Throwing Poo

I'm submitting my resignation letter today.  Here is my first version. What do you think? 

Dear Incompetent Boobs,

It is with the comparable satisfaction and relief of dropping a Volkswagon-sized deuce after a long weekend at the Wisconsin Cheese Festival that I tender my long-anticipated resignation.   My only regret is that I am not in the home office with you and cannot personally deliver this letter in a steaming, digested form on the top of your desk.  On second thought, it would probably just get lost among all the other piles of festering dung in your office space that you continually pass off as work product.  And in case I haven’t made enough scatological references in this first paragraph, let me finish by simply saying, “Eat shit.”

While I have certainly enjoyed the entertainment value of watching you mismanage and dismantle this once successful organization into a bungling circus of asshats and clusterfuckers, alas I have grown weary of your inept antics.  Like watching a managerial version of Jackass, I can only witness so many tactical face-plants and administrative crotch-shots before I begin to question and hate myself. I’d much rather just hate you, which is something you should probably get used to.

Though I have chronologically aged five years while working for you, as I depart I feel as if my mind has actually been made much younger by this experience.  Four-years-old to be exact, thanks to a steady dose of whining, conniptions, and boundary-testing by all you power-grabbing douchebags.  I only hope that none of you have infected me with a dormant version of the virus that has caused you all so much irreparable brain damage.

Let me also say that I’m sure this letter will never see the light of day, since nothing remotely critical of your shoddy management and nearly criminal negligence of duty ever does.   And when I am gone and no longer able to defend myself, I’m sure that I will be retrospectively blamed for your continuing missteps, like the ubiquitous scapegoat Bill Clinton in your crumbling Karl Rove administration.

In closing, suck it, bitches. 

Your pal,

Crunchy Blue Commando

P.S. Here's a tip: Personal hygiene: It’s not just for Sundays anymore.

What do you think?  Too subtle, right?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 06:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

After nearly ten years, the most enduring relationship of my life is suddenly coming to an end.  Despite having poured my heart and soul into it and sacrificing my best years, it has become increasing evident that there is no fixing what has gone wrong, no undoing what has been done.  Some cuts simply run too deep.

Facing an inevitable separation after a long relationship can be tricky as well as painful.  On one hand, you may walk away over-confident, forgetting that your self-assurance was as much a by-product of being accepted by someone else as it was your own actualization.  Suddenly being confronted by a typical problem unexpectedly topples you over without the reflexive and often imperceptible support that provided so much buoyancy.

On the other hand, there is the risk of being wrought with self-doubt.  Instead of building your new life, you begin to rubbish through the pile of bricks of your old one, over-analyzing every block and joint for signs of weaknesses and defect.  Questions like, “Did I try hard enough?” and “Wasn’t I good enough?” slide into your conscious like stealthy splinters that soon get infected and surreptitiously overwhelm your defenses.

Complicating matters is the looming fact that you must once again put yourself out there and be subjected to an ongoing series of one-on-one “let’s-get-to-know-each-other” tap-dances where you show just enough of yourself to seem real, but not so much as to risk rejection. 

For me, all that’s left now is the official act of giving my boss my letter of resignation.  I just hope that in dulling my pain, I don’t get too drunk one night and call her and ask for a temporary consulting gig - the “booty call” of the professional world.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I’ll admit that I can be a little particular.  Clutter makes me irritable and I like things to be in their specific place when I go to retrieve them.  But despite what Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. likes to tell people, I’m no Felix Unger.  I have never followed her around the house with a Dustbuster and a can of Lysol, nor do I wear an apron and frequent gay bathhouses. 

She has a motive: by making me seem obsessive, she can justify her slovenly ways.  You see, a brilliant and sexy woman, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. is also a disgusting slob of a roommate. This is a person who did not know that vacuum cleaners have to be emptied (I assume from never having used one), frequently unloads dirty dishes from the dishwasher into our cabinets, and has never met the flat space upon which she did not feel compelled to pile shit.
 
While I am happily married and love my wife, she is at risk of joining the ranks of the worst roommates with whom I’ve ever had the severe misfortune of sharing living space. 

College was the beginning of the roommate hell through which I drifted for the next decade.  In the dorms there was Lon, the smelly pothead who covered our walls with blacklight posters and hippie paraphernalia, Jim the artsy-fartsy punk-rocker who was predisposed to urinating in the closet when he was drunk, (which was always), and Ken the thoughtless hockey hooligan from Toledo who never attended his 7:30AM class yet insisted on setting his alarm every day and pounding away at the snooze button until well after 8:00AM. 

After moving off-campus, I spent a year in a ramshackle house where after months of dirty dished being piled in the sink – everyone survived by just removing what they needed from the filthy mound and washing it for their immediate purpose – the kitchen became infested with flies.  Instead of cleaning, we “invented” protective hats from aluminum foil roaster pans and some string that we would tie to our heads to defend against the kamikaze maggots that regularly fell from the tiles in the rotting drop-ceiling.

Finishing college, some other friends and I got together and rented a place, but calling it a house would be an exaggeration.  Walking too heavily through the kitchen would cause the lightbulbs in the basement to blow out.   It also wasn’t unusual to wake up roasting in the middle of night during winter with the furnace blazing because the front door had blown open and snow was drifting in.  We won’t even talk about the mice.

My point is that I’ve lived in my share of dumps.  Now that I own a home, I just want it to be nice.  Not perfect, not spotless, but also not with several days worth of crumbs on the kitchen counter and dried cat food caked on the backsplash just begging the maggots to come and find me again.

Hence our enduring quarrel: Which one of us is the normal one?  I argue that not wanting her to use my nose-hair clippers to remove matted poop from the cat’s butt fur is not being fussy.  She argues that brushing food crumbs off her shirt onto the floor is fine because they will get vacuumed up in a few days anyway.  The good thing is that at least she has stopped ending her points by ripping a fart and exclaiming, “And that’s all I have to say about that.”
 
All of this brings me to my theme for next few posts (unless I think of something better or, more importantly, easier).  Years ago the one boss I had who I sort of admired told me that relationships are easy if you just remember one thing: women are crazy and men are stupid.  Women are crazy because they won’t listen to logic, and men are stupid because they know this yet still never stop trying to use it to make their point.   

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

What’s in a name?  In your case, probably nothing more than a dog-eared page from a baby names book, an overtly pompous literary reference from a novel that neither of your parents ever honestly read, or their desperate attempt to get your rich great aunt to leave them in her will.  In my case, it is much, much more.  For example, many of you probably do not know that in addition to referring to my underwear preference, Commando is an official international title dubbed upon me by Fidel Castro for successfully drug mule-ing a pre-release copy of Grand Theft Auto IV into Cuba for his grandson’s birthday. 

As an official state executive, I have certain constitutional powers, including the authority to organize a militia of kamikaze squirrels to defend against the scourge of speeding traffic on my street; demand a human taster to sample my food for poison in any participating Applebee’s location; disregard the posted signs and freely avail myself to any merchant’s toilet without needing to make a purchase; immutable diplomatic immunity for crimes committed by other people; and the power to grant official state pardons.

It is this last power which I am currently considering bestowing upon the following individuals and organizations: 

1.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. for farting in front of my family during my brother’s birthday party and forcing me to do the gentlemanly thing and take the blame, in effect laying my jacket over her stinky puddle and allowing her to walk across unscathed. 

On a larger note, I fear men and women will never be truly equal until women finally begin taking responsibility for their flatulence.

2.  The entitled douche bag of a woman at the YMCA who, as I was mounting the last available elliptical machine, came up behind me and said, “I was gonna use it!”  Usually this would not be a forgivable offense, but my reply, “You are using it, or you were gonna use it? Because there isn’t a machine is this place that someone isn’t gonna use.” made her slink off.

3.  My mother-in-law, Shakes-A-Can-Of-Pennies, for committing the social equivalent of taking a bath with a plugged-in radio balanced on the ledge: during Thanksgiving dinner she asked my sister-in-law’s brother’s girlfriend when she is due, when, in fact, she isn’t. 

4. Taco Bell for introducing their new menu item the “Volcano Taco.”  I’m sure the suits at TB were attempting to make it sound hot, spicy, and EXTREME, but when I hear the word “volcano” in the same sentence as “Taco Bell,” the only image that comes to mind is “eruption.”  

By the way, how much gastrointestinal distress can one company inflict before some stands up (but not too fast) and takes notice?  With the ‘Volcano Taco” these bastards are simply getting a little too gleeful about it.  What’s next, a combo meal with a mudslide milkshake with EXTREME squirts of Hersey and a side of trouser chili?

Still, the “Volcano Taco” is only $1.59, cheaper than a burger and, more importantly, cheaper than Ex-Lax.  So for that they get a pardon.

5.  The Terrorists.  While they can't win, after reading this article, it turns out that they may have been right about us all along. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)