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?
Saturday, April 30, 2005
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 The union has withdrawn their support for the survey, and urges all union members to not take it.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.
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