would have had my contact information. I talked this over with my advisors, and all pretty much agree that this would probably have to be the most important of the three. Still, I'm hoping it works. I'm thinking women will call me non-stop. Hot ones with big brains. I'm pretty excited.
Well this is some strange shit. Especially if you met this particular friend. He used a popular Jewish dating service, jdate.com. Not only is this woman supposedly free of physical defects, but she's supposedly also attractive and smart. What the fuck?
From a personal ad?
I feel a bit left out. After all, when a friend enters a new relationship, you temporarily lose them. The honeymoon period of any relationship is a time-consuming, exhausting time. He's basically embarked on a full-time project in addition to holding down a full-time career. It's almost admirable, the way he's happily taking on these duties as "New Boyfriend," while still holding a job with a major taxing authority.
But I have to outdo him. He is my friend, after all.
I was going to take a half-page advertisement out on page 5 of the Los Angeles Times. Do you know how much that shit costs?! I told them if they were going to charge me that much (and only for a personal ad), they might as well switch it to page three and I'll just take the whole damn page. I ordered two of these (I'll explain below).
So there goes my Blog Marketing Expense for the month of April. Damn it. This means I had to cancel appearances at a couple of trade shows. And forget about my latenight cable infomercials. But I'm really thinking that I should get some responses to this. But I've really got to get into a relationship--and fast.
Not that being single is a bad thing. I'm trying to one-up my friend, here. I mean, some silly little personal ad versus a full-page advertisement in the LA Times? And if this works, who knows?
My ad seems like it will work. Actually it's a series of two ads that will run consecutively. It says, "You are nothing without Ryan," in huge bold print in the middle of the page. I also put a picture of a palm tree and a child kicking a human head around (an homage to Robert Rodriguez's El Mariachi). Then, the second ad says, "Ryan offers everything you'll ever need."
I couldn't afford the third ad, which would have had my contact information. I talked this over with my advisors, and all pretty much agree that this would probably have to be the most important of the three. Still, I'm hoping it works. I'm thinking women will call me non-stop. Hot ones with big brains. I'm pretty excited.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
How to Plan a Bitchin' Intervention
I'm planning an intervention for a friend.
She has a problem: gambling. I was there with her at the track the first time she placed a bet on a horse. And now it's gone from betting a couple of bucks to joining the track's club and blowing her paycheck over the course of a single day. Right now, she's only gambling on horses, but she's been venting her frustration at cock fighting being legal in only two states (and California is not one of them).
She tells me, "Ryan, horses are very hard to gamble on. I know I could do it with cockfighting. Smoking is legal; why isn't cockfighting?!" That makes no sense, but she claims it makes perfect sense.
So I've been organizing the logistics of getting her family and friends out here to do an intervention. I went behind her back and talked to her roommate, who got me her parents' and brother's phone numbers. They're all the way across the country, so it takes a lot of organizing. Also, I've been trying to discuss the whole ordeal with her friends here in Southern California.
Perhaps I should have stepped back earlier to focus on the important issues, but I got caught in an argument over what to serve. Some of her friends wanted vegetarian food ONLY at the intervention. I refused, since I eat meat and need the protein. Their argument was that a balanced vegetable diet will give you more than enough protein. I said it wasn't the same.
So the vegetarian group split off and they're having their own intervention. They even invited a God damn addiction therapy specialist to moderate their intervention (and might I add, that bitch accepted the invitation). To one-up them, I invited three top psychiatrists who studied and all wrote papers on overcoming addiction (and they accepted my invitation). Those vegetarians heard about the psychiatrists, and somehow talked the Beverly Hills Country Club into letting them hold their intervention there free of charge. Not to be outdone, I got Dr. Phil. Those bitches won't know what hit them when my friend chooses MY intervention over theirs. Dr. Phil will even be shooting his show on location (my living room) so we can publicly air out my friend's gambling addiction. However, the contract states that my friend has to cry at least twice and attempt to walk out at least once. I'll have to explain intervention procedures before the intervention; perhaps we'll have an intervention rehearsal. I'm working this out with her parents (her brother went off and joined the vegetarians).
Meanwhile, tickets to fly her family in are downright expensive. I found that flying us all out (NBC will be paying for Dr. Phil's and his entourage's flights and accomodations) will be cheaper. Unfortunately, my friend will have to stay here, because we just can't ruin that element of surprise when she walks through the door and sees all her friends and family standing there waiting to offer hope, help, and support.
So the problem was this: How do we do the intervention from across the country? This question somehow made it to a team of researchers at MIT working on that exact problem (the World Remote Intervention Research Team, or WRIST). WRIST will be contributing a lot of technology to make this work.
There's some very advanced technology going on here: there are heat sensors that will be able to give an exact indication of where she is in her apartment, how fast her pulse is, and even how high her blood pressure is. On top of that, there will be Robotic Human Compassion Simulators. These will gather around her and hug her in a supportive gesture of oneness--to signify that everyone is there to help her. The researchers indicated, though, that a lot of people think the robots are attacking, rather than hugging, so each of the robots will have name tags that exactly correspond to her family and friends' names.
Dr. Phil says it's important that the person undergoing the intervention not run--they must stay there to truly benefit from the experience. Therefore, once she enters her apartment, the door will shut and automatically lock. The MIT guys installed a special unlockable door--once she enters the room, the door slams shuts and these huge bolts shoot out from inside the door into the door frame. There will be no way to get out--she will be forced to confront her gambling addiction, and her family and friends (represented by the Robotic Human Compassion Simulators of course).
I'm very excited about this. There's no way it can't succeed: Those vegetarian assholes will be so fucking jealous. Oh, and hopefully my friend's gambling thing can be resolved.
She has a problem: gambling. I was there with her at the track the first time she placed a bet on a horse. And now it's gone from betting a couple of bucks to joining the track's club and blowing her paycheck over the course of a single day. Right now, she's only gambling on horses, but she's been venting her frustration at cock fighting being legal in only two states (and California is not one of them).
She tells me, "Ryan, horses are very hard to gamble on. I know I could do it with cockfighting. Smoking is legal; why isn't cockfighting?!" That makes no sense, but she claims it makes perfect sense.
So I've been organizing the logistics of getting her family and friends out here to do an intervention. I went behind her back and talked to her roommate, who got me her parents' and brother's phone numbers. They're all the way across the country, so it takes a lot of organizing. Also, I've been trying to discuss the whole ordeal with her friends here in Southern California.
Perhaps I should have stepped back earlier to focus on the important issues, but I got caught in an argument over what to serve. Some of her friends wanted vegetarian food ONLY at the intervention. I refused, since I eat meat and need the protein. Their argument was that a balanced vegetable diet will give you more than enough protein. I said it wasn't the same.
So the vegetarian group split off and they're having their own intervention. They even invited a God damn addiction therapy specialist to moderate their intervention (and might I add, that bitch accepted the invitation). To one-up them, I invited three top psychiatrists who studied and all wrote papers on overcoming addiction (and they accepted my invitation). Those vegetarians heard about the psychiatrists, and somehow talked the Beverly Hills Country Club into letting them hold their intervention there free of charge. Not to be outdone, I got Dr. Phil. Those bitches won't know what hit them when my friend chooses MY intervention over theirs. Dr. Phil will even be shooting his show on location (my living room) so we can publicly air out my friend's gambling addiction. However, the contract states that my friend has to cry at least twice and attempt to walk out at least once. I'll have to explain intervention procedures before the intervention; perhaps we'll have an intervention rehearsal. I'm working this out with her parents (her brother went off and joined the vegetarians).
Meanwhile, tickets to fly her family in are downright expensive. I found that flying us all out (NBC will be paying for Dr. Phil's and his entourage's flights and accomodations) will be cheaper. Unfortunately, my friend will have to stay here, because we just can't ruin that element of surprise when she walks through the door and sees all her friends and family standing there waiting to offer hope, help, and support.
So the problem was this: How do we do the intervention from across the country? This question somehow made it to a team of researchers at MIT working on that exact problem (the World Remote Intervention Research Team, or WRIST). WRIST will be contributing a lot of technology to make this work.
There's some very advanced technology going on here: there are heat sensors that will be able to give an exact indication of where she is in her apartment, how fast her pulse is, and even how high her blood pressure is. On top of that, there will be Robotic Human Compassion Simulators. These will gather around her and hug her in a supportive gesture of oneness--to signify that everyone is there to help her. The researchers indicated, though, that a lot of people think the robots are attacking, rather than hugging, so each of the robots will have name tags that exactly correspond to her family and friends' names.
Dr. Phil says it's important that the person undergoing the intervention not run--they must stay there to truly benefit from the experience. Therefore, once she enters her apartment, the door will shut and automatically lock. The MIT guys installed a special unlockable door--once she enters the room, the door slams shuts and these huge bolts shoot out from inside the door into the door frame. There will be no way to get out--she will be forced to confront her gambling addiction, and her family and friends (represented by the Robotic Human Compassion Simulators of course).
I'm very excited about this. There's no way it can't succeed: Those vegetarian assholes will be so fucking jealous. Oh, and hopefully my friend's gambling thing can be resolved.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
90 Hour Work Weeks and a Utopian Society
Today is Saturday--what I consider the least shitty day of the week. What's the shittiest day, you ask? It's a tie--Sunday through Thurdsay.
What about Friday, you ask? Yeah, that's right in the middle of the street between shitty and not-shitty. Everyone looks forward to Friday. "Thank God it's Friday." However, people only say that because it's a prelude to Saturday. Any day where you must work is a shitty day. Friday is less so because the day following Friday is usually a day not filled with work. Don't you fucking SEE?!
And Sunday? Why is that shitty? Because it's the day before the entire week begins. How shitty is that? I get pretty tense on Sundays, just because I know the next day is Monday. And boy, do I hate Mondays.
So I have an idea. Flextime is big where I work. People are allowed to work four days and have the fifth off (Mon-Thurs, work 10 hours a day; Friday-Sun, no work). Others work 8 days at 9 hours per day, and 8 hours on the last, and then have one day off every two weeks.
But I have a better idea. This can spread from government service to private sector. This will revolutionize the way we work. I like to call my idea THE 90 PLAN.
THE 90 PLAN
Many people typically get two weeks off from work per year. I feel that's not enough. How does that offer for enough time for R & R, travelling, and visiting family.
I propose a plan of 90 hour work weeks.
1) MONDAY: Work 24 hours
2) TUESDAY: Work 12 hours
2) WEDNESDAY: Work 14 hours
2) THURSDAY: Work 14 hours
2) FRIDAY: Work 14 hours
2) SATURDAY: Work 14 hours
2) SUNDAY: No work!
You might think that's insane. But then think about this: You'd only have to work about 23 weeks out of the year. A year is 52 weeks. You'd have all that time to...
* Fuck around
* Spend time living on a sex commune
* Take up another full time job and still only work 46 weeks out of the year (STILL leaving you with 6 weeks to totally fuck around with)
Our quality of life would go up. And with more Americans possessing all that free-time to devote to more leisure activities, it'll help stimulate our economy.
What about Friday, you ask? Yeah, that's right in the middle of the street between shitty and not-shitty. Everyone looks forward to Friday. "Thank God it's Friday." However, people only say that because it's a prelude to Saturday. Any day where you must work is a shitty day. Friday is less so because the day following Friday is usually a day not filled with work. Don't you fucking SEE?!
And Sunday? Why is that shitty? Because it's the day before the entire week begins. How shitty is that? I get pretty tense on Sundays, just because I know the next day is Monday. And boy, do I hate Mondays.
So I have an idea. Flextime is big where I work. People are allowed to work four days and have the fifth off (Mon-Thurs, work 10 hours a day; Friday-Sun, no work). Others work 8 days at 9 hours per day, and 8 hours on the last, and then have one day off every two weeks.
But I have a better idea. This can spread from government service to private sector. This will revolutionize the way we work. I like to call my idea THE 90 PLAN.
THE 90 PLAN
Many people typically get two weeks off from work per year. I feel that's not enough. How does that offer for enough time for R & R, travelling, and visiting family.
I propose a plan of 90 hour work weeks.
1) MONDAY: Work 24 hours
2) TUESDAY: Work 12 hours
2) WEDNESDAY: Work 14 hours
2) THURSDAY: Work 14 hours
2) FRIDAY: Work 14 hours
2) SATURDAY: Work 14 hours
2) SUNDAY: No work!
You might think that's insane. But then think about this: You'd only have to work about 23 weeks out of the year. A year is 52 weeks. You'd have all that time to...
* Fuck around
* Spend time living on a sex commune
* Take up another full time job and still only work 46 weeks out of the year (STILL leaving you with 6 weeks to totally fuck around with)
Our quality of life would go up. And with more Americans possessing all that free-time to devote to more leisure activities, it'll help stimulate our economy.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
I'm Not a Sell-Out. I Just Take Money For Whoring Myself.
I've already started getting the whole, "You're a sell out, Medinski!"
A few astute people (no, that's not 'ass toot,' you Goddamn disgusting beasts) noticed a few product placements throughout my blog. At first, I denied it.
However, one cannot survive on a government job and a commercial-free blog in this city. This leaves two choices:
1) Find a private-sector job that pays more, though I am now disgustingly underqualified and undisciplined after slacking off on the taxpayers' dime, or
2) Strike a multi-million dollar deal with some of the top companies that produce services and products my readers might enjoy--services and products that I, Ryan Medinski, can wholeheartedly stand behind. Products like the brand new Chevrolet Cobalt. Those who know me may remember me saying, "I'll slash both of my wrists wide open before I buy a Chevrolet." Well, that was purely in jest. The new for 2005 Chevrolet Cobalt is just dripping in quality and craftmanship. Sure you can buy a VW Jetta, and maybe even the price will be lower and build quality much higher. But think about what the Germans did back in World War II. I mean, really think about it--goosestepping their way towards world domination. That Cobalt is sounding pretty damn attractive right now. And with special dealer financing and factory incentives, your local Chevrolet dealer can help get you into one of these beauties today.
I chose the second choice. Most people don't notice the product placement. However, I offered a bottle of Trader Joe's Premium Santa Fe Sauce a few days ago to a person that would write a guest post. Never mind that you have to go to New Mexico to get that authentic Santa Fe taste. Never mind that it's fat free and low in sodium--so not only does it taste good, it won't add the pounds. Never mind that this helps pay the bills. YOU don't pay my bills. Besides, my product placements are hardly noticeable.
Hardly noticeable like the Tampax Compak. It's small enough to fit almost anywhere--even in your tiniest purse, or perhaps up one of your nostrils. Its unique plastic applicator easily extends to full size for comfortable insertion. Yes, it's protection & discretion that fits in the palm of your hand!
I'm not a sell out. There's a thing called artistic license, and my endorsement of certain products have no affects on my writings or opinions. Except for my deal with Walmart. I have to be a Republican, or I'll be in breach of contract. And we can't have that, or I won't be able to afford my subscription to HBO--I mean U.S. News and World Reports and the Wall Street Journal.
But other than Walmart, I'm free to be who I am. I can do whatever I want. There are no (or few, actually) limitations. I'm like a burger from Burger King, where you can have it your way, bitches.
Oh, like you never sold out. Fuck that! And Fuck YOU!
And fuck those fuckin' termites that can easily be removed with the aid of Terminix Pest Control. If they can't get your termites out, then you're really fucked.
A few astute people (no, that's not 'ass toot,' you Goddamn disgusting beasts) noticed a few product placements throughout my blog. At first, I denied it.
However, one cannot survive on a government job and a commercial-free blog in this city. This leaves two choices:
1) Find a private-sector job that pays more, though I am now disgustingly underqualified and undisciplined after slacking off on the taxpayers' dime, or
2) Strike a multi-million dollar deal with some of the top companies that produce services and products my readers might enjoy--services and products that I, Ryan Medinski, can wholeheartedly stand behind. Products like the brand new Chevrolet Cobalt. Those who know me may remember me saying, "I'll slash both of my wrists wide open before I buy a Chevrolet." Well, that was purely in jest. The new for 2005 Chevrolet Cobalt is just dripping in quality and craftmanship. Sure you can buy a VW Jetta, and maybe even the price will be lower and build quality much higher. But think about what the Germans did back in World War II. I mean, really think about it--goosestepping their way towards world domination. That Cobalt is sounding pretty damn attractive right now. And with special dealer financing and factory incentives, your local Chevrolet dealer can help get you into one of these beauties today.
I chose the second choice. Most people don't notice the product placement. However, I offered a bottle of Trader Joe's Premium Santa Fe Sauce a few days ago to a person that would write a guest post. Never mind that you have to go to New Mexico to get that authentic Santa Fe taste. Never mind that it's fat free and low in sodium--so not only does it taste good, it won't add the pounds. Never mind that this helps pay the bills. YOU don't pay my bills. Besides, my product placements are hardly noticeable.
Hardly noticeable like the Tampax Compak. It's small enough to fit almost anywhere--even in your tiniest purse, or perhaps up one of your nostrils. Its unique plastic applicator easily extends to full size for comfortable insertion. Yes, it's protection & discretion that fits in the palm of your hand!
I'm not a sell out. There's a thing called artistic license, and my endorsement of certain products have no affects on my writings or opinions. Except for my deal with Walmart. I have to be a Republican, or I'll be in breach of contract. And we can't have that, or I won't be able to afford my subscription to HBO--I mean U.S. News and World Reports and the Wall Street Journal.
But other than Walmart, I'm free to be who I am. I can do whatever I want. There are no (or few, actually) limitations. I'm like a burger from Burger King, where you can have it your way, bitches.
Oh, like you never sold out. Fuck that! And Fuck YOU!
And fuck those fuckin' termites that can easily be removed with the aid of Terminix Pest Control. If they can't get your termites out, then you're really fucked.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
A Day at the Vatican
I was listening to NPR a couple of days ago. They were trying to cover the Pope's death, the mourning, the pilgrims in Rome, etc.
They had this guy there. The interviewer spoke gravely about the situation; you can't really get any more serious than the death of Pope John Paul II (JP2 to his friends). Evidently, they had a 'guy on the scene' in Rome waiting to see the Pope's body. He was in line, and turned out to be a student studying in Italy.
And here's where it got odd. It sounded a lot like when I'd call a friend, and they would be waiting to enter a club or some party in Hollywood. The gravity of the situation sort of disappeared with the first words out of the guy's mouth. The interviewer (who I think was at KPCC) asked something along the lines of, "Are you a faithful Catholic? Would you say you are a religious, or spiritual person?"
His reply was something like, "Me? No." Of course, I can only relate the gist of the conversation, since I did not stop the car and write down the conversation.
"So you're there more for the...historical aspect?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I was here in Italy anyway and he seemed to be getting really sick, and everybody was already gathering here. So I just came down. It's not really far from where I live, anyway."
The interviewer continued. "Tell me, I understand that there's-"
"Wow, you hear that? There's people clapping."
The interviewer asked an amused, yet confused, "Clapping?"
And in the background, you can hear a rythmic clapping as people also sing along (I think in Italian). "What?" the guy asked.
"We hear the clapping," the interviewer repeated.
"Yeah," the guy said. "They're clapping. People are clapping and...uh...singing."
"So what's it like?" the interviewer asked, obviously trying to ask an open-ended enough question to hopefully get more than a few words out of him. "What is the atmosphere?"
At this, the guy seemed to get the hint that they weren't paying him to dick around and make small talk. "Oh, well, it's really...packed. There's a lot of people here, and the mood is really down--somber. And yet people seem to be celebrating the life of the Pope. There are a lot of people here waiting to enter the place over there...and the line's moving really slowly." He sort of rambled on about nothing in particular--that some were crying, some were upset. Basically, he might as well have been watching it on TV and telling someone what he's seeing.
That? That was strange.
They had this guy there. The interviewer spoke gravely about the situation; you can't really get any more serious than the death of Pope John Paul II (JP2 to his friends). Evidently, they had a 'guy on the scene' in Rome waiting to see the Pope's body. He was in line, and turned out to be a student studying in Italy.
And here's where it got odd. It sounded a lot like when I'd call a friend, and they would be waiting to enter a club or some party in Hollywood. The gravity of the situation sort of disappeared with the first words out of the guy's mouth. The interviewer (who I think was at KPCC) asked something along the lines of, "Are you a faithful Catholic? Would you say you are a religious, or spiritual person?"
His reply was something like, "Me? No." Of course, I can only relate the gist of the conversation, since I did not stop the car and write down the conversation.
"So you're there more for the...historical aspect?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I was here in Italy anyway and he seemed to be getting really sick, and everybody was already gathering here. So I just came down. It's not really far from where I live, anyway."
The interviewer continued. "Tell me, I understand that there's-"
"Wow, you hear that? There's people clapping."
The interviewer asked an amused, yet confused, "Clapping?"
And in the background, you can hear a rythmic clapping as people also sing along (I think in Italian). "What?" the guy asked.
"We hear the clapping," the interviewer repeated.
"Yeah," the guy said. "They're clapping. People are clapping and...uh...singing."
"So what's it like?" the interviewer asked, obviously trying to ask an open-ended enough question to hopefully get more than a few words out of him. "What is the atmosphere?"
At this, the guy seemed to get the hint that they weren't paying him to dick around and make small talk. "Oh, well, it's really...packed. There's a lot of people here, and the mood is really down--somber. And yet people seem to be celebrating the life of the Pope. There are a lot of people here waiting to enter the place over there...and the line's moving really slowly." He sort of rambled on about nothing in particular--that some were crying, some were upset. Basically, he might as well have been watching it on TV and telling someone what he's seeing.
That? That was strange.
Get That Laundry Done...the FAST Way
Today was going to be laundry day. It was going to be laundry day. But no more, because I didn't have to go to the laundromat.
I now have soap and water all over my living room floor, though. That's not a bad thing, though, considering how much one typically pays to get their carpets shampooed.
Why did I do this?
The answer is curiosity. Yes, curiosity; that age old vice that infects the best of them: Socrates, Albert Einstein, Isaac Asimov, Colonel Sanders. It's that strong desire to find out what the fuck is going on with something. Curiosity. Without curiosity, Christopher Columbus wouldn't have said, "I wonder if there's another route to China by going the other way around the world. Maybe I'll be able to stop by an In 'n Out." Thomas Edison wouldn't have said, "Fuck, I wonder if there's a better way to read in the dark than with these gas lamps and arc lights." The Hamburgler wouldn't have said, "Nobody seems to mind as much when I steal a hamburger than when I kidnap small disabled children."
Yes, curiosity got the best of me, too. Curiosity and just a touch of alcohol.
So I was completely drunk--past the point when I usually pass out. I figured I was doing well, and I thought, "Do I really have to go out to the laundromat?" I have soap and water. What else do I really need? And I was in no condition to drive, anyway.
I dressed up in all of my clothing that I wore over the previous week: about 3 t-shirts, 7 pairs of boxers, 10 pairs of socks, 6 dress shirts, two pairs of jeans, and some undershirts. I poured a few cups of laundry detergent on me and rubbed it around. Then, I took a long shower. This killed two birds with one stone:
1) Clean laundry
2) Shower
Ergo, I saved water (though I passed out for a short amount of time as the water was running) and time. I made sure to get nice and wet, and made sure that the soap was worked in really well.
When I was done, I got out and spun around and around in the living room (just like a dryer would do) for several minutes.
And then, I burst outside and went running through the neighborhood at full tilt to continue drying the clothes. I left a trail of sudsy water as I ran. People seemed to stare and watch at me--a model of efficiency and true intelligence.
"This is a man that knows how to do laundry." Nobody said this, but the looks on their faces said this and more.
Let me be your domestic chore role model.
I now have soap and water all over my living room floor, though. That's not a bad thing, though, considering how much one typically pays to get their carpets shampooed.
Why did I do this?
The answer is curiosity. Yes, curiosity; that age old vice that infects the best of them: Socrates, Albert Einstein, Isaac Asimov, Colonel Sanders. It's that strong desire to find out what the fuck is going on with something. Curiosity. Without curiosity, Christopher Columbus wouldn't have said, "I wonder if there's another route to China by going the other way around the world. Maybe I'll be able to stop by an In 'n Out." Thomas Edison wouldn't have said, "Fuck, I wonder if there's a better way to read in the dark than with these gas lamps and arc lights." The Hamburgler wouldn't have said, "Nobody seems to mind as much when I steal a hamburger than when I kidnap small disabled children."
Yes, curiosity got the best of me, too. Curiosity and just a touch of alcohol.
So I was completely drunk--past the point when I usually pass out. I figured I was doing well, and I thought, "Do I really have to go out to the laundromat?" I have soap and water. What else do I really need? And I was in no condition to drive, anyway.
I dressed up in all of my clothing that I wore over the previous week: about 3 t-shirts, 7 pairs of boxers, 10 pairs of socks, 6 dress shirts, two pairs of jeans, and some undershirts. I poured a few cups of laundry detergent on me and rubbed it around. Then, I took a long shower. This killed two birds with one stone:
1) Clean laundry
2) Shower
Ergo, I saved water (though I passed out for a short amount of time as the water was running) and time. I made sure to get nice and wet, and made sure that the soap was worked in really well.
When I was done, I got out and spun around and around in the living room (just like a dryer would do) for several minutes.
And then, I burst outside and went running through the neighborhood at full tilt to continue drying the clothes. I left a trail of sudsy water as I ran. People seemed to stare and watch at me--a model of efficiency and true intelligence.
"This is a man that knows how to do laundry." Nobody said this, but the looks on their faces said this and more.
Let me be your domestic chore role model.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Big Balls in Cowtown Will Dance Around
The contest results are in. Remember the contest? I held a contest where I asked for original, thoughtful writings. There were many submissions.
Many as in two. That's right. Two submissions. In making a general request for some original, thoughtful writings, you've got me feeling like I'm fishing in an empty bathtub.
Anyway, there were two winners. The first emailed submission I got was from MAKEYOURDICKBIG@OPPORTUNITY.A043.NET, who chose to spend his time talking about herbal supplements. Unsolicited email won the prize for the Goddamn Retard. Let me ask you something, dear blog reader: How does it feel to get beat out by spam? Does it make you feel like a stupid bitch? It should. Stupid bitches.
Before I tell you who won the the first, second, and third prizes, I'll remind you what they are: an anti-Bush T-shirt (brand-new, never worn!), a blue ball cap worn by a fictitious character, and a bottle of delicious Trader Joe's Santa Fe Sauce.
The big winner is Armand Carriznozna from Soccinjaw, Wisconsin. Armand's grasp of the English language is akin to my grasp of molecular physics (and I am no molecular physicist). So, perhaps you'll find his post as interesting as I did. Yes, the people that come to this country from afar are courageous, strong people--full of hope and that pioneering American spirit that makes this country what it is. But once they're out of earshot, I find it feels pretty good to laugh at and make fun of them; there's something in that simple act that makes me somehow feel superior.
Anyway, I want to tell you about...
An Average Bureaucratic Day of Government Service
This is a story about a guy (we'll call him Rodney) that works for a large government tax organization (something like the IRS, California EDD, and the Railroad Retirement Board). He's supposed to collect $1500 from this one guy. The man came in, and pulled out $1500 in cash. Rodney left the guy and his money in a little waiting room and got his receipt book and supervisor.
His supervisor said, "CASH?! You can't take CASH! Well, you can, but you have to write a receipt. Are you sure he has to pay cash? Rodney, that receipt is a nightmare."
Rodney said that the guy couldn't go get a cashier's check or money order. Rodney used to sell cars, and knew that when there's money on the table, you don't let it walk out the door.
And Rodney was forced to follow the procedures to take that cash. The procedures forced Rodney to do the following...
1) Get out his Form 809 receipt book
2) Get out the instruction manual to use the Form 809 receipt book
3) Read the instruction manual, while the supervisor reads over her manual and checks the organization's policy manuals regarding receipts and taking cash. Meanwhile, the man waits in the waiting room while they do this.
4) Rodney and his supervisor make a xerox copy of the receipt he will use, which has a unique identification number on it.
5) Rodney fills out the xerox copy of the receipt, signs it, and gives it the man.
6) The supervisor, with Rodney witnessing, counts the money and shoves it in an envelope. The amount is written on the envelope.
7) The man leaves.
8) Rodney leaves an hour early per supervisor's order.
9) Rodney drives to Post Office to convert the $1500 into two money orders. Each money order costs $1.25.
10) Rodney stores the money orders in his locked glove compartment overnight, since he feels that his car is less likely to get broken into than his apartment. He has trouble thinking, since if the money orders disappear, his job does too.
11) Rodney goes to work the next morning with the money orders. Rodney sits down in his manager's office and fills out the actual receipts in the Form 809 receipt book. This is difficult, because there are 4 carbons to go through. However, the last person that filled out a receipt got written up because he wrote too hard on the receipt. Each and every part of the receipt has to be exactly filled out correctly, or Rodney will get written up or fired. If he fills it out really wrong or willfully neglects his duties regarding the receipt book, he can be arrested by one of many federal agencies.
12) The other supervisor walks in, sees Rodney filling out the Form 809 receipt, and announces, "You took cash? What an idiot!" Later, he brings Rodney a jelly donut as a peace offering and apologizes.
13) Stressed, Rodney cannot mess up. He cannot make a mistake, or he'll have to void the receipt. Each one stays with him for his entire career. Each time he messes up (if he messes up), he'll have to fill out a form explaining why he voided it.
14) Rodney messes it up. He is writing in the serial numbers of the money orders and transposes two numbers. He begins to cry. He somehow turns a '0' into a '4' and an '8' into a '1,' and hopes that nobody notices that these look odd.
15) Rodney keeps COPY 4 with the receipt book. Rodney sends COPIES 2 and 3 to Central Processing with the money orders and a Form 795 transmittal slip. Rodney sends COPY 1 to the putz who gave him $1500.
16) Rodney looks on Monster.com and Hotjobs.com in preparation for when he's fired for messing up the receipt. Any mistake will not be caught today, tomorrow, in a week, or in a month. He will get a phone call and/or people with big guns will show up in 2 to 4 years with a copy of the receipt in a Ziplock bag.
The end. Good night. Balls.
Many as in two. That's right. Two submissions. In making a general request for some original, thoughtful writings, you've got me feeling like I'm fishing in an empty bathtub.
Anyway, there were two winners. The first emailed submission I got was from MAKEYOURDICKBIG@OPPORTUNITY.A043.NET, who chose to spend his time talking about herbal supplements. Unsolicited email won the prize for the Goddamn Retard. Let me ask you something, dear blog reader: How does it feel to get beat out by spam? Does it make you feel like a stupid bitch? It should. Stupid bitches.
Before I tell you who won the the first, second, and third prizes, I'll remind you what they are: an anti-Bush T-shirt (brand-new, never worn!), a blue ball cap worn by a fictitious character, and a bottle of delicious Trader Joe's Santa Fe Sauce.
The big winner is Armand Carriznozna from Soccinjaw, Wisconsin. Armand's grasp of the English language is akin to my grasp of molecular physics (and I am no molecular physicist). So, perhaps you'll find his post as interesting as I did. Yes, the people that come to this country from afar are courageous, strong people--full of hope and that pioneering American spirit that makes this country what it is. But once they're out of earshot, I find it feels pretty good to laugh at and make fun of them; there's something in that simple act that makes me somehow feel superior.
Anyway, I want to tell you about...
An Average Bureaucratic Day of Government Service
This is a story about a guy (we'll call him Rodney) that works for a large government tax organization (something like the IRS, California EDD, and the Railroad Retirement Board). He's supposed to collect $1500 from this one guy. The man came in, and pulled out $1500 in cash. Rodney left the guy and his money in a little waiting room and got his receipt book and supervisor.
His supervisor said, "CASH?! You can't take CASH! Well, you can, but you have to write a receipt. Are you sure he has to pay cash? Rodney, that receipt is a nightmare."
Rodney said that the guy couldn't go get a cashier's check or money order. Rodney used to sell cars, and knew that when there's money on the table, you don't let it walk out the door.
And Rodney was forced to follow the procedures to take that cash. The procedures forced Rodney to do the following...
1) Get out his Form 809 receipt book
2) Get out the instruction manual to use the Form 809 receipt book
3) Read the instruction manual, while the supervisor reads over her manual and checks the organization's policy manuals regarding receipts and taking cash. Meanwhile, the man waits in the waiting room while they do this.
4) Rodney and his supervisor make a xerox copy of the receipt he will use, which has a unique identification number on it.
5) Rodney fills out the xerox copy of the receipt, signs it, and gives it the man.
6) The supervisor, with Rodney witnessing, counts the money and shoves it in an envelope. The amount is written on the envelope.
7) The man leaves.
8) Rodney leaves an hour early per supervisor's order.
9) Rodney drives to Post Office to convert the $1500 into two money orders. Each money order costs $1.25.
10) Rodney stores the money orders in his locked glove compartment overnight, since he feels that his car is less likely to get broken into than his apartment. He has trouble thinking, since if the money orders disappear, his job does too.
11) Rodney goes to work the next morning with the money orders. Rodney sits down in his manager's office and fills out the actual receipts in the Form 809 receipt book. This is difficult, because there are 4 carbons to go through. However, the last person that filled out a receipt got written up because he wrote too hard on the receipt. Each and every part of the receipt has to be exactly filled out correctly, or Rodney will get written up or fired. If he fills it out really wrong or willfully neglects his duties regarding the receipt book, he can be arrested by one of many federal agencies.
12) The other supervisor walks in, sees Rodney filling out the Form 809 receipt, and announces, "You took cash? What an idiot!" Later, he brings Rodney a jelly donut as a peace offering and apologizes.
13) Stressed, Rodney cannot mess up. He cannot make a mistake, or he'll have to void the receipt. Each one stays with him for his entire career. Each time he messes up (if he messes up), he'll have to fill out a form explaining why he voided it.
14) Rodney messes it up. He is writing in the serial numbers of the money orders and transposes two numbers. He begins to cry. He somehow turns a '0' into a '4' and an '8' into a '1,' and hopes that nobody notices that these look odd.
15) Rodney keeps COPY 4 with the receipt book. Rodney sends COPIES 2 and 3 to Central Processing with the money orders and a Form 795 transmittal slip. Rodney sends COPY 1 to the putz who gave him $1500.
16) Rodney looks on Monster.com and Hotjobs.com in preparation for when he's fired for messing up the receipt. Any mistake will not be caught today, tomorrow, in a week, or in a month. He will get a phone call and/or people with big guns will show up in 2 to 4 years with a copy of the receipt in a Ziplock bag.
The end. Good night. Balls.
Monday, April 04, 2005
My Own Private Idaho
Something I've always wanted to do is to buy an island--doesn't matter where or how big--and secede from the United States. And reality has come a step closer.
Let me start off by saying I'm not anti-American. I myself would retain my citizenship. That's the point, though, because I'd form my own country with my own military, central bank, historical markers, postal service, and diplomatic missions. Think about this. I could hold parades whenever I want. I would make my birthday a national holiday. My face would be on the money.
But that's not the cool part.
It's one-upmanship.
You know those assholes who say, "I was just talking to my friend, the Tony Danza..." or, "I just visited my good friend Tony Blair the other day and..." or, "You know, the Lord Jesus Christ and I were playing doubles tennis with Nelson Mandela and Vicente Fox and..."? It's annoying.
But imagine being able to honestly say, "I seceded from the United States, formed my own country, and now I'm late for a meeting with the U.N. Security Council. You were saying something about Tony Danza?"
Not that I'm one of those guys that says, "Imagine how much ass I could get telling that to girls," but I mean think about it--imagine how much ass I could get telling that to girls.
I would control the Rymerica Central Bank in such a way that I could send the economy into rapid, dangerous inflation, or in the direction of horrible deflation. And this would be cool, because I could impress girls and use it to get bulk discounts.
But even better would be my attempts at waging war against other countries. "Today, I am waging a covert war against the country of...Ecuador?" And then I'd simply announce that the invasion was a success, and would send out redrawn maps with the press releases to all the international wires, including Rymerica's own news agency. If the people of Ecuador said, "You're such a bullshitting liar," I could just wage war against, say, Cameroon the next day, and another country the next (like Poland or some other small Third World Country). And then over time, I'm sure certain countries would start to believe it. I'd definitely send out press releases saying I successfully invaded Zimbabwe and removed Mugabe from power. Whoa, that would totally fuck him up. He'd be so confused.
I said reality came closer at the beginning. It's true. I've packed my bag. It's my Dictator Survival Kit, and really just includes a few changes of clothes and some sunscreen. And packing, I think, is a really major step. All I have to do now is buy the island and go live there. I can print the paper money on my own printer, though.
Let me start off by saying I'm not anti-American. I myself would retain my citizenship. That's the point, though, because I'd form my own country with my own military, central bank, historical markers, postal service, and diplomatic missions. Think about this. I could hold parades whenever I want. I would make my birthday a national holiday. My face would be on the money.
But that's not the cool part.
It's one-upmanship.
You know those assholes who say, "I was just talking to my friend, the Tony Danza..." or, "I just visited my good friend Tony Blair the other day and..." or, "You know, the Lord Jesus Christ and I were playing doubles tennis with Nelson Mandela and Vicente Fox and..."? It's annoying.
But imagine being able to honestly say, "I seceded from the United States, formed my own country, and now I'm late for a meeting with the U.N. Security Council. You were saying something about Tony Danza?"
Not that I'm one of those guys that says, "Imagine how much ass I could get telling that to girls," but I mean think about it--imagine how much ass I could get telling that to girls.
I would control the Rymerica Central Bank in such a way that I could send the economy into rapid, dangerous inflation, or in the direction of horrible deflation. And this would be cool, because I could impress girls and use it to get bulk discounts.
But even better would be my attempts at waging war against other countries. "Today, I am waging a covert war against the country of...Ecuador?" And then I'd simply announce that the invasion was a success, and would send out redrawn maps with the press releases to all the international wires, including Rymerica's own news agency. If the people of Ecuador said, "You're such a bullshitting liar," I could just wage war against, say, Cameroon the next day, and another country the next (like Poland or some other small Third World Country). And then over time, I'm sure certain countries would start to believe it. I'd definitely send out press releases saying I successfully invaded Zimbabwe and removed Mugabe from power. Whoa, that would totally fuck him up. He'd be so confused.
I said reality came closer at the beginning. It's true. I've packed my bag. It's my Dictator Survival Kit, and really just includes a few changes of clothes and some sunscreen. And packing, I think, is a really major step. All I have to do now is buy the island and go live there. I can print the paper money on my own printer, though.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
A Contest Even a Fuckin' Retard Can Win
It's that time.
It's time for a contest. And prizes will be involved. No, I'm not shitting you. I love contests, and maybe you--yes you--could be the big winner! Check out the prizes before saying, "I'm so Goddamn lazy and useless, I'm not even going to try, because I'm a Goddamn retard." Even the Goddamn retards have a chance; there is a prize for the biggest Goddamn retarded entry I get!
The Contest
I want a guest post. It must be creative and interesting--something that is riveting and will draw more readers to my blog. It must be based in reality. You can talk about a favorite topic of science, a poem you're trying to write, which step you're on in AA--anything you want. It's got to be concise and show an economy of words. After my screening process with my editorial team, the winners will be chosen. The winning entries will be posted non-consecutively: on days when I feel like writing nothing.
It's a golden opportunity to show the world that you a) are capable of writing something interesting and thought-provoking and b) like to win cool shit (see below).
Prizes
First of all, these are real. You will receive at least one of these if you win. I'm not horseshitting you. If you are the sole entrant of my contest, you'll win them all. Why not?
First Prize is a remnant of the 2004 presidential election. Wear this with pride...even though we lost and failed miserably. Save it until the 2008 election! Go DNC Chairman Howard Dean! You can steer this great country towards The Light! This is a close-up shot of the shirt. Actual cash value is $650! Sweeeeeeet...
The winner of the Biggest Goddamn Retarded Post also wins one of the shirts above. You don't even have to wait until the 2008 election to start wearing it. Wear that shirt and act like it's November 2nd.
Second prize is a super sweet blue ball cap. Hand-crafted to look worn and aged, this ball cap only LOOKS like it was stolen from a lost-and-found (when in fact it's not really stealing if the person lost it anyway--I mean that's why it's in the lost-and-found). Amaze your friends with this blue ball cap, worn by none other than the completely fictitious character, Gevin Kant--who, if you remember, told me the story about his son saying, "This is Jesus Christ!" about the snow. Yes, he doesn't exist (he's a fictitious character)--but his hat does, and you can win it! Actual cash value is $400!
Third place wins a bottle of Trader Joe's premium Santa Fe Sauce. Your mouth will be saying, "Sweet Jesus! I can't believe that something can be this good and not leave track marks on my arms or between my toes, or twitching and seizing in a pool of my own puke!" but your body will be saying, "Fat-free and low-carb!" Simmer it with some chicken and bay leaves! Put it on pork chops! Smear it in your hair and rinse it out with conditioner! It's so versatile, you can do almost anything with it. Actual cash value is $140.
All rights to submitted entries are retained by me. All entrants will receive a personal response by me--at the very least to say you're a fucking moron, and perhaps even to say you're a fucking asshole. The contest ends soon.
Do you consider yourself the rightful owner of one of these prizes? Don't email or call to say I can't give away shit that doesn't belong to me. Enter now and win it back before someone else wins your shit!!
It's time for a contest. And prizes will be involved. No, I'm not shitting you. I love contests, and maybe you--yes you--could be the big winner! Check out the prizes before saying, "I'm so Goddamn lazy and useless, I'm not even going to try, because I'm a Goddamn retard." Even the Goddamn retards have a chance; there is a prize for the biggest Goddamn retarded entry I get!
The Contest
I want a guest post. It must be creative and interesting--something that is riveting and will draw more readers to my blog. It must be based in reality. You can talk about a favorite topic of science, a poem you're trying to write, which step you're on in AA--anything you want. It's got to be concise and show an economy of words. After my screening process with my editorial team, the winners will be chosen. The winning entries will be posted non-consecutively: on days when I feel like writing nothing.
It's a golden opportunity to show the world that you a) are capable of writing something interesting and thought-provoking and b) like to win cool shit (see below).
Prizes
First of all, these are real. You will receive at least one of these if you win. I'm not horseshitting you. If you are the sole entrant of my contest, you'll win them all. Why not?
First Prize is a remnant of the 2004 presidential election. Wear this with pride...even though we lost and failed miserably. Save it until the 2008 election! Go DNC Chairman Howard Dean! You can steer this great country towards The Light! This is a close-up shot of the shirt. Actual cash value is $650! Sweeeeeeet...
The winner of the Biggest Goddamn Retarded Post also wins one of the shirts above. You don't even have to wait until the 2008 election to start wearing it. Wear that shirt and act like it's November 2nd.
Second prize is a super sweet blue ball cap. Hand-crafted to look worn and aged, this ball cap only LOOKS like it was stolen from a lost-and-found (when in fact it's not really stealing if the person lost it anyway--I mean that's why it's in the lost-and-found). Amaze your friends with this blue ball cap, worn by none other than the completely fictitious character, Gevin Kant--who, if you remember, told me the story about his son saying, "This is Jesus Christ!" about the snow. Yes, he doesn't exist (he's a fictitious character)--but his hat does, and you can win it! Actual cash value is $400!
Third place wins a bottle of Trader Joe's premium Santa Fe Sauce. Your mouth will be saying, "Sweet Jesus! I can't believe that something can be this good and not leave track marks on my arms or between my toes, or twitching and seizing in a pool of my own puke!" but your body will be saying, "Fat-free and low-carb!" Simmer it with some chicken and bay leaves! Put it on pork chops! Smear it in your hair and rinse it out with conditioner! It's so versatile, you can do almost anything with it. Actual cash value is $140.
All rights to submitted entries are retained by me. All entrants will receive a personal response by me--at the very least to say you're a fucking moron, and perhaps even to say you're a fucking asshole. The contest ends soon.
Do you consider yourself the rightful owner of one of these prizes? Don't email or call to say I can't give away shit that doesn't belong to me. Enter now and win it back before someone else wins your shit!!
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Get Your Wallet. I've Got What You've Been Waiting For, Bitches!
A Non-Comment to Start Off...
I cannot comment on the passing of Pope John Paul II. It would be inappropriate.
And now, on to business...
Today is April 2nd, which is a good thing.
I figured April Fools could possibly get in the way of my job, and discussed the possibility with my manager. I had to go do some work outside of the office. Generally, my appearance means that the customer owes money (we'll say I'm in the business of forced collection of accounts receivables) and better find their check book. I told my manager, "If I show up and demand money, they'll think it's some sort of April Fools prank and make me leave. Shouldn't I just sleep in and take the day off instead?" She said no. I told her I'd probably just call in sick, then, but she said she was already doing that, so I couldn't either. Her logic made no sense, but all well.
April Fools actually worked in my favor. "You want money? Who sent you? Rodney? This is hilarious. I can play along! Here's a check for a million bucks. Watch his eyes pop out! But make sure he doesn't deposit it." It made the job easier.
I went to a club tonight. My neighbor and I wanted to go see what was going down--see what girls look like, maybe have a beer. But oh, wait--I fucking hate clubs. I hate everything about them, and I typically stand there turning over this conundrum in my head: "I just spent ten bucks to listen to music really, really loud in a really hot, crowded room crammed with people. Oh, and I spent as much on this one beer as I would have to buy a six pack. At what point does this make sense?"
And then I saw it as a way to capitalize. That's right. I see a real need in the market for...
REMOVED
My lawyer called this morning. I had an idea up for what I thought was an original idea on how to capitalize on the whole Club experience without visiting a club. Evidently, this has already been done. One of the attorneys for the guy that invented and currently markets it called my lawer and then faxed him over the Cease and Desist Order. He recently sold the entire idea to a major media conglomerate.
I'm forbidden to say which media conglomerate, but we'll say it's operated by a guy named Mupurt Rurdoch. And this Mupurt Rurdoch is one of the most powerful people in the world. He could ruin me without lifting a pinky.
And I can't afford to engage in copyright infringement. Holy Christ. I can't go back to jail. They're not joking when they say, "Don't drop the soap." There's so much bacteria and what have you on the grond; I shutter to think about it.
I made friends with the warden, though. I broke into her office once during a prison riot and played beautiful classical music over the PA system. It was beautiful. I played some Van Halen and NOFX before the prison guards came in and apprehended me. And it was an all-women's prison, so I guess that was pretty good. I hated having to be somebody's bitch, though. I mean--come on.
Solitary confinement wasn't so bad, though. You see, previous prisoners had painted lines to make it look like a racquetball court. So we were allowed to take in a racket, a ball, and a partner to play a set with. It's hard being alone for so long (you know, except for the occasional visitors and TV we were allowed to take in with us).
I'm not shitting you. Prison is a horrible place. They didn't even have HBO, and they served this wierd frozen YOGURT, rather than ice cream. Jesus Christ. I hope to never go back. Think of the HBO show Oz. Multiply the horror by about 100, and you're nowhere close. I mean, the French pastries were sometimes actually slightly overbaked--AND THEY STILL SERVED THEM. I sometimes have nightmares where I think about the slightly-too-browned Neopolitans. You don't even know what pain and true human suffering is.
I cannot comment on the passing of Pope John Paul II. It would be inappropriate.
And now, on to business...
Today is April 2nd, which is a good thing.
I figured April Fools could possibly get in the way of my job, and discussed the possibility with my manager. I had to go do some work outside of the office. Generally, my appearance means that the customer owes money (we'll say I'm in the business of forced collection of accounts receivables) and better find their check book. I told my manager, "If I show up and demand money, they'll think it's some sort of April Fools prank and make me leave. Shouldn't I just sleep in and take the day off instead?" She said no. I told her I'd probably just call in sick, then, but she said she was already doing that, so I couldn't either. Her logic made no sense, but all well.
April Fools actually worked in my favor. "You want money? Who sent you? Rodney? This is hilarious. I can play along! Here's a check for a million bucks. Watch his eyes pop out! But make sure he doesn't deposit it." It made the job easier.
I went to a club tonight. My neighbor and I wanted to go see what was going down--see what girls look like, maybe have a beer. But oh, wait--I fucking hate clubs. I hate everything about them, and I typically stand there turning over this conundrum in my head: "I just spent ten bucks to listen to music really, really loud in a really hot, crowded room crammed with people. Oh, and I spent as much on this one beer as I would have to buy a six pack. At what point does this make sense?"
And then I saw it as a way to capitalize. That's right. I see a real need in the market for...
REMOVED
My lawyer called this morning. I had an idea up for what I thought was an original idea on how to capitalize on the whole Club experience without visiting a club. Evidently, this has already been done. One of the attorneys for the guy that invented and currently markets it called my lawer and then faxed him over the Cease and Desist Order. He recently sold the entire idea to a major media conglomerate.
I'm forbidden to say which media conglomerate, but we'll say it's operated by a guy named Mupurt Rurdoch. And this Mupurt Rurdoch is one of the most powerful people in the world. He could ruin me without lifting a pinky.
And I can't afford to engage in copyright infringement. Holy Christ. I can't go back to jail. They're not joking when they say, "Don't drop the soap." There's so much bacteria and what have you on the grond; I shutter to think about it.
I made friends with the warden, though. I broke into her office once during a prison riot and played beautiful classical music over the PA system. It was beautiful. I played some Van Halen and NOFX before the prison guards came in and apprehended me. And it was an all-women's prison, so I guess that was pretty good. I hated having to be somebody's bitch, though. I mean--come on.
Solitary confinement wasn't so bad, though. You see, previous prisoners had painted lines to make it look like a racquetball court. So we were allowed to take in a racket, a ball, and a partner to play a set with. It's hard being alone for so long (you know, except for the occasional visitors and TV we were allowed to take in with us).
I'm not shitting you. Prison is a horrible place. They didn't even have HBO, and they served this wierd frozen YOGURT, rather than ice cream. Jesus Christ. I hope to never go back. Think of the HBO show Oz. Multiply the horror by about 100, and you're nowhere close. I mean, the French pastries were sometimes actually slightly overbaked--AND THEY STILL SERVED THEM. I sometimes have nightmares where I think about the slightly-too-browned Neopolitans. You don't even know what pain and true human suffering is.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Science: It's Not Just For Smart People
I drove all over Los Angeles today--from Pasadena to Pomona, La Verne, Rowland Heights, West Covina, Glendale, Burbank, West Hollywood. Of course, I'm going to charge the mileage for work expenses. And it technically was for work.
Just because I didn't do any work, doesn't mean I can't put it on the ol' expense report (or as we call the automated travel system in our organization, TRAS).
No, I went looking around for the perfect taco salad. You think that sounds stupid? Well, you're a Goddamn retard. Who's stupid now, retard?
No, this was the pursuit of hard science: taste-testing for the perfect taco salad across LA (on my employer's dime). I even charged the taco salad. And since today I was only certified to get compensated for mileage (as in no per diem), I'll have to put in my travel report that I didn't just drive the 115 miles that I really drove, but approximately 747 miles (which at 40.5 cents per mile, allows for the mileage I really drove PLUS the cost of the 18 taco salads I tried and accompanying drinks).
To be scientific, I purchased a Corona with each taco salad that I ate. Now, I didn't eat every taco salad I came across in its entirety. I don't think I could handle 18 taco salads.
Why taco salads, you ask? The shells are drenched in oil, it's full of fat, and, despite the cameo appearance of lettuce and other vegetables, the star of the meal is shit that's not really fit for human consumption. Perfect.
I've got to say, the first four taco salads were really similar. But I realized this was so, because I'd ordered them all from the same chain restaurant. I would have thought there'd be some taste variations among the different geographic locations, but I guess the assholes at El Pollo Loco (The Crazy Chicken) disagree.
So 4 Coronas and 4 taco salads later, I'm getting kind of full. It was at this point, actually, that I started my, "Eat enough to get an impression," policy. Before, I was stuffing all the food in my face. But I was really hungry; now, not so much. I also thought, "What if the next El Pollo Loco offers up a taco salad that tastes just like the first 4?" So the next two places, I went to Taco Bell and bought my own 6-pack of Coronas at Ralph's.
When I ate those taco salads, I forgot to take notes. But I remember they yelled at me--just because I was slurring my speech (and perhaps I might have asked to urinate on the soda dispenser (okay, I didn't ask)).
I don't remember the next few taco salads. They were a blur. I had to buy another 6-pack. I know I bought more beer (it wasn't Corona; I switched to Natty Light because I could get a 36-pack for the price of a 6 pack of Corona). I know I made this decision because that's what the receipt said once I found it in my underwear.
How I even found my way to my car is a mystery. I remember taking a nap in the back seat. Did somebody drive me?
I really don't remember what happened. I woke up hours later in a pile of half-eaten taco salads and vomit. I think it's mine.
Who's the big winner of my taste-test?
Me. I'm the big winner.
Just because I didn't do any work, doesn't mean I can't put it on the ol' expense report (or as we call the automated travel system in our organization, TRAS).
No, I went looking around for the perfect taco salad. You think that sounds stupid? Well, you're a Goddamn retard. Who's stupid now, retard?
No, this was the pursuit of hard science: taste-testing for the perfect taco salad across LA (on my employer's dime). I even charged the taco salad. And since today I was only certified to get compensated for mileage (as in no per diem), I'll have to put in my travel report that I didn't just drive the 115 miles that I really drove, but approximately 747 miles (which at 40.5 cents per mile, allows for the mileage I really drove PLUS the cost of the 18 taco salads I tried and accompanying drinks).
To be scientific, I purchased a Corona with each taco salad that I ate. Now, I didn't eat every taco salad I came across in its entirety. I don't think I could handle 18 taco salads.
Why taco salads, you ask? The shells are drenched in oil, it's full of fat, and, despite the cameo appearance of lettuce and other vegetables, the star of the meal is shit that's not really fit for human consumption. Perfect.
I've got to say, the first four taco salads were really similar. But I realized this was so, because I'd ordered them all from the same chain restaurant. I would have thought there'd be some taste variations among the different geographic locations, but I guess the assholes at El Pollo Loco (The Crazy Chicken) disagree.
So 4 Coronas and 4 taco salads later, I'm getting kind of full. It was at this point, actually, that I started my, "Eat enough to get an impression," policy. Before, I was stuffing all the food in my face. But I was really hungry; now, not so much. I also thought, "What if the next El Pollo Loco offers up a taco salad that tastes just like the first 4?" So the next two places, I went to Taco Bell and bought my own 6-pack of Coronas at Ralph's.
When I ate those taco salads, I forgot to take notes. But I remember they yelled at me--just because I was slurring my speech (and perhaps I might have asked to urinate on the soda dispenser (okay, I didn't ask)).
I don't remember the next few taco salads. They were a blur. I had to buy another 6-pack. I know I bought more beer (it wasn't Corona; I switched to Natty Light because I could get a 36-pack for the price of a 6 pack of Corona). I know I made this decision because that's what the receipt said once I found it in my underwear.
How I even found my way to my car is a mystery. I remember taking a nap in the back seat. Did somebody drive me?
I really don't remember what happened. I woke up hours later in a pile of half-eaten taco salads and vomit. I think it's mine.
Who's the big winner of my taste-test?
Me. I'm the big winner.
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