« January 2007 | Main | March 2007 »

February 23, 2007

Snow Mon

After four consecutive 14-hour days sitting in meetings, I'm parked on a bench in LAX waiting to take the red-eye home to Cleveland.  Normally, this would be the time when I begin ranting about the excruciating nonsense that I've been forced to endure over the past few days.  Not today, bitches.

As of tomorrow morning, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I are going on vacation.  We are headed to Saba - a tiny island in the Caribbean that was the location for Peter Jackson's "King Kong" - to drink rum and accelerate our melanoma.  As such, I could give a fuck about anything...except maybe an on-time departure.

So instead of griping, I'm going to write about an extremely pleasant work moment this week. 

On Thursday morning, the biggest, most self-important tool in my organization gave an hour-long presentation about the incredibly fantastic work he is doing, despite his disability - having a perfectly round and disproportionately large head.  

Why, you ask, would this make me happy?  During his entire presentation, a huge chunk of his awful comb-over was jutting off the side of his pumpkin-shaped cranium.  How he hadn't noticed the catastrophic flaw in his Flock-Of-Aging-Seagulls hairdo was unknowable; probably an act of God.  It looked like the single, splintered horn on a bloated demon in a bad suit.  And it made me happy.

That's it.  I'll try to write when I'm on vacation, but I might be preoccupied battling giant gorillas and, hopefully, molesting blonde starlets.

So long, suckers.

February 22, 2007

Given The Target Market For "Milwaukee's Best" Beer, Other Appropriate Themes For Their "Men Should Act Like Men" Television Commercials

(In case you are unfamiliar, these commercials depict a group of men where one does something considered unmanly, like pet a dog or dab the grease off a piece of pizza, and then gets crushed by a giant can of MB Beer.)

Three men are riding in the front of a pickup truck drinking beer.  Man 1 leans out the passenger window with a shotgun and obliterates a mailbox. 
Man 1:  Yeeee hawww!
Man 2:  Let's drive over to the city and shoot some queers!
Man 3:  Um, guys, I need to go to work in the morning.
CRUSH - Giant can smashes Man 3
Announcer: "Men should act like men."
Man 1 & Man 2 attempt to shotgun the giant beer can.

Three men are sitting in a sleazy strip club drinking MB and watching a heavy, middle-aged woman with fresh stitches in her head wobbly gyrate on stage. 
Man 1: "Nothing makes me happier than a naked whore."
Man 2: "All I want for Christmas is pussy and crystal meth."
Man 3: "Holy shit, dude, is that your mom?"
CRUSH - Giant can smashes Man 3
Announcer: "Men should act like men."
Man 1 & Man 2 snatch the dollars from the extended, lifeless hand of Man 3 and wave them at the stripper.

Three men sit on a filthy couch in a badly paneled room, watching football on a small television with a jagged antenna on top.
Man 1: "I love football."
Man 2:  "I love the Steelers."
Man 3: "My uncle molested me when I was six."
CRUSH - Giant can smashes Man 3
Announcer: "Men should act like men."
Man 2 & Man 3 stare uncomfortably in opposite directions


P.S.  A note to the advertisers at Milwaukee's Best: I'm a man who proudly dabs his pizza.  Otherwise, it might drip and stain my pretty dress.

February 19, 2007

Now What? Part XI

My task this week was to compile all the critical points from the previous ten Now What? posts and try to piece together my purpose in life.   My thought was that I'd paste together this collage of ideas and then stare at it until I had a Keyser Soze moment.

Yeah, well, that didn't really work.  Even though I gave it the old college try - probably a poor choice of clichés because, for me, "the old college try" simply means subsisting on Cream of Wheat while getting high and watching daytime television -  I just couldn't concentrate.  Maybe my focus was blurry because of Valentine's Day and the accompanying marital duties I would be expected to vigorously perform; the relentless blizzard conditions; or the fact that I've got to spend two of the next three weeks at work conferences. 

If you have read this blog before, you know that I fucking HATE work conferences.  I'd rather spend a day mopping up on the set of a German porno production than in meetings with my boss.  Attempting to conjure the limits of what I'd rather do than spend two weeks in meetings with my boss takes me to a place so dark and frightening that only the word "REDRUM" can describe it.

So, with all this weighing on my mind, I was unable to get anything significant accomplished this week.   It's probably for the best, though.  Since so much of my anxiety is work related, it would have likely skewed the results.  

Never go grocery shopping when you're hungry.

 

February 15, 2007

Flaked

Too much snow.  Shoveling, shoveling...
Pulled a muscle. Pain. Something.
Little white candy tastes good.
Altoids, maybe.  Or Vicodin.
Whatever.
Snow wins.

 

This one. Funny.  Wait. What? 
LINK

February 14, 2007

FrivoList: Icebreaker Activities For The Recovering Stalker Support Group Meeting

"I Can Hear You Breathing"
Ask the group to line themselves up in order according to each person's all-time personal record for drunk dialing.  Here's the catch - no one is allowed to talk!

"The Sylvia Plath"
Encourage every member to perform his/her most realistic and compelling suicide threat.  Collectively vote on the best performance and award a prize.  To increase the fun, award extra points for makeshift props!

"What's Your Favorite Brand?"
Each attendee must find another person in the room that has the same name as the one (or one of the ones) he/she has carved into his/her skin.  For smaller groups, include middle names and aliases.

"There Was A Farmer Had A Dog"
Seat the group in a circle with a single member standing in the middle.  One by one, the seated members make different animal sounds (ex. "Moo" for cow; "Squawk" for parrot.)   When the standing person recognizes the sound of an animal he/she has tortured or sacrificed for an ungrateful loved one, he/she yells "Bingo!" and switches places. 

"Where Were You Last Night?!"
On 3 x 5 card, ask each member to anonymously write the credit score, blood type, and number of imagined infidelities committed by his/her ex.  The moderator then reads each card aloud and members of the group must guess which person wrote it.

"Towers of Power"
Break members into two teams (a good divisor is Kathy Bates fans vs. Glenn Close fans).  Each team is given three cardboard boxes, a bottle of glue and a pad of colored construction paper.  The team that builds the most elaborate shrine in 15 minutes wins a prize.  Give special consideration for creative uses of human hair, blood and/or feces.

 

February 13, 2007

Daily Splatter: Mail Bomb

Working from home has its advantages.  I can crank my music (no, "my music" is not a euphemism, you sickos), watch television during lunch, and pants are always optional. 

It's also a bit of a hermetic existence.  Unless I venture out for an afternoon cup of Starbucks or hit of crystal meth, there is no human interaction in my day.  This has led to some strange behavior: disturbingly long conversations with the cats; substandard hygiene; meticulous snow removal - as if to cry out, "Please, someone come talk to me!"; disturbingly long conversations without the cats; and an altogether unhealthy obsession with receiving the mail.     

I anticipate getting mail the way that soldiers and prison inmates do.  On a daily basis, I will check the mailbox at least three times before it finally arrives - and I know exactly what time it's supposed to get here.  It's the same whether I'm expecting the gas bill or my Little Orphan Annie Secret Decoder Pin.  Honestly, you could be on the phone telling me a story about your hot stepsister's lesbian experience at the sorority house that ended in murder and cannibalism, but if I hear the mailman on my stoop, you're going on hold, bitch.        

OK, you get it; I'm a lunatic about the mail. 

So you can imagine my delight yesterday afternoon when an unmarked, hand-addressed package arrived in the mail.  It was a totally unexpected yet welcome surprise.  I tore into it and pulled out the following flyer:

You may remember reading a post I recently wrote about a work conference that I had to help manage.  The project required long, intense hours every day for six days, including Saturday and Sunday.  Let me also say that my position is salaried; I do not get comp time or extra pay when I work evening or weekends.  Even though this event required lots of my free time and my boss was a total tool, I did my job and didn't complain (well, not too much).  

Reading the flyer, I started to feel guilty.  It seemed that my boss had actually recognized all the effort and hard work that went into the conference and was rewarding me for it.  Just as I was beginning to feel bad about being such an asshole all the time, I removed the remaining contents of the package:


It was a leftover tote bag from the conference. The same crappy vinyl tote bag that every single motherfucker who attended the conference (including me) received.  That's it.

Maybe I'm an ungrateful prick, but if you are going to go to the trouble of acknowledging someone's work by sending them a token of appreciation, that token should not be leftover shit - especially if the receiver will know with absolute certainly that it is leftover shit.  It would be more sincere to just send the crappy flyer without including a piece of random garbage you want to rid from your office. 

My annual review is coming up next week and now I don't know whether to expect a cost-of-living increase or a half-empty bottle of Wite-Out and some used Post-It Notes.  Maybe, if my performance is really outstanding, I will get a necklace made out of paperclips.

This is a fucking insult.  By the way, this isn't the first time, either.

Anyway, I'm considering sending back a "You're Welcome" gift.  Here are my ideas so far:

The very same tote bag filled with clumpy kitty litter;

A resignation letter sprinkled with Anthrax;

A disposable camera containing a picture of her toothbrush in my ass (this one poses a few logistical challenges and some health concerns...for me);

A single staple;

Child pornography - and an anonymous letter to the authorities;

Twenty-two sealed envelopes, each containing one of the following letters: 
P-L-E-A-S-E-D-I-E-O-F-C-O-L-O-N- C-A-N-C-E-R.

At least I have tomorrow's mail to look forward to.

 

February 12, 2007

Now What? Part X

Well, it's finally happened: I've begun to bore myself.  That means it's time to finish this business of figuring out my life and actually start living it.  As Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. likes to say, "Not deciding is still a decision."  She's a smartypants.

The bad news is that there are still a number of things on my list - things I want to do before I die - which need to be addressed.  The good news is that they can be lumped into two general categories: music and writing. 

Take guitar and drum lessons
Find a group of untalented wannabes like me to play "music" with
Write and record a song
Perform in front of an audience
Music is the one thing that has always affected me on a fundamental level.  Some people lives are changed when they discover Jesus; mine changed when I discovered Queen's "News Of the World" (which I still own on LP).  The songs were visceral and the cover art both excited and frightened me.  A year later, during eighth grade, I experienced two firsts at once: getting high and listening to The Cars debut album.  It was truly the weirdest, coolest thing I had ever heard. I was hooked. 

To this day, music alone has the power to change my mood and make me happy (the Prozac and electro-shock therapy are just for fun).  At 42, I still dance around the house, play air guitar, thrash my skull (these days I stretch a little first) and test every surface in the house for its drumming potential.  My iPod is as essential to my well-being as a pacemaker (hopefully, by the time I actually need a pacemaker, Apple will have incorporated one into their iPhone). 

But this all just relates to me being a fan of music. 

While I've been blessed with a good ear for music, I've also been cursed with the finger dexterity of an arthritic camel.  Even though I have owned various guitars for over 15 years, it would be misleading to say that I've played the instrument for that long...because I stink.  A more accurate statement is that I've played with a guitar for 15 years. 

If I ever want to perform at an open mic night or infiltrate a high school talent show, let alone record a song, I'm going to need a shitload of lessons and maybe that Milli Vanilli producer guy.

Taking music classes seems easy enough.  It is something I would enjoy and is not cost-prohibitive.  It would also likely expose me to other unrealistic, talentless people who might enjoy making some collective noise.  However, given that I spend an average of 50% of my week traveling, it is damn near impossible to maintain any sort of regularly scheduled classes or activities.  I end up missing sessions, falling behind, growing discouraged and quitting.  Even when I do get some free time on the road - which is rare; it's not like the hotel porn is going to watch itself - I don't have a guitar with me to practice. 

Bottom line: If I want to experiment with music, I need a career that affords me the ability to schedule classes and utilize my free time for those activities that I choose to pursue.  


Write my blog
Complete and publish some form of writing
Write and film a short movie
While these Now What? posts have been particularly difficult and not very much fun, nearly everything else I write for this blog is a blast.  I love scribbling this drivel.  

When I first started Throwing Poo last spring (April 9th for all you potential gift-givers/anniversary-obsessed terrorists out there), I was worried that I might run out of ideas.  The exact opposite is true.  The list of topics that I want to write about just keeps growing, as does my desire to write about them.  In addition to this blog, I want to begin working on ideas for two screenplays, a children's book, two additional blogs, a book of topical essays, a fundraising book and a truckload of dirty limericks. 

Now, for a guy who is barely able to form a complete sentence, I realize I'm getting out in front of my skis a little here.  While my writing skills are improving every day, I recognize that I'm like a 300lb. woman who goes shopping for a new bikini because she recently lost 25 lbs.   There is a bit more work to be done here.

To improve my skills, I need to read at least one book a week, write an average of two hours a day, take classes and attend workshops.  It would also help if I learned the difference between a colon and a hole in the ground.  In other words, I need to resolutely commit to the process of improving my writing skills - something that is definitely going to cut into my drinking time. (To Mavis's recent comment, unlike Bukowski, Chandler, Hemingway, and all the others, I drink because of my lack of talent, not in spite of it.  Wait, did I basically just quote Dudley Moore from Arthur?!  *sigh* I fucking hate myself.)

By the way, in case you are wondering, I am not totally deluded.  I realize I will never write a sentence that could be confused with the work of the authors mentioned above.  My aspirations are nowhere near that lofty.  To publish a silly little book that sells a few thousand copies, contribute an article to a national magazine, or write a play that is produced by a local playhouse (which isn't summarily burned to the ground by an angry, literate mob.  Hmm, then again...) would, in my eyes, be considered wildly successful. 

So, the challenge is to figure out a way to earn an income by writing or some activity that enhances my ability to write. 

fin 

Whew!  That's it.  End of list.  For anyone who is still with me at this point (and, really, why would you be?), the next step is to review these ten posts, summarize the critical issues and identify some career options that fit within the final framework.  That is my task for next week. 

Where is my high school guidance counselor when I really need him? 

   

February 09, 2007

Daily Splatter: Beer Goggles

This week I've been weighing the merits of becoming an alcoholic.  Given that my career has become a live-action version of the Dilbert cartoon and the outside temperature has averaged a bone-snapping 8 degrees, it seemed like a good time to test-drive this frequently misunderstood alternative lifestyle. 

The first thing I noticed during my excessive consumption is what a tremendous contribution an alcoholic can make towards a community recycling program.  Since my preferred libations are Guinness and Smithwicks beers, I am accumulating a wealth of recyclable glass bottles.  Should I decide to not recycle, the impact on the environment will be immediate and horrible.  Bottom line: alcoholism is very empowering. 

Second, being a mongrel American, I don't feel any real connection to the past.   In my family, there are no fancy headdresses, no exotic dishes, no rites of passage.  The only thing that seems to carry on throughout our family history is an apparent overwhelming desire to "get some strange." 

Alcoholism provides the connection that I feel is missing.  Some of you may know that beer is the oldest known man-made beverage.   Beer was both ancient currency and a religious sacrament.  It fueled the slaves who built the Egyptian pyramids (This begs the question: is it merely coincidence that men drinking massive amounts of beer often stack the empty cans in a pyramid?  Or is there some kind of "Close Encounter Of the Third Kind"' thing going on here?  Did I just blow your mind?).   It fostered grain production and, ultimately, the progression towards modern civilization.  Beer gets things done.  When I drink beer, I'm imitating and celebrating the history of mankind. 

There is a third point as well, but for some reason I've been having trouble remembering things this week.  One thing I do remember is that there are four Smithwicks, three Guinness draughts, and four Sam Adams in the fridge.  I know this because I've checked three times today already.  With pyramids to build and global warming to control, I need to be sure I'm prepared.

February 07, 2007

Ineffective Tactics for Staving Off the Self-Loathing When My Writing Submissions Are Rejected

Read Dave Barry online until either 1) something makes me laugh; or 2) my CRT burns out.  (I'll let you know which one happens first.)     

Consume a family-size bag of beef jerky, including the silica* gel packet (they can stick that "DO NOT EAT" warning right up their asses; they're not the boss of me!), and wash it down with a liter of Mountain Dew.  Watch with indifference as my ankles swell up over my shoes like muffin tops and then demand that the housecats acknowledge, "I am not an animal.  I am a human being!"

Explain to my former boss that is was all a big misunderstanding and beg for my old job back at a reduced salary.  Use company computer to send hate email to all those people whom I hold responsible for my failure. Sell pilfered office supplies on eBay.

Contact "Highlights" magazine and insist that my years of subscription patronage obligate them to publish at least one of my Goofus and Gallant submissions. 

Interpret the "Beers of the World" sign hanging in my neighborhood pub as a personal challenge.  Loudly boast that I am going to circle the globe tonight, starting right here in the good old U.S. of A.  Suggest that no one else in the bar is man enough to join me.  Pass out in Canada...

...wake up in dumpster behind pub.  Stumble to IHOP and treat myself to Harvest Grain & Nut pancakes to help combat hangover.  Have spirits raised by jolly, smiling staff.  Go to bathroom and notice a cartoonish penis drawn on my forehead with permanent marker.  Return to table and finish breakfast as if I never noticed.   

*Edited the original text from "silicone" to "silica" because I'm embarrassed by my stupidity (Thanks to ACW for pointing out my mistake. Showoff).  Made the footnote because I don't want to be both dumb and dishonest.

February 06, 2007

Mad People Skillz

The following are things a human resources "expert" actually said at a recent seminar that made me want to douse her with gasoline and flick matches. 

 "You can't go back in time." - Thanks, professor.

"You're fired!" - I didn't think I could hate anyone more than Donald Trump.  After the third time she let this one fly, I realized I had been mistaken. 

The titled objective of one session: "To Gain A Better Understanding Of Effective Communication" - Effective maybe, but certainly not efficient.

"Apples to apples" - Nine times, like she was getting paid per apple.

"Nobody enjoys getting fired" - Yeah, well, I'm beginning to think I might.

"Rap port" (apparently meaning "rapport") - Why hasn't God killed this person?
 
"Challenges can be challenging" - OK, now she's just fucking with me.

"Um"  - Every 10 seconds over the course of 4 hours, causing my ears to hemorrhage cranial fluid.


 

February 05, 2007

Now What? Part IX

It was John Lennon who said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans."  He also said, "Holy shit, some asshole just shot me!"  Kind of screamed it, actually.  He was a Beatle, you know. 

Anyway, it is one thing to not have any direction in your life (i.e., it just happens).  It is an entirely different and altogether worse thing to have a sense of direction yet feel powerless to pursue it. 

For the past two and a half weeks, I have been consumed by work.  By work, I mean the unsatisfying, nomadic, badly managed, blackhole of a fucking job that I waste all my free time bitching about.  As a result, this very internal analysis (the adjective form of "very", as to emphasize importance; not the adverb form which would sound invasive and require lubricant) that is supposed to lead me down the path of enlightenment - or at least to a better gig - has been put on hold.  This leads me to an all-important question:  Am I totally fucking retarded?

Despite KNOWING what is important to me, I'm easily and constantly distracted with insignificant or irrelevant tasks.  Some are piled on by my worthless, do-nothing boss.  Others I pile on myself - like remodeling the bathroom, paying the bills and bathing.  Regardless of where these tasks come from, I feel compelled to complete them - and not necessarily begrudgingly. The immediate gratification I get from shaving the cats or reorganizing my porno collection chronologically is, well, gratifying.  But it's just life candy (OK, I was trying to come up with the equivalent of eye candy or ear candy, but couldn't quite put my finger on it.  Sue me).  The satisfaction is short-lived and soon I need another fix.

While I can, with some effort, avoid doing this work, I'm incapable of ignoring it.  These tasks build up and compound; each one another nagging little splinter in my brain.  Increasingly, it begins to feel like everything is spinning out of control.  Then I implode and go on a to-do list bender that lasts for two weeks straight. 

And here we are.  Point being, I guess, is that this is an inherent problem; part of my make-up.  Call it O.C.D. or anal retentiveness; it doesn't matter.  Anything short of prescription medication means I'm going to spend valuable time digging out these splinters.  Hopefully I can figure out a way to dig enough to relieve the pressure but not so much as to cause infection. 

Whew.  That hurt me more than it did you - and you know how much I enjoy getting spanked.

Anyway, back to the topic: Things I want to do before I die.  Here are the items on the list that I still haven't addressed:

Study philosophy and religion
Write my blog
Complete and publish some form of writing
Write and film a short movie
Take guitar and drum lessons
Find a group of untalented wannabes like me to play "music" with
Write and record a song
Perform in front of an audience (unlike my ex-girlfriends, size would not matter)
Learn about digital audio production

Study philosophy and religion
If I'm truly serious about pursuing purpose and meaning in life, then this is how to do it.  Using the *ahem* Socratic method, one can easily deduce that nothing is more important in life than the study of philosophy.  Unfortunately, you can also easily deduce what a completely boring tool I am. 

The thing is, smarter people than me - brilliant men and women (mostly men, though.  Hey, I'm just saying!) - have spent centuries configuring, analyzing and debating the eternal questions.  What do I, with my business degree from a mediocre college and a bookshelf full of Christopher Moore novels, seriously think I have to offer?  I'm the clod who shows up to a black-tie event wearing sneakers and eating fistfuls of Fritos right from the bag.     

To be honest, it is also just one of those things that I think I should do, but don't ever get around to because I don't actually enjoy it.  It's like Netflix.  Our Netflix queue is chock full of documentaries and foreign films we think we ought to see.  But then when Friday night rolls around, we set "An Inconvenient Truth" off to the side and go rent "The Dukes of Hazzard" from Blockbuster.

For the record, let me also say that I'm not dumping on religion, either.  It just doesn't interest me.  If someone feels the presence of God, then I can understand it.  That has never happened to me.  I thought I did once, but turns out it was just a bad burrito.

That's it for today.  It's Super Bowl (Stupid Bowl, Super Bore, We Don't Like Football But We've Become So Desensitized To Commercialism That We Think It's OK To Sit In Front of the Television for Four Hours to Watch "Cool" Advertisements) Sunday, so I need to cut it off there.  However, I promise to finally finish this list by the end of the week.  Lucky you.

February 02, 2007

I'll Admit I'm Soft In The Head

...but this makes me happy.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=gq7r3F1SoX0&mode=related&search=

And for those of you who need a point of reference...

http://youtube.com/watch?v=pv5zWaTEVkI 

Have a good weekend! 

 

FrivoList: Besides the "World Series of Poker", Other Events That Might Be Inclined To Award Gold Bracelets To Their Winners

World Series of Smacking Broads & Whacking Guys

World Series of Trend Whoring

World Series of Charles Nelson Reilly Imitation

World Series of Hocking Valuables At A Pawn Shop Because You're A Gambling Addict Who's In The Middle Of A Losing Streak

World Series of Diabetes

February 01, 2007

Something Is Horribly Wrong

For some reason, Moveable Type is not allowing comments to post.  Unfortunately, my system is entirely hosted by Yahoo, so there isn't a damn thing I can do about it...except imagine that thousands of people have found their way to my site and are extremely disappointed that they cannot comment.  So much so, that they won't even attempt it again tomorrow or the next day.

That's what I'm telling myself, anyway.

P.S. Eat a bullet, Yahoo. 

P.P.S.  Best jokes I've received today:

What's the definition of the bravest man in the world??
 
The man who comes home drunk, covered in lipstick and smelling of
perfume, then slaps his wife on the ass and says:
 
"You're next, fatty."
 
Or ...
 
The Man who walks into the bedroom with a sheep under his arm while his
wife is lying in bed reading. Man says: "This is the pig I have sex with
when you've got a headache."
 
Wife replies: "I think you'll find that is a sheep."

Man replies: "I think you'll find I was talking to the sheep."

Misogyny is fun!

FrivoList: The Only Conceivable Ways In Which Going To My Neighborhood Post Office Could Suck More

Mandatory paper cuts between your fingers

Must wrestle a homeless man to enter (His signature move: peeing)

Small pox-laced stamps

Body cavity searches performed by an obsolete robotic arm from a defunct GM factory

Slim Whitman soundtrack on a continuous loop through the overhead speakers (Annoying to me, but good for weeding out sadistic Martians)

Wild monkeys roam the lobby, erratically attacking patrons' genitals

Allowing this asshole in front of me to pack, seal and address his packages at the counter while I wait, staring in utter contempt and disbelief.