Monday, November 24, 2003

This Is Russia Calling You from Across Oceans

Hello Friends of Russia,

Last night it snowed about a foot (which is a few million centimeters), and then it's been raining all day, so Russia is awesome! It's all covered in sludge and mud. My feet have been sopping wet since 9 this morning, and it is now 7:30 p.m. I feel so awesome and am having superfun!

Went shopping this morning, although I couldn't find the pair of Sketchers I wanted, nor the awesome bootlegged house music c.d. so it wasn't so great. Did manage to find some buttons with Putin's big face on them.

Went to the blockade museum. It was all in Russian. Didn't understand a thing, but of course I saw lots of swastikas. You'd really think these people had it out for the Germans!

The worst part about Russia is food. There are no little sandwhich shops or hot dog stands, so we rarely eat lunch. Today it was espresso and pecan pie (no food, but plenty of pastries and cakes). Yum. That didn't make me shaky at all! Besides, my feet were wet! Superfun awesometimes!

Then we walked across a bridge to a fortress where they imprisoned revolutionaries and also where a tsar tortured and killed his son. So great! Superbest! They even had a giftshop!

Then soup.

Finally Mr. M. found his Russian aa meeting, which he has been looking for nonstop. While he was gone to talk about his sobriety I went to the store and bought vodka to bring home to the United States of America, the greatest country on Earth.

I would like to go to sleep now. It is a lot of fun to go to the hotel and go to sleep.
Have an awesome time!

Sunday, November 23, 2003

Russia Update Superfresh!

dearest Komrades,

today there was no sun in Russia, which I guess is normal. "No Sun Ever" is the old national motto. we went to the hermitage, which is the russian equivalent of the louvre, which is the french equivalent of the metropolitan museum of art, which is new york city. it was gigantic, begun as catherine the great's personal collection and then expanded upon. the main difference between a giant art museum and a small art museum is that in a giant art museum i am almost instantaneously overwhelmed. i was tired before i even got there.

then we went to the symphony and saw a rachmaninov performance. i've never been to the symphony, and it was great. russia loves people who learn, because the hermitage was free for students, and the symphony only costs about two dollars (fourth row center). the thing that is best about this is that it makes something like the symphony ultimately enjoyable for itself, rather than a show of pomp requiring lots of money and cumberbuns.

then we had dinner. that was fine. borscht and some food with meat in it.

now we are back at crazy internet cafe where we always end up so crazy.

the one thing that is most upsetting about russia is the gift situation. there is really nothing to buy apart from overpriced american clothing and pharmaceuticals. i hope y'all like vodka.

dosvedanya, that means goodbye in russian, it is the only word that i know.

Saturday, November 22, 2003

I Write You from Crazy Russia

Russia Update:

I write you from crazy Russian internet cafe. It is so crazy. I am in Russia!

We fly many hours and over many miles to be here in Russia with you! Five hour layover in Frankfurt, which is in Germany, which is in Europe. I slept on a bench. A man from Syria asked me if I was going to Syria and I said no and then went back to sleep. Finally we get to Russia where everything is crazy. My brother met us at the airport with his host brother who asked: "you are just here to relax?"
Our hotel is on Ploysha Vitanya, and I am just making up this spelling because I can. There is a giant neon sign on top of our hotel that says "Leningrad--Hero City".

Yesterday we are walking for hours, everywhere, walking. There are four kinds of stores in Russia. Shoe stores. Bootlegged dvd stores. Cell phone stores. Pharamacies. If you want any of these things you can get them everywhere. If you want ice cream, that, too, is available. We had dinner at my brother's host family's apartment. They made us a salad out of onions and some rice pilaf with lamb and some homemade pickles and also homemade salsa and some pickled mushrooms. They showed us over one hundred million thousand photographs. They got their apartment in the nineteen sixties. They love America very much, and also know that Russia is one hundred percent crazy.

Today we took a bus out of the city to see a palace in a city called Pushkin, which is named after some writer. Over the city you can see a thick layer of beautiful brown smog as far as the eye can see. St. Petersburg is boring because they're always like "nazis this, blockade that" but so we went to the palace anyway. It was destroyed by germans during a war except for the shell, so even though it looks just like it did over a million years ago, everything is actually new! crazy! just like russia! then i fell asleep on the bus back into town. then we walked around for a long time until we ate dinner. meat!

tonight i am hoping maybe we will get back to the hotel in time to catch the evening news on CNN.


Wednesday, November 19, 2003

Out of Office Reply

Worker #3116 will be out of the office from November 19th through December 1st. If it is an emergency, please contact Sheila Cortez at extension 9833. I will be replying to email upon my return.

What's Grosser Than Gross?

Does anyone remember the series of "Grosser Than Gross" jokes that circulated first through the halls of Tappan Middle School and then throughout the world?

I'll give you an example:
What's grosser than a pile of dead babies?
A live one trying to eat his way out.

And there was another one that is on my mind this morning:

What's grosser than eating a jar of mayonnaise?
Finding a used condom at the bottom.

Now, I'll admit that finding a used condom at the bottom of a jar of mayonnaise is certainly gross. But it's not that much grosser than eating a jar of mayonnaise, which is SUPER GROSS. I mean, let's say eating a jar of mayonnaise is like a 10 on the gross scale, well, then finding a used condom at the bottom bumps it up to an 11. That's only a ten percent increase on our inveterate gross scale.

I think, too, that this is a comedic form that deserves a come-back. So I urge you to use this space to create your own grosser-than-gross jokes, and simple descriptions of Fear Factor stunts do not count. If I remember correctly, there is often a third tier to these masterpieces, i.e. finding a used condom at the bottom...What's grosser than that? Having your Dad walk into the kitchen and say "hey, what are you doing with my old condom?" Also, I've just noticed that grosser than gross jokes tend to have something to do with eating something, so keep that in mind as you create your own.

So, to get things started I will write the first new grosser-than-gross joke of the new millenium:

What's grosser than filling the toilet with diarrhea?
Finding a whole peanut in it, washing it off, and eating it again.
What's grosser than that?
Having your Dad walk into the bathroom and saying "why are you eating a peanut out of my diarrhea?" and suddenly realizing that it's not your diarrhea at all, that the toilet was already full when you came in to get a kleenex for your nose bleed, which you have been collecting in a glass to wash down the peanut.

Cut Them Some Slack Fries

Now, the Corporate Casual Headline of the Day for today, Wednesday, November 19th, 2003, is tremendously hillarious. BUT, I must admit that the writers at the Genius Times deserve a little slack. For this headline, much like the "No Longer Just a Cupcake" headline of days past (see entry "Still a Cupcake") is in the food section, and there are very few ways to punk up writing about a bodily neccessity. Eating is, despite rumors to the contrary, something everyone must do to remain alive, and so we can forgive these wayward "journalists" for their comedic constructions. Anyhow, I bring you the CCHOD:

"Idaho: Still the Potato Capital"
(taken from the New York Times)

The reason that I love this headline is that:
a) I didn't know this was a heavily contested title. I would think that most states would be more than happy to leave Idaho this one, pyrrhic victory.
b) It hints at a certain insecurity on the part of Idaho, as if they bribed a journalist to put their name back out there, reminding the public that they are not to be challenged for they CANNOT BE DEFEATED!

That's it. Go away.

I Am So Famous

This morning I noticed a small poster hanging over the receptionist's computer that pictures a rose in a black-glass vase in an otherwise black room, with slim letters spelling out: Suite Scent. This is perhaps the strangest poster I have ever seen, not only because I can not ever imagine, EVER, being in the mind set of decorating with a poster of a rose, but because the double entendre of 'suite' makes no sense to me. Obviously, there is nothing 'sweet' about sitting at the receptionist's desk day in and day out, nor is the receptionist's desk anything like a 'suite'. Also, there are no particular scents there, other than the vague dry dustiness of recycled air. And all suites do not smell like roses, so even a straight-forward reading is not clear. Are they implying that this rose in an otherwise black room is something worth striving for? Is this akin to the cat on a screen door with the words "Hang in There"?

Also, I missed the Today Show's unveiling of People magazine's "Sexiest Man of the Year" this morning. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough, but I would have liked to been the first on my block to know. I always think maybe, just maybe, they'll choose me. Somehow I will have been nominated and seconded and try as the editorial board might, they just can't knock me from my plinth. This is similar to the oft-had experience in high school of going to a rock n' roll concert and thinking maybe, just maybe, Billy Corgan will invite me onstage to sing "Mayonnaise". It never happened, but I think it was pretty close to happening on a number of ocassions. There is just something so magnetically compelling about me that it would be hard for any celebrity to keep him/herself from hitching on to my rising star.

In other news, good morning, motherfuckers.

Tuesday, November 18, 2003

You Make None Senses 5? Appletree!

I feel like I am trapped in an asylum for crazy robots. There is a total disconnect in my social interactions, and I often find people staring at me like I've just vomited on their tits. Or, they wrinkle their brow as if I am staring at them. People talk to me and it sounds like this: "buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, ha ha, know what I mean? buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzuzzzzuzzzzzzzz"
So the answer is always No, I have no idea what you mean, because to me you seem insane, and I don't know how to talk to insane people. Everytime Lambchop grins I think she is going to kill me. Only Shaft's Cousin seems lucid, but that's because he uses preprogrammed language logarithms like: "that costs a pretty penny" and "it's a dream of mine, but we'll see if it shall ever become a reality."

What's next, drinking your own pee?

Move Over Headlines, Here Comes Some News

I thought there might not be a CCHOD today, but then the A.P. filed a very special story at 10:54 a.m. So, I bring you the Corporate Casual Headling of the Day, late but still spectacular and deserving of your attentions:

"Man's Finger Stuck in Payphone for Hours"
(taken from the New York Times)

In this instance, the article is so choice that I think I have nothing to do but reprint the entire thing here. I have read through it three times trying to pick out the best parts, but there are so many for such a short piece that it's easier for you to just read it. From time to time I will add paranthetical commentary in order to bring out the funnies.

EAST ST. LOUIS, Ill. (AP) -- A man and a pay phone were rushed to a hospital after he got his finger stuck in the coin return slot while trying to retrieve his 50 cents.
(Already fucking hillarious, and the story clearly goes deeper than the headline implied. You thought a man was simply caught in a payphone until help arrived and got him free, you never imagined the jaws of life prying the telephone from its metal girder, or the payphone being laid delicately in an ambulance next to the man, carefully positioned lest the finger break. Do you think there were separate EMS Technicians for both the man and the payphone?)

Emergency room doctors gave Emanuel Fleming a painkiller Monday and pried his middle finger loose using a wooden device and lubricant, ending the three-hour ordeal.

"The bone in my finger felt like it was going to break. My finger was numb. It was very painful,'' said Fleming, an elementary school janitor.
(The bone did not even break, and yet this crap receives national attention. He describes it like he's taken a bullet.)

Fleming had tried to call his wife, but the line was busy. Two passers-by tried to help. When they failed to free him, Fleming used his other hand to dial 911.
(I like how despite his life flashing before his eyes, Mr. Fleming was able to maintain his composure long enough to make that last, saving call. Also, um, why didn't the passers-by do it for him?)

Emergency crews and a representative of the company that owns the phone were sent to the scene. But they were also unable to free Fleming.

The phone was near a busy bus stop.
(This is my favorite sentence of the entire article. It was published like this. All alone.)

"People on the bus who know me were laughing at me,'' Fleming said.
(This is my second favorite sentence in the article.)

With few options left, ambulance crew members cut the telephone off at the base and took it and Fleming to St. Mary's Hospital.
(With few options left? Has the journalist forgotten that once they arrived at the hospital all it took was a piece of wood, some lube, and a painkiller? Unlike an iron lung, these are items that are easy to remove from the hospital.)

"I've been in this business more than 30 years and I've seen a lot of weird things, but never anyone trapped in a telephone,'' said Herb Simmons, manager of the ambulance company.
(Notice that Mr. Simmons is the manager of the ambulance company, a figure as far removed from the scene as possible. More appropriate interview subjects might have been: the ambulance driver, the manager of the payphone company, the emergency room technician who freed Mr. Fleming, the President of the United States, a bystander. When reached by phone, the manager of the ambulance company declined to comment.)

These Jerks

HP Turtleneck has arrived. She shows up once or twice a week and crowds me. Oh, and I forgot to mention that a girl who I will name T-Boz got her own cubicle, much nicer than mine, and she's only been here for a few weeks. I think they hired her as a temp (like me) and then immediately shoved her into a full time position (not me, still happily working by the hour) where she enjoys delightful perks and HEALTH CARE. I wonder if she's gotten her flu shot. Also, she is a hard worker, and for young people that is the worst thing you can be, because it makes other young people look bad.

Stop it, T-Boz. Just stop it. You too, HP Turtleneck, quit crowding me.

I am developing a new website,, where you can link up to one, and only one, best friend. Once logged on you can see your best friend's profile and send your best friend messages and post secret bulletins on the bulletin board that only you and your best friend will see.

This is not to be confused with, where you connect yourself to your enemies and your enemies' enemies.

Staple Sort

I just let out a totally loud fart in the copy room. This is an excellent location for assplosions because you can always just nod to someone passing in the hall, like, this new Konica makes crazy noises, huh? Didn't that sound like a fart just now as the collating tray recalibrated itself? Smell? That's toner!


I think good websites should have a Word option, so that when you click it the window takes on the exact appearance of a Microsoft Word document. This way it looks like you are doing work, even when you are simply watching your ass grow fatter!

Gobble Gobble

Email in my inbox with a background of repeated turkey in pilgrim outfit holding knife and fork image. Not only is this image INSANE, but since the person who sent the email is a lowly secretary in some forgotten basement office somewhere near the highway with no particular computer efficiency outside of the typewriter-mimicry of word proccessing, I'm sure it took her over an hour to set up.

Rode my bike to work in the rain. This is funny for zero reasons.


I fell asleep at breakfast today. Then I woke up and moved to the bedroom for a short nap before getting up again and sitting on the couch and thinking about how the cat fucking has it made. That bitch doesn't do anything other than eat, poop, and occasionally destroy objects. Still, I think he's a bit depressed, so it's true that free room and board and someone to clean up after you all the time and pet your back and call you Mr. Pants and Mr. Fat Pants can't buy happiness.

Monday, November 17, 2003

If You've Got Time to Read, You've Got Time to Breed

Lambchop is beginning to question my enthusiasm and productivity on the job, and even Shaft's Cousin's waist-length, belted, leather coat will not be able to protect me from her.

Okay. She has pulled the giant hand out of her puppet ass and gone home for the day. But tomorrow the sun will rise again, and her cheerful visage will hover over my shoulder, those empty black eyes scanning the computer screen for incriminating evidence, and I will hear her whisper, always a whisper, if you have time to lean, you have time to clean. But I'm a white collar worker...not some...some Janitor! You know what I mean PLEBE! (Cackle).

A Legacy of Laughs

I was looking through a recent issue of the New Yorker magazine at lunch and there was a cartoon inside of galley slaves at the massive oars of a ship. One slave is second from the end and asks the slave next to him if he can have the window seat. This may or may not be funny to you, but what it made me realize was that I have, in my years on Earth, encountered far more single-panel comics about life as a galley slave than any other culture representation of this experience. What was it about galley slave ships that strikes our funny bones again and again? Is this pure comic gold, panned from the riverbed of history, or is it revisionist history? Was being a galley slave really all that funny?

In order to examine this topic further I have decided to try writing a galley slave comic of my own. Because I cannot get images to upload onto this crappy journal you will just have to imagine two emaciated slaves sitting side by side on a low bench, their raw hands gripped around an unfinished oar that is ten men long. Behind them, a fat man dressed in metal-studded leather and holding a cat-o-nine-tails stares grimly forward. The one slave (probably bearded, they always are, and in shackles and tattered clothing) turns to the other and says:

"My life is very painful and difficult, and I will die before the age of 30."

Ha ha. Those assholes at the New Yorker are onto something!


There are some men painting one of the offices today and one of them is whistling the theme music to The Muppet Show. This is only made funnier by his No Fear t-shirt and the Newport Lights sticking out of his pocket. As I sit here I imagine Statler and Waldorf mocking him, mocking him until he weeps.

Not-So-Secret Santa

There is some kind of holiday raffle going on in the office today. It seems to have very arcane rules, and I'm not clear on how it works, but I do know that you win a gift basket and that all the gift baskets are on display in the hallway. Each basket is unique, to the point of ridiculousness.

Some highlights:

The New Year's Eve 2004 Recovery Basket
Ginger Ale
Soda Crackers
Toilet Paper
Handy Wipes
Carpet Stain Cleaner

The Rainy Day Basket
The latest "Beach Reads" from Nicholas Sparks
"Sleepless in Seattle"

The Couples Date Night Basket
Massage Creme
Flavored Contraceptives
Clean Underwear
Drakar Noir

The Backyard Barbecue
I don't know what is in this one, all I know is that the basket is not actually a basket, but some sort of giant grecco-roman cooking pit (w/ spears) that is fitted with a grill so large that the only thing you could cook without it falling through the bars would be an entire boar.

Tickets are five bucks, or something, so if you want one just let me know.


Let's get started.

Corporate Casual Headline of the Day:

"Serbians Fail, Again, to Elect a President"
(taken from the New York Times)

Not a lot of bells and whistles on this one, but it's that 'Again' that makes this something special. As with the Albanians (see entry Ah'll Give Ya TiVo Fer Yer Youngin if'n Ya Warsh 'im), there is deep resignation, such as heard in the oft-spoke motherly comment "Kevvy peed in the houseplant, again." Come on Serbs, do something, anything, right. Dumb Serbs. Of course, who are we to talk.

What was most interesting to me about the actual text of this article was the following:

"Slightly more than 38 percent of the republic's 6.5 million voters took part in the election, far less than the 50 percent required by electoral law for the vote to be valid."

Considering that voter turnout in the United States tends to edge just pass two percent, it should not come as such a surprise that the Serbs keep fucking up. Imagine if we had, by law, to draw 50 percent turnout at the polls in order for the decision to be valid. You-know-who would be sipping mint julips at home instead of, well, he wouldn't be president while he was doing it.

(NOTE: This journal is a place for outrageous lying, and so the fact that 51% of Americans turned out for the 2000 election was ignored to deliver the powerful and hillarious impact of my final comment. Nevertheless, that still implies that 101 million people abstained from voting, which is much much more than the 3.25 or so million who fell silent in Serbia. Moreover, this 51% turnout, although disasterously low, is much higher than off-season elections, which top out at about 39%. So, really, although I lie, we are still a sad, pathetic citizenry that deserves everything it gets, which is usually not much.)


Hey Ya!

Worker #3 to the 1zay, 1 to the 6zay in the cubizicle!!!!!!!!!

Friday, November 14, 2003

You Mean The Mr. Chuck Norris?

Yesterday I received in the mail a flyer from karate class offering the Flexotron 6000, a machine guaranteed to double your flexibility in 90 days for the low low price of $270. I was about to tear this flyer to pieces when I saw that the message ended with the following:

P.S. I know another karate master who also endorses the Flexotron 6000 and uses it in his own training. You may have heard of him...a Mr. Chuck Norris!

I laughed so hard I had to change my pants.

An example of why this is my new favorite person in the world:

"Hahahahahahaha.. yesterday was craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazy... Aj came over at around 10 and we went to the mall... but before we left i had to pee reallllllllllllllllllllllly bad... but my daddy was in the bathroom so Aj made me hold it! And i really had to go.. so of course the dick had to hit every pot hole on the way and every bump and of course he had to keep tickling me thinking its fucking hilarious im about to piss myself... so we finally made it to the mall and i made a mad crazy dash towards the bathroom.. then finally.. RELIEF.. so anyways.. we were supposed to meet John n Tony there but they didnt show up.. so we were angry.. so we went and talked to Adam at work... hes sooooooo cute... I love gay guys.. there the shit.. he wants Aj so bad! But he cant have him! Hes my fag!... Hehe.. So yah we spent like 8 hours at the mall... and came back to my house.. started watching MTV and i fell asleep.. then around 6 Ajs like.. LETS GO BACK TO THE MALL!!! I was like.. WHATTTTTTTTTTT?! So where did we go? Back to the mall.. but not before inhaling second hand marijuna cause of the ppl we were with.. neither of us smoke.. but of course we gotta get the second hand shit.... that was interesting.. so me and Aj were crazy on the ride there and reallllly fucked up.. and when me n Aj get hyper... WHOA.. watch it.. cause its bad... so we went to the mall.. walked around for another 15 minutes... and came back to Ludlow... And got a call from my sister saying come get me cause we are gonna go get mom a cake for her b-day and bring it to her work... so i was like sure... Me and Aj went to go get her and we went to Stop n Shop and got mommy a cake and sum icing to write happy birthday with it.. We took it out to Ajs car n he wrote it.. it looked wonderful.. lol.. Came back here.. and Aj kicked my ass.. i couldnt believe it.. he threw me on my bed and got me in a leg lock and started beating on me.. i wasnt happy... lol.. but i gotta go to school.. ROAD TRIP TOMORROW TO HAMPTON BEACH WITH AJ JOHN AND TONY!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

When I read this I was like.. WHATTTTTTTTTTT?!
OMG, are you with me?

String on the Finger

Does anyone remember the movie The Rocketeer?

I didn't think so.

Cast of Characterz

McFly is wearing a black and off-white plaid vest today, which is indicative of the type of flair people around the office have. Boss One wears a hip length worn-leather jacket w/ leather belt, and is often found to be wearing garish thick-knit multi-colored cardigan sweaters that even Cliff Huxtable wouldn't be caught in. This could get confusing, because there is someone else in the office I have nicknamed Dr. Huxtable, but he dresses rather conservatively in a 1980 way--lots of worn button down shirts with pocket protectors, large rimmed glasses, and comfortable shoes. He has quite possibly the worst posture since Charles Laughton brought Quasimodo to life.

So I will have to re-nickname Boss One, and because he's like a very uncool sleuth from the 1970s I will call him Shaft's Cousin. This will avoid any confusion with Dr. Huxtable.

So Shaft's Cousin just called and before I had even lifted the receiver to my ear I heard him yelling "Worker #3116? Worker #3116?" So I said, Yes, Shaft's Cousin, good morning. "I can't hear you," he said, speaking across a crystal clear transom, "I'm going to call you back on my cell phone, this is breaking up." (It wasn't breaking up). And he hung up. Apparently my voice sounds much like the ringing of a phone, and I'm sure he was very confused that I just kept repeating myself.

Midnight Cowboy, PhD (cont'd)

Okay, not quite finished, same article:

"During the Wednesday night raid, police seized fancy clothes, earrings and lecture notes as evidence, officers said."

The first thing you notice is the precision and clarity of the descriptive term 'fancy clothes.' We don't even need to spend any time on this, since everyone knows what fancy clothes look like: duh, they look fancy.

Then you pause on 'earrings.' I thought this was a Gigolo School, you think. Probably these were left by one of the many female GSI's who allow in-class practice of the unwieldy art of seduction of gigolos-in-training. My best guess is that some freshman was supposed to relieve her of her brassiere but got the earrings by mistake, and she forgot them on a desk as she gave him a wicked tongue-lashing.

But, of course, and most importantly, you are simply arrested by the confiscated 'lecture notes.' That's right, lecture notes. LECTURE NOTES! My god, someone somewhere (probably in a dirty Taiwan jail) is a genius, and I will never, ever meet him. I am doomed to mediocrity, while this man, this Leonardo, is doomed to cholera.

Midnight Cowboy, PhD

Corporate Casual Headline of the Day:

"Taiwan Arrests Trainers at Gigolo School"
(taken from

Your first thought, of course, is Gigolo School, where do I sign up? This is natural, and if Taiwan wasn't so dirty and foreign, you would most likely move there. But then you are thinking, Wait a second, if the trainers at the Gigolo School were arrested then it probably doesn't exist anymore anyway, and even if it did, it's probably illegal, and that's why people got arrested, and I don't want to get arrested and thrown into a dirty, foreign, Taiwan Gulag. This is also natural, because something so fantastical, so 'dreams-really-do-come-true'-ish as a Gigolo School strikes one as illegal, in much the same way that titty bars seem like they should be shut-down for being too awesome. Booze and tits, it just seems impossible. But have faith ye unfaithful, for a lucrative future as a Gigolo could soon step out of your dreams and into your car: read on, READ ON!

"Police raided a gigolo training center in northern Taiwan and arrested nine of the school's operators for over charging students, officials said Thursday."

You see! Gigolo School is not illegal, in fact it is under police protection. They don't want you, the consumer, to get gouged as you master the art of Gigolodom. So go get your shots in order, buy some bottled water, and fly fly away. The sky is the limit if you can see it through the crazy Asian smog!


About a half hour before I had to wake up this morning I had a dream about Boss One telling me that everyone else was going home, so why don't we just go home, too! I was excited. Then I woke up and came to work.

Conversation Starters

Who would win in a fight, me, or a pre NWO-era Hulk Hogan, before his hit comedy Mr. Nanny tore the silver screen a new asshole?

Who would win in a bicycle race, me, or Lance Armstrong, if you amputated both of Lance Armstrong's legs and tied them behind his back and didn't put a seat on his bicycle and also took the pedals off?

Who is the most famous movie star, me, or Brad Pitt, in a parallel universe where I am in many hit films, including 12 Monkeys, Legends of the Fall, Se7en, and Ocean's 11, and Brad Pitt works at the Arby's on Washtenaw, the one with a neon sign in the shape of a cowboy hat?

Who is the most intelligent and incisive of philosophers, me, or Michel Foucault, only taking into account the estimable work of Mr. Foucault after 1984?

Who is the best artist in the history of the world, me, or Michelangelo Buonarotti? How does your answer change if I am wearing a roller derby outfit and spitting fire?

More chips?

Thursday, November 13, 2003

Wonder and Awe

It is the first snow, and I have come to realize that there is only one place from which such a sight is more beautiful than from a plate-glass office window, and that is through the cold iron bars of a prison cell.

Wonder and Awe

It is the first snow, and I have come to realize that there is only one place from which such a sight is more beautiful than from a plate-glass office window, and that is through the cold iron bars of a prison cell.

John Hancock

Quick question:

There is a lot to complain about with the current administration, but I would like to take a moment to consider something from the previous one. General Wesley Clark, who is currently running as a democrat for Commander-in-Chief, has a starred military career, agreed. It seems like a lot of the press concerning this starred military career focuses on how he was prematurely fired, and how in large part this was a result of then president Bill Clinton signing his pink slip without knowing what it was.


Now let's just think about that for a moment. The president signing something without really knowing what it is...interesting...chin-strokingly interesting in fact. Granted, the president is a very busy man (unless he is George W. Bush, in which case he is napping and drooling, the only time during his day in which he does two things simultaneously), but to sign something without knowing what it is? That is insane! Why would he ever admit that? Is he that easily bamboozled? I know that it is an attempt to pave over a major pothole in Wes's road to the white house, but seriously, it is incredibly upsetting and makes everyone involved look bad. Did the president get a lot of magazines that he couldn't remember subscribing to? How many credit cards have been issued in his name without his knowing? I am deeply disturbed by this.

I demand an investigation!

I Am Your Density

There is a guy in my office who reminds me of the elder Marty McFly, played by Crispin Glover, in 1985's Back to the Future. He rides his bike to work (because Biff borrowed his car without asking again?) and once I heard him complain that riding his bike made his "rear" sore all day. Then he took another bite of his bagel and said "Mmm, it's almost like a donut!"

A Genus in the John

In the spirit of my most recent bathroom-neologism, The Evacuator, a term that has enjoyed a meteoric rise not only in linguist chat-rooms, but even around the layman's water-cooler, I am here to present you with another term to describe one of the many species that cohabitate the Men's room. The Flaneur.

Flaneur, of course, was a term coined in the mid 19th century, during the industrial revolution and the great urban-migration, to describe a particular kind of socialite, a member of the bourgeoisie who exists in order to see and be seen, a life lived primarily in the long promenade. And so I think you will find it particularly a propos to consider the man who pees at a urinal with both his hands on his hips. It is clear to all around that I have not a care in the world, and that I am most coordinated and agile, says the flaneur's body language, to pee is to know the heart of a poet! These men disgust me, but that does not mean that they should not have their own phylum.

Please note this term in your pocket vocabulary-builders, and try to use it in at least one sentence by the end of the day.

Ah'll Give Ya TiVo Fer Yer Youngin' if'n Ya Warsh 'im

Corporate Casual Headline of the Day:

"For Albanians, It's Come to This: A Son for a TV"
(Taken from the New York Times)

Apparently people in Albania, Europe's poorest country, are selling their children, or even just trading them, for cheap. The article does not indicate whether or not cable service is included in the deal. What I think is more curious is not that people are selling their children, because many of you watch enough television that I'm not sure you wouldn't do the exact same thing if faced with abject poverty, but who is buying these children? The article indicates that many are sold into begging and prostitution rackets, which is to be expected, but it goes on to say that many Westerners are buying them for adoption. Aren't there enough abused and abandoned children in our own country that need a good home without having to go shopping for a bargain? You couldn't afford a Western model? I'm not saying that Albanian children shouldn't be adopted, but if you are planning on loving this child as your own for the rest of your natural life, don't you think you should pay full price? What about the day that he/she asks you why you look different from him/her and you have to say, Well, Kimete, we adopted you. And then he/she asks how you adopted him/her and now you have to say, We gave your starving family three toothpicks and an old Panama Jack t-shirt. What a bargain! Cheap fucks.

My favorite thing about this headline is the resignation in the tone, "it has come to this," as if it was only a matter of time, as if using children to purchase electronics is the lowest of the low...what about next year's headline: "For Albanians, It's Come to This: A Son for Breakfast."

How come in situations like this the reaction is outrage at the suffering of the children who are sold, as if they weren't suffering before that. And you know those kids who weren't even worth a t.v. are sitting in the dirt thinking how great it would be if they were worth an am/fm radio, or even just a pair of broken headphones. Maybe the U.N. should take the children and give the families food in exchange, to make sure that the children aren't being used to buy frivolities. Like when liberals buy homeless people food instead of giving them money. I know you want booze, but I'd rather your head was clear. I KNOW WHAT IS BEST FOR YOU, MISTER. Here is some greasy food to give you diarrhea in your pants, and now I'm going home to watch Dharma and Greg, stay warm dirty dude!

I Storm Castle Greyskull

I think that if you were poking me in the balls with a sharp stick while shouting the lyrics to AC/DC's "Ballbreaker," from their 1995 album of the same title, in my ear, all I would have to do is close one eye and I could fall into a long, restful sleep. That is how tired I am.

Last night, at job deux, Trenchcoat continued to pull some serious attitude from out of her ass and rub it in my face. First of all, I did not get a break. In fact, I simply sat at the register for my entire shift. Secondly, she did not do one single thing to help manage the store. Did she take out the trash? No. When the power went out suddenly, did she call the appropriate people and figure out how to reboot the system? No. Did she apologize for my not having a break? No. Did she simply clomp around in her high heeled boots and poke her pale emaciated face around? That she did manage, although it looked like it wore her out. Hey Trenchcoat, could you pull your hair back any tighter? I think you've got room for another seventeen inches of forehead. No? That's as far is it will go? You're sure? Oh, and she also managed to wait until ten-ten to tell me that I would have to stay until she had finished counting out the drawer, on account of that bagel robbery I mentioned (see entry The Early Bird Has No Friends). Because this infamous hold-up occured but a few doors down, it is now store policy that at least two people must be in the store at close, the logic being that two people can get robbed at gunpoint, rather than just one. This is a fine policy, but it would have been nice for her to tell me at eight, or even nine p.m., rather than waiting for me to clock out and stand there, sweating to go. "Oh, yeah, you're just going to have to hang out here for awhile," she said, trying to cover up the weaselish aspect to her voice.

That fucker looks like the result of coitus between the Crypt Keeper and Evil Lord Skeletor.

The one thing that I did realize last night as I was riding my bike home was that there is something great about riding a bike to and from work that you cannot get from other means of transportation. Whenever I leave a job I fucking book it, I ride like the wind, and it feels great, like the way the birdman must have felt as he pushed through the choppy waters of SF Bay. If you walk home you might feel like breaking into a full-on run, but chances are social convention will keep you from doing so. You can rev your engine if you're driving, but you still don't want to be pulled over and must contend with traffic as well.

I tear ass on the outside because tearing ass is how I feel on the inside.

Wednesday, November 12, 2003

Desert Island Don'ts

The other night I was drinking beer in a sports bar, because that's what gainfully employed people do, and I met a homosexual man (in a sports bar!? yes, but he looked straight, maybe he was meeting straight friends) who told me that the song being played on the radio was one of his top five least favorite songs of all time. Brother Russia, I believe, has a similar list drawn up somewhere, but the only song I can think of that he hates is "Beth" by Detroit rockers KISS. Anyhow, I realized that this is an important service, as well as a fun way to redesign the whole list craze that has swept this country. Every December, professional media reviewers should publish a bottom ten list as well as their favorites, warning the consumer away from particular trash. In this vein, I have decided to attempt my own list of the top five records (in no particular order) I would absolutely NOT want to have on a desert island.

"Play That Funky Music," by Wild Cherry (This song is like if everyone thought Weird Al Yankovic's newest hit single, "Cream On Me," was a legitimate pop ballad.)

"Shiny Happy People," by R.E.M. (Wow! Michael Stipe must have gotten beat up almost every day when he was little. He was that kid who got beat up all the time but still never learned what was good for him. He ain't scaired.)

"Enter Sandman," by Metallica (What is the point? Is this supposed to be spooky? It certainly doesn't rock, so I guess it's supposed to be spooky. Are you spooked, or just bored of listening to such a bad song?)

"Bongo Bong," by Manu Chao (Stupid, simply the stupidest song on Earth)

"99 Luft Balloons," by Nena (The song itself is actually fine, but I don't like the people who like this song, if you know what I mean. Everytime I hear it I just think of hairy-pitted lesbians jumping around and thinking they're so cool for being able to sing along in German.)

Monsieur Cube

Ice Cube, in speaking on his role in music and movies, had this to say about the two industries:

"They're both bad. It's like comparing two glasses of dirty water. One of them is going to taste better than the other."
(Taken from the New York Times)

I'm not sure that Mr. Cube's philosophical system holds too well together. Imagine, for example, a world in which both glasses of dirty water tasted equally bad. It does not seem too outlandish for me to consider that indeed no, one glass of dirty water is NOT going to taste better than another glass of dirty water.

I will wait now for Monsieur Cube's rebuttal.

At the Trough

I stole a raspberry-cheese danish from the conference room this morning and hid it at my desk under a piece of paper towel. I eat it like a pig would, if a pig felt a weird sense of guilt...i.e. I cram bites into my mouth when I think no one is looking. I even making little snorting noises in an attempt to get it down quicker just in case someone comes around the corner and sees me. Where did you get that raspberry-cheese danish? That's not for you, not at this hour! That's breakfast food! I'm going to tell your boss!
The new boss that I was talking about the other day (see entry titled: You Shall Pass With the Sun) I swear she just took the job to get free stuff, which is something I should be able to respect but it actually makes me kind of angry. She is always talking about how we have to order her new laptop before the grant money runs out, and I've heard her ask at least three different people when the painters were going to come to work on her office. Meanwhile she gives me shit about leaving early. Well, guess what, let's see how you do for one day without the cozy bourgeois safety net of medical insurance! What then, you cow?

Ooh, danish!

I Am a Marketing Genius, So Fuck You Too Saatchi and Cocksucking Saatchi

Dear McDonald's,

I have an idea for you, and it will only cost a million dollars, but the profits that will come to you as a result will be worth at least one hundred million thousand hundred thousand times that! It is a new twist on an old theme: Happy Meals. I'm not sure if you have noticed, but a lot of suburban mothers enjoy collecting your Happy Meal toys. I think it is because they wish they could have kids again, and I also think it is because they like getting small portions of food so that they do not explode out of their momveralls. That being said, what about a Happy Meal for adults? You could include french ticklers and airplane sized bottles of Jack Daniels, dvd pornography and copies of The Nation, do you see where I am going with this McDonald's? Obviously, you do not want children getting these items, so it would have to be clearly labelled Happy Meal Sr. and the box should be all black, maybe patent leather, classy enough to take into a board meeting. As an extra security measure the customer would have to swipe his/her driver's license or Certified State i.d. card through the lid.

Please send me the million dollars in one lump sum, do not try to pay it to me in monthly installments for the rest of my life. Everyone knows that if inflation doesn't kill your winnings, your own death probably will.

I Am Like Water

I constantly feel displaced. I have lived in a few different cities and eventually, at some point, I always feel like I'm not where I should be, like life is being lived more fully elsewhere. Now that I am back in my hometown again, and feeling disoriented and yes, at times, angry, it is all the more frustrating because if I cannot feel at home at home then where do I go to feel that way? My best analogy for what it's like being back is looking through an old photo-album and you remember when all the pictures were taken, the settings and even the clothing are familiar, but all the faces have been replaced. Imagine how fucking creeped out you would be! Well, that is my life.

In some ways, actually, work helps to alleviate this pressure, as much as I hate work with every bone in my body, and some bones in the bodies of others. Because every day is routine, and so there is a comfort in repetition, even if it is the kind of repetition that produces a slight pinching sensation everytime a brain cell bursts into flame.

Eventually, I will have to find someplace that I like, won't I? Am I doomed, like some doomed mythical character, forced to wander for eternity. I'm sure there's a mythical character like that, Perseopolisiphys. I am a nostalgic person, and so every autumn I am remembering how great the last autumn was, even though last autumn I was most likely depressed and dreaming of the previous autumn...and on and on. As far as I can remember, last year was the greatest year of my life, although I have the faint recollection of thinking the same thing then. It's like self-inflicted Chinese Water Torture, each day hitting me in the head until I can no longer think clearly and I go insane. Or that one where they make you swallow rice and then drink all that water and your stomach puffs up. That's just fucked up, especially when you consider how many people in China can't even afford rice and good, clean drinking water.


I think it would have been funnier if the FOX network, instead of moving Joe Millionaire to Europe and preying on a bunch of poor (but totally hot) ESLs, had made the second season of Joe Millionaire into Joe Billionaire! I can see all these peroxide blondes going they couldn't make that up, it's so much money it's just got to be true! Then they would stub out their Parlament Lights and pull each other's hair. Talk about a hillarious boner factory!


My good friend, Brother Russia, used to entertain the idea of an alarm clock that sampled our favorite Sega Master System game: "Altered Beast." For those who don't remember, in Altered Beast you are some kind of gladiator type figure, I'm not sure if there was really a plot, but you have been reanimated, because you died, probably from the Syph, and as you fight you turn into mythical beasts, like a dog. Anyway, as the game begins, you are buried, because, remember, you are dead. This voice booms "RISE FROM YOUR GRAVE!" and that's what your alarm clock would say, if Brother Russia could get the capital together to go into production.

I'm sure Brother Russia will be upset with me for giving away his ideas, but what he doesn't realize is the sheer number of R&D people who read this journal like the bible and will quickly leap at the chance to make BR's dreams a reality!

See, Mr. Communist, dreams really do come true, Mr. "I can't get any toilet paper and it's negative seventy degrees out!" Pish-posh!

Tuesday, November 11, 2003

Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, Don't Leave Me Bleeding-Out on the Floor-Floor

For the record:

I have worked in an office that did not make their coffee out of dried manure and broken-down cardboard boxes, but I was only an intern and was not allowed to do anything other than smell the coffee from where they had hooked my chain onto a metal ring bolted to the floor in the corner of the room.

I have tasted ebola-infected blood that was better than this.

Speaking of Retards

Speaking of our generation's great actors, how come so many of them seem hell-bent on playing retards? Cuba Gooding Jr., Sean Penn, Giovanni Ribisi and Juliette Lewis (who I will treat as one retard), Robin Williams (I put him because I feel like he must have played a retard at some point--seriously, even though the argument could obviously be made that he is always a retard), Robert DeNiro (there we go, he was in Awakenings, w/ Mr. One Hour Homo himself) who wasn't really retarded so much as catatonic, but they all drool.

It seems like a disgusting ploy to get an Oscar, and what's worse, it doesn't seem to work. Have any of these men (including Juliette Lewis under the Lewis-Ribisi One Tard Rule) ever won even a Golden Globe for their turn as mentally handicapped people who just want to lift up your soul and prove that even retards can succeed? No. I rember when I Am Sam was coming out and Sean Penn was explaining how some of his favorite scenes were in the group home because he got to act with real retarded people. Why? Why is that a great thing? Because it made your depiction of a retard slightly less unbelievable? Like we were thinking well all those guys are retarded so I guess Sean Penn really does seem kind of retarded, too? Why didn't they just have a real retard play you? It's such a circular M.C. Escher mindfuck when you really stop to think about it.

Speaking of retards, my boss always has streaming internet radio playing on his computer without any sound. And how come this diary has become about popular culture? I thought it was supposed to be about work. I thought it was supposed to explore the ethic behind America's white collar working class, and the back-stabbing political in-fighting of office life. Instead it's about the Cary Grant of our generation, Vin Deisel, and Patch Fucking Adams. Seriously, if Robin Williams never made another movie, and if the negatives to his previous movies were destroyed, and there was a public movement to erase him from the social conscience and national memory, I would be fine.

Speaking of Patch Adams, who is the Mott who has a stranglehold on naming our country's children's hospitals? Isn't there supposed to be federal legislation against this kind of power-hungry monopolization. Leave our youth alone, Mr. Mott, we've had enough of your philanthropic manipulations. If it means we never build another hospital for children, if that's what it takes to slow the viral spread of your name through our medical communities, so be it. Kids are dumb anyway.

Vin Diesel vs. Eggs and Toast

I would like to talk about space.

In the star-vehicle, Pitch Black, for our generation's Cary Grant, Vin Diesel, a spaceship crashes on an alien planet. Now, when I say crash, I do not mean they ran out of fuel and had to make an emergency landing, I mean Staten Island Ferry shit, ship's hull being ripped from its frame as it careens through rocks, big rocks, and crazy alien craters. With no special helmets or suits, the survivors simply step from the destroyed ship, breathing deeply. Not only is there the right combination of oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon-dioxide, and whatever else there is in air to sustain human life, but gravity seems pretty normal too, no one's shoulders are compressed into their ankles, no heads snapped off necks, no floating away, no bouncing or anything. A few scenes later it begins to rain. Acid? No, just plain old water. The best part about all this is that no one, not even Mr. Grant himself, mentions the oddness of this entirely hospitable planet. Of course it's raining, I mean, how couldn't it, we just crashed, God is laughing at us! And my feet are tired from all this walking.

Awesome! Space rules!

Then Vin goes mano e alieno with one of the scary monsters, and he wins! He outsmarts it! This is where the movie begins to become unbelievable. It was like in Chain Reaction when they put Keanu Reeves in a Harvard sweatshirt to show that he was smart. I'm not sure that Vin Diesel could outsmart a piece of toast, and I feel quite confident in claiming that nine times out of ten his breakfast pulls a fast one on him.

And so, with all things, a discussion of space becomes a discussion of a movie star's intelligence. How familiar.

Space, though, is a lot like work. No one can hear you scream. Unless you actually did scream, and then they would fire your stupid, crazy ass.

Oh, Oh, Pick Me!

Second funniest headline of the day:

6 Afghans Die in U.S. Raid, Reports Say
(Taken from the New York Times)

The world is a wacky, wacky place, man. You can't make shit like this up!

Royal Decree

I hereby rename the internationally popular The Strokes--loved by many, known by all
--The Stroke-Offs. They are chronic masturbators, masturbating with music! Here, they say to us, the consumers, let me cum on your face with my new album. If it sounds familiar, that's because it is, it's my old album with a new haircut. Do you like my new haircut? Does it get you hot? Oops, sorry, there's cum all over you. My fault.

As if their first album "Is this it?" (to which the answer, obviously, unfortunately, terribly, is No!) wasn't redundant enough, this is like the remix album, with special guest d.j.s:
The Strokes
Julian Casablancas (known to his friends as Mr. Looney Toons) from The Strokes
The ugly bassist from The Strokes
The ugly drummer from The Strokes
The girlfriend of Julian Casablancas (known to his friends as Bogart, or just Bogue) from The Strokes, pornstar slash techno wizard (or sorceress) Traci Lords.

I hope these assholes go blind, since they are already clearly deaf, and have hands covered in long, flaxen hair.

Dear The Stroke-offs, stop cumming on me with your cum music.

The Early Bird Has No Friends

First things: I just tried to make a photocopy, the first of the day, so the machine was on powersave, and I'm used to these types of machines, the ancestral lineage of the soon-to-be-destroyer: The Terminator, and on the lcd display it simply said "Please Wait Awhile," not 'warming up' or 'just a moment.' How long will I be waiting? As long as the copier wants. I have never seen such a vague and disingenous display from a machine.

I have a sneaking suspicion that an ex-girlfriend, whom I would expect to live somewhere far away (in a trailer park, or the tornado battered remnants of a trailer park) is in fact still living in town, which helps to explain the dream I had last night: I saw her at a party, or something, and was asking her how she was doing, and what she was up to. Apparently she is working as a DDS assistant--which in my dream I immediately knew was a dental assistant--making 50k a year, and only working six hours a day. I got so depressed. Maybe, I thought, in my dream, I should go to dental school!

Headline of the day: "Man Robs Bagel Shop at Gunpoint."
(taken from local paper)

I'm sure he got away with almost thirty dollars worth of fresh-from-the-oven Assiago bagels and probably some hand-whipped jalapeno cream cheese, showing that crime, indeed, does pay. As does becoming a dental assistant. She never even hinted at being interested in such a thing.

Monday, November 10, 2003

Stupid-Ass Fakers

To all you fakers out there, quit fakin'!

Where Does He Get Such Wonderful Toys?

There is a woman in my office who looks like the Penguin, Batman's flippered arch-nemesis. She even waddles, and I'm not sure that I've ever heard her speak. No umbrella, though, but can you imagine if she did have one? And a tophat? She would be my favorite, my own little villain. As it stands, she's just the weirdo down the hall.

Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Corpse

Clearly, the most guilt-instilling aspect of my job is that the program to which I sell my last shreds of youth is organized to help those less fortunate than myself, but all I can think about is five o'clock, when I can get the fuck out of here. Is this because I do not care? Yes. But let's be honest, it's something deeper as well. Not only do I not care, but I am greedy and selfish. It is not just apathy, but arrogance that drives me. Why help others, when I can dream of them helping me, and by helping I mean doing my bidding. Yes, I have been an intern, yes I have worked temp, yes, I have been subjected to all the cruelties that the White Collar American Workforce has to offer, and I dream of the day when I can inflict similar pain on others. I am the kid on the playground who gets beat up and then five minutes later picks on someone even weaker than himself. I am smack dab in the middle of the food chain, and I want only to put a few more below me, just a few more, to edge my way into the bottom of the top, to become the lowest common denominator out of the highest common denominators. I want to be a middle manager!!!

A Message to High School Seniors

I love my job.

Why is that, you might ask. The answer is simple: because in college I majored in a subject about which I am very passionate: temporary employment. For four years (plus a one year graduate program to expand my skill set and increase my power potential) I worked hard at mastering the art of data entry, telephone answery, and kow-towery. But I urge you, High School Seniors, make your decisions wisely. Fall is the time of college applications, many of you feel that the world is your oyster, but even oysters an cause you to vomit and have hot diarrhea. Temporary employment may not be for you. If this is the case, I urge you to pursue a BA in Being Famous, or Sleeping Late. Perhaps, if you are a very hard worker, you could earn a double major, in Eating Fast Food Without Putting on Weight and Making Witty Comments During Movies.

Remember, High School Seniors, every time you take a temporary job that you do not enjoy, you are not only taking money out of my pants, literally, but you are taking joy from my soul. Leave drudgery to the drudgers, like me, and pursue something you enjoy, like Fucking, or Getting Fan Mail.

Thank you, and Go Cougars!
Worker #3116

Out While You Can

I would like to coin a neologism for those in the men's room who feel that no social consideration should stand in the way of their exploding asses. These men shall from here on be known as The Evacuators. This is a good word because it, of course, literally describes them as they are, men who rush to evacuate their bowels, but also, like evacuators in an emergency situation, they do not care who they crush, kill, or simply offend, to be the first to get the hell out.

Meanwhile, the water coming from the faucet was the deep rusty brown of pee after seventeen cups of coffee, and considering the many medical type experiments that are conducted in my building, I am nervous of being "exposed." If the skin begins to slough off my hands, revealing the bleached bones of my skeletal finger-bones, you will be the first to know.

Taste an Apple, Smell a Peach

In an effort to embrace my life as a worker bee in the globo-economic hive, I bought myself some cologne this weekend. The concept of cologne, as well as I understood it, was that you buy a bottle of it, and when you spray it onto your neck, you not only smell better, but are more attractive to the opposite sex. The former of these enticements was my main reason for purchasing the toilet water, and so you can imagine my disappointment when I got it home and sprayed it on and did not smell better. That is a lie. I do smell better, but I don't smell like cologne. You see, I actually just smell normal, like a normal, unstinky person. What I think happens is that my body chemistry is so naturally noisome, so unignorably odiferous, that the cologne simply returns me to a normalized state. In fact, the entire experience was mirrored this same weekend when I caved in and bought a Glade Plug-ins to mask the terrible stench of cat shit that permeates my entire apartment for Señor Stink Bottoms. Here, too, one would hope that instead of poop, only "fresh rain" or "sauna" would offend the nose with its freshness. Instead, you smell poop and oranges, and also pee.

O' cologne,
Ere I met you, I smelled afoul.
O'er my odor, you smell like wow(el).

An Open Letter to Monday

Dear Monday,

You used to be dreaded in proportion to your dullness, but I have come to realize that you are not all that. Indeed, you are a terrible thing, a creature of unknown darkness and a source of constant, impenetrable sadness, but really, you are simply the greater of seven evils. Now that I work two jobs, you are not even the beginning of my week. Nay, Sunday is the first of the many tortures that follow their natural cycle. Each 'day of rest' I die anew, and each Friday eve I am reborn as a human being, only to end my life once more in thirty-six hours time. O' Monday, ere we meet, please wash your face, it is a most prickly kiss to receive.

Worker #3116

Friday, November 07, 2003


Choosebiscuit, my randomizing DM-2000 (decision making) program, is not to be confused with my indie porno film, Cockbiscuit. That's different, and sexier.


I would like to use this forum to put my programming concept on "paper", so that the intellectual property thieves who surround me cannot get their ninja-like hands on it. The program, currently titled Choosebiscuit is decision making software. Let's say, for instance, that you cannot decide whether to go to the movies, out to dinner, or just stay home and watch t.v. Fire up the old Apple II, double-dlick on Choosebiscuit, and It's a Day at the Races! Simply plug your three options into the roster:

1. Go To The Movies
2. Out to Dinner
3. Stay at Home

Click okay and you will be taken to the main screen. It is a racetrack on a nice, moderately sunny day. Choosebiscuit acts as a randomizer, so that when it's time to make tough decisions, you don't have to. Each of your options has now become the name of a horse. Click the "Go!" button and watch as the ponies make dust. Through your computer's mono speaker system you will hear a crackly, 1930's style radio host: "And here's Go To The Movies coming around for the second lap, but don't hold your breath too long folks, because Stay at Home is just a hoof print behind. Now it's Out to Dinner, Out to Dinner closing in on the third..." and so on and so forth. The horse that wins is the result of your difficult decision. You will be staying at home and watching television, as usual. Now load up Choosebiscuit again and pick which type of pornography to use while you masturbate!

Ox Jaw to the Neck

I think that my favorite thing about karate class has to be the constant flattery. This comes as a result of being the worst fighter in the room, the least likely champion, and the less flexible your round kick, the more they congratulate you on your prowess. Today, at the end of the class, the teacher had everyone give me a round of applause, literally, people clapped, a room full of people. You are thinking that this should, rather than flatter me, make me ashamed, because you see it as being almost patronizing. Well, when was the last time you got a round of applause? And besides, I might have been the worst in a room full of black belts, but I'm pretty sure I could still kick your ass.

Headline of the Day

It's still early, but I think this is a definite contender for the estimable Corporate Casual award for Headline of the Day:

"Minister: Minnie Driver may harm Cambodia"
(taken from

What Do the Vatican and Hollywood Have in Common? A Dangerous Distrust of Birth Control

Famous people shouldn't be allowed to have kids. They should be sterilized the first time they end up on the cover of a magazine, or interviewed by James Lipton. Or, if they are allowed to breed, their children should be forced, FORCED, into a normal job. If your parents are famous you can become either a doctor, a lawyer, a civil servant, or a postal clerk. It's just very sad and tiresome to see the children of celebrities walking in Mamma and Papa's footsteps, or should I say tripping and falling and chipping their teeth and blacking their eyes in Mamma and Papa's foosteps.

Case in point: Max Brooks just came out with a book called the Zombie Survival Guide, which is actually quite useful, but certainly nothing compared to the work of Papa (Mel), it's not even as funny as the least funny thing he's ever done (Life Stinks).

Case in point: Sean Lennon, that fucker shouldn't even be let out of the house. He's like the ugliest parts of his parents combined into a demon spawn, and oh, by the way, Sean, your dad would have started an anti-you protest if he hadn't been shot dead by that guy who shot him.

Case in point: Angelina Jolie. Fine, she can act okay, and she is totally hot, but she also really puts the 'crazy' back in super fucking crazy. She seems to have grown up really thinking that her father was a male prostitute, and I'm sure that messes with a kid's head.

Case in point: Thomas Steinbeck. You sad, sad man. At least Max Brooks is giving us useful information on how to defeat death reincarnate. Down to a Soundless Sea with you, drown yourself in either the ocean of your father's talent, or the three foot wading pool of your own.

Case in point: George W. Bush. And we thought daddy was no good.

Okay, in my relentless misogyny I've noticed that the only famous children of famous people I've mentioned are the famous children of famous men. That's probably because famous women know better than to sully the world with their cocaine-addled spawn. No more crack babies, Stephen Tyler, the Council of Elrond is all full-up. In the words of a crazy woman I saw on Astor Place: "Stop breeding, stop breeding, no more bambinos, we don't want to live in your country." I will ignore the fact that she only yelled this at blacks and hispanics, and that she was charging five dollars to sign her petition.


The good doctor was kind enough to give me my morning shot of anti-thanatos serum, and so now I have been reanimated once more, a walking cadaver, set loose upon the Earth to harvest souls and compose emails to the Partnership Council.

The ITN Britain Correspondant used the word "ginormous" on The Today Show this morning, so I'm not the only one who is too tired to do their job well.

Last night I had a dream that I had just moved into a giant house. The first two floors were fine, nice enough, sort of dillapidated, but wooden floors and plenty of gray light coming in through the windows. Then, the entire third floor was constructed like a lifesize version of Castle Greyskull. It ruled. But then some friends, and I can name names (Scott S., Joe ?) stole my 27-inch television, and also my stove, thinking it would be a funny joke. Well, guess what assholes, I didn't even notice until you were bringing it back, thinking the joke had gone on long enough. I knew it was you right away, too, because no one else had been in the house yet. I'll know for next time not to invite you until the official house warming party when you can be monitored by a vigilant group of your peers. Still, I remember cursing your names as I flipped frantically through the phone book trying to find Joe's number but not knowing Joe's last name. And when I awoke, I still could not remember Joe's last name...could the dream have been a reality?!

I was going to end this missive with another hillarious joke from the Big Book of Dirty Jokes I'm working on, but then realized that you couldn't improve on a classic. I would like you to read this joke carefully and really consider it, only then will you realize that you were a much funnier motherfucker in the second grade than even you realized:

Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to the other side.

Blow your ass out of your pants, that joke is funny as shit.

Thursday, November 06, 2003

Slider_666: Suck a D, Man, Korn Rulez!

Writing in this journal makes me feel like I am myself.

You Shall Pass with the Sun

I have a new boss this week, bringing the total to three. So, for lunch we had a potluck with the department, welcoming her and celebrating her birthday. For the first hour of the lunch I had the strange experiment of being in a group of people and feeling absolutely certain that there was not one person with whom I could relate. During this time I felt frustrated and alienated, but I did learn that Mrs. Peabody's, in the mall, uses a chocolate chip cookie scented aerosol spray to give the food court the smell of a full-fledged bakery. Still, kind of boring. But then, people started talking about ghosts and how they believed in ghosts. I'm open to new ideas, but if you want me to believe in something fantastical, I need better evidence than you are willing to provide. The most adamant Egon there was a woman who explained that her father's spirit often visited her apartment and her mother's house. How does she know? Her cat smells like cigarettes, and her dad smoked cigarettes. This is only slightly less ludicrous than seeing the Holy Mother in a blood stain on a motel bedspread. I thought of mentioning that my cat smelled like poop, and that my dad used to go poop, but didn't want to draw her wrath. Once, when her uncle died, she felt something brush past her while she was laying on the couch, and it wasn't her mother's cat, because the cat was in the other room, and so, she said, "maybe you just have to be open to these kinds of visitations." I remained non-plussed until another co-worker, who has a cubicle all his own on the other side of the office, began to talk about his family. He is from Ghana and, as it turns out, next in line to be king of his tribe. And I thought I had problems. Apparently, his grandfather was a very important man who imparted all his powers onto my coworker's older brother, who has cursed at least one man with a supernatural demise. Also, he seems to have some mild experience with voodoo. He made most of the things we had for lunch, chicken stew and fried plantains, all of which were delicious. When he walked in late he said that usually, because he cooked the food, he would taste it first, to make sure it was not poisoned.

Thank you for the delicious lunch sire, please do not kill me with your crazy Africa black magic.

Also, people who believe in ghosts, I have a question: How come you only get visited by people you are already thinking about all the time, like Mom and Dad, how come you never get visited by good acquaintances, like that guy you used to work with at the deli in high school who got hit by a car while stoned and racing his bike down a hill? What's his ghost busy doing? Haunting the editorial offices of High Times, I suppose.

She Is Now Bolded, Italicized, and Underlined on My List

You have got to be kidding. They are now working on getting HP Turtleneck her own phone line (in MY cubicle), and even her "Paradise" desktop image is more idyllic than mine. Hers is like the private white sand beach in Cabos de los Locos to my Daytona. She is the candlelit evening over a bottle of grand cru Chateau D'Awesome to my foam party at Señor Frogs. I am ashamed. She is dead.

The Grass Is Wearing a Hot-Pink Turtle-Necked Sweater

They just set up another computer next to mine in the shared cubicle where a young woman will come in to work six hours a week. She apparently has her own mailbox in the office, as well as a better computer, and earns the respect of her peers and colleagues, and she's only been here for twenty minutes. She is on my list.

Other people on my list:
Bill O'Reilly.
Mandy Moore.

The Grass Is Always Greener Than What?

The bane of existence, at least for priveleged white people, is to be raised in a culture that constantly tells you that you can be whatever you want. You could grow up to be president one day, people tell you shit like this in kindergarten, lies. What happens, then, when you grow up only to find that you are not whatever you wanted to be? You're not even the butt of a good joke about failed promise. Granted, those graduating from accredited universities don't tend to wind up working at Taco Bell--although someone has to--but the majority of them do wind up doing either something they hate, or going back to school for further training to get a job doing something they will hate. I am speaking from experience here. I think that a system like France (Ennemi Numero One) where most people are raised to become civil servants, only to become civil servants, is better, or at least more honest. How to live a fulfilling life when everything around you--television, magazines, books, film, music--is reminding you how unfulfilling your life is? My point is not new, it might even be over-worn and tired, but I still feel it to be viable and in need of addressing. I am fat, I am lazy, I have a small penis, I am not very intelligent, I have a girlish voice, I am ugly even by low standards, I would lose a fight against a child, I will never charm the pants off a woman I can only buy them off her, I am not a neccessary member of my community, or any community for that matter, my vote doesn't count, I am not funny, not in the way that Raymond Romano is funny, and everybody loves Raymond Romano so they don't have any room left to love me. What I am saying is that maybe if all my life I had been told that I would someday have a cubicle all my own, then the cruel fact that I don't even have a cubicle of my own would at least be tempered by having a cubicle, albeit a cramped, communal cubicle next to the printer, surrounded by empty boxes and a hand-cart. Maybe if my entire life I had been told that I should expect to grow up and be mildly unfulfilled and greatly underappreciated, then it would have been easier to ease myself into the world of productive capitalism. Then again, wasn't that what Papa was trying to say when he brought out the leather belt and "took out the sass."

Whistlin' Dixie

I'm really bothered by the whole Howard Dean uproar. There is an epidemic of terrible blindness in this country, and it effects liberals in particular, crippling them, and making them stumble around like fools. FYI: There are hundreds, nay thousands, of people driving around this country, at this very moment, in pickup trucks with the confederate flag depicted somewhere, either on the chassis or in the cab. Most of them hate black people, too. So what? The democratic party's solution is to pretend that they don't exist? A lot of people in this country hate black people, and a lot of people in this country hate white people, and that is a problem, I guess, but it's certainly not NOT a problem. And what better political affiliation for a bunch of racists than a group that preaches liberal ideals and racial tolerance. If the goal is to rid the world of racism (ha ha, good luck) then why not open a discussion with the racists, have them to dinner. Maybe they missed that day in school about all the great things that women and blacks invented. I'm beginning to lose the thread of my argument, but the point is simply that while everyone in the democratic party is complaining that the confederate flag-waver is a stereotype, those same confederate flag-wavers are voting for George W. So what is so wrong with Howard Dean's broad minded appeal? I don't even like Howard Dean that much, but I feel compelled to jump to his defense.

Very rarely in this country do people talk about racial stereotypes on a personal level. It's not often that you hear someone saying "I just think black people are lazy, but I'm willing to hear arguments to the contrary." But it's not any more useful to have a constant discussion about not discussing race. If Howard Dean was so out of line in mentioning this terrible stereotype of white trash, as if the stereotype could possibly be any more disgusting than the reality, then why don't people talk about where the stereotype comes from, and why it still registers in many people's minds (that's why he said was not an off-the-cuff remark, he's been repeating this kind of thing for months because it worked in the past, the man is a politician, morons). Why don't we examine the fact that some company somehwere makes hundreds of thousands of dollars a year on the sale of confederate flags and confederate flag stickers and confederate flag giant belt buckles and confederate flag tablecloths. If this is such a grave concern, why aren't people dealing with the issue instead of just telling Dr. Dean to shut up and apologize.

Also, I love that the press calls him Dr. Dean. It makes it almost totally impossible for him to win, because I don't want a Dr. for president, I just want him to make my cough go away.

God damn. Liberals drive me crazy because they are so stupid. Even when things get as bad as they possibly could, with George Fucking W. Fucking Bush, the worst president in the history of the free world, the best opponents you can come up with are a stupid, Gollum looking muppet motherfucker like Joe Lieberman, an uncouth underbiting hothead like Dr. Dean, and a plastic Republican barbie doll like Wes Clark, all of whom say pretty much the same thing, which sounds something like "if you were thinking of voting for the Democrats, you might as well just not, because look at us, we are clowns, clowns at an empty circus, without even a funny car to stuff our fat asses into."

Knock Knock

A new day has dawned.

Everyone at work is sick. As a worker without benefits, I would urge these infected lepers to stay home and collect a fat sick-day paycheck. Don't worry, I'll hold down the fort here, just keep your toxins out of my body.

Last night I had a dream that I had telekenisis. Mostly I just made newspapers fly around. What was cool about the dream, though, was that I got appreciably better at moving newspapers. At first I struggled very hard to get them to raise maybe just a foot, or eighteen inches, with all my energy and concentration. Then, as if by epiphanic breakthrough, I was able to make those fuckers fly like newsprint birds! The trick, as it turns out, is to simply allow the telekentic-ized object to move freely, the more you concentrate your powers on it the more you stall and thwart movement.

There is beauty all around us...

Oh, and I have another joke for you:
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
The Korean drycleaner.
The drycleaner Hu?

Wednesday, November 05, 2003

The Funniest Joke About Jews That You Will Ever Hear

Joke: A rabbi walks into a bar and orders a drink. "Sorry, Pal," the bartender says, "we don't serve Jews here."

Pee-Pee for Co-Co Puffs

Going to the bathroom at the office is very stressful. Everyone sees you walking around and knows that you don't have anywhere to go except for the shitter. They watch and wait, and then they pounce when it's time to fire you for over-peeing on the clock.

Steve's Lunch for Worker #3116's Lunch

The thing that really burns me up is working in a cubicle in a college town. It seems fundamentally wrong, like eating lima beans at a birthday party. Lunch: okay, nice, a little break from the fluorescence depending on where you go...but everyone else is in the middle of an otherwise relaxing look at your watch, wondering if you can cram an extra fifteen or thirty minutes into your "hour", while everyone else is like "man, I have to read three more chapters of Roald Dahl before I can go get totally tanked." I'm not saying that scholarly work isn't difficult, except that the difficulty is simple and far outweighed by the pleasure of doing different things all day and having the simple responsibility of becoming smarter. And granted, playing Minesweeper for nine hours a day is not difficult, but it is stressful, because mines can take a limb, or even a life.

I am back at work now, after my lunch, and the hours of 2 to 5 are some of the most painful. Time really seems to drag its legs like some kind of amputee cripple with only, like, one arm, and a finger and zero eyes and a smokers voice that makes all the girls squeamish. Get me out of here, it moans, sloughing off down the street, leaving a trail of slime behind it. I'm ready to go home, it says, and then goes back to dry heaving the minutes away, one by stinky one.

France C'est L'ennemi Number One!

France C'est L'ennemi Number One! [Nov. 5th, 2003|12:03 pm]
I think I have discovered the source of apathy that affects me and pretty much one hundred percent of the people around me: nothing changes. Almost everything going on in the world right now is very bad, but it doesn't change the fact that rain or shine, the Bachelor will be on tonight, Circuit City will close at ten p.m., and people are getting fatter. Nothing changes on a day-to-day basis for ninety-nine percent of Americans, and so what is there to get so upset about? You've got soap in the shower and food on the table and television shows on the television and water in your glass and toothpaste on your toothbrush and so who cares? Even people in France, ENEMY NUMBER ONE, aren't really sweating it, and they have to deal with the fear that we could bomb them at any moment. Boom. No more London, no more France, you can see everybody's underpants on their burning, disintegrated bodies.

I need lunch so bad, my hands are shaking. I can't tell if that's an Excel spreadsheet I'm looking at or just a really boring website about numbers.

I Love Swimming. Had a Coke. Swimming.

Writing a diary about work is kind of like being a kid and writing a diary about a trip to Florida. The entries all begin to sound the same:
"Went swimming in the pool. Had a Coke. Went swimming again until dinner, and then after dinner went swimming."
"Breakfast, bagels, mom gave me a sip of her coffee, then: swimming! All day. Mom made me put on a t-shirt so I wouldn't get worse sunburned, had lunch in the pool. I LOVE SWIMMING."
"Today: swimming, both in the pool and the ocean, but I like the pool better. You can't really swim in the ocean, you just stand there and get salt in your mouth and stinging in your eyes."
"Today we went to the pool first thing..."

And on and on. The only difference is that for a work-related diary you should replace every reference to swimming with "bored out of my mind" and every mention of meals with "took a short break and considered killing myself."

Still a Cupcake Revised

Oh, I just wanted to comment on my previous entry regarding the hardhitting journalism of the New York Times' article "No Longer Just a Cupcake"...well, see, the thing is, apparently it's still just a cupcake, so, there's a lie right there. Objection. Sustained.

Trenchcoat: Superbitch and Weasel

Eventually I imagine that I will only write to you once a day, at most, and oftentimes only once a month, or when you pay me with candy, but for now it is an enjoyable way to pass the time and, more importantly, it is an opportunity for me to tell you about the bitch at my other job, where I am Tradefloor Salesperson #45. I offered to switch with some co-ed my Wednesday night shift for her Tuesday night shift, so already I'm doing somebody somehwere a favor. Then I tell the woman who usually is my manager that I would like to leave early if possible because I wanted to go to the bar (I did not tell her about the bar, because then she would think that I was a drunk, and would not let me leave early as a symbol of her tough love). But this woman who is usually my manager, and who wears a long, black leather trenchcoat, was not my manager last night, but said she would pass the message on to the woman who was the manager. Then, at 9:10, bear in mind that the shift ends at 10:00 pm anyway, Trenchcoat says "do you still want to leave early?" and I say yeah, and she says "because I wanted to leave early tonight, too, and it's like, my only night that I'm not closing all week, so, well, we can work it out...just think about it I guess." and walks away. Just think about what? Whether or not I still want to leave early? Because I do, incidentally. But then it hits me, she never told my manager that I wanted to leave early because she was hoping to weasel me out of that privilege herself. So now I hate her with a burning ball of liquid fury in my stomach, but fine, fuck it, I'll work until ten, it's not my right to leave early, I just wanted to, so I could go get drunk before going to bed before getting up to come into the office and sit down at "Paradise". I did not mention to Trenchcoat that while it was her only night not closing, it was my only night that I had to work from eight a.m. to ten p.m. while all she had to do was sit around and look ugly until she decided to show up and try and weasel out of work like a little fucking weasel. God damn it. Anyhow, this is the piece of resistance, at 9:54 p.m., and I am not shitting you, diary, she says "well, there's not really any point in my leaving early now, so you can go as far as I'm concerned, I'm not going to fight you for it." Fight me for it? I'm leaving in six minutes, at the absolute latest, no matter what your fat ugly head says, so what the fuck are you fighting me about? Listen, I have been swearing more than I would like. I think this should be a clean journal, but I just wanted to express something that I would like to call Maximum Stupidity Potential. She was off the charts. And she is ugly, and a weasel, if I haven't mentioned that already, and stupid, and I hate her.

Still a Cupcake

There is a headline in this morning's New York Times that reads "No Longer Just a Cupcake" so if that gives you any kind of idea about where the world is at right now, you are a better man than I. Did you even realize when you woke up this morning that there was a baked goods revolution swirling around you? No, because you are at the calm center, the quiet needle thin point at the center of the massive, violent vortex that is the cupcake uprising. What the fuck? Do you think Saddam Hussein read that this morning and was like 'they can't find me, but they can find time to report on delicious little cakes that you can eat all by yourself like a big fat pig, you big fatsos.'

There was also a headline that read "Fetal Brains Suffer Badly From Effects of Alcohol." Maybe they should change the name of their paper to The Genius Times, because they are all geniuses, every single one of them, except for the asshole who wrote about cupcakes, because that is just stupid.

Hello, My Name Is Dying

I walk in and say good morning to my office manager. Before she even says hello in kind, she first checks the clock to see how late I am. Hey-o! The day has begun. The background image on my desktop is set to "Paradise", and there is this weird thing that happens when I start up my computer: before the beautiful idyll of some crappy frat-boy beach appears, first there is a dot-matrixy image of a double helix, like a secondary background, of DNA, reminding me, irrevocably, that this is my life.

God, I wish I had a nosebleed, something, anything. I am dying. I am dead.