October 2015 Archives

i have no idea how this company turns a profit

One of my work duties these days is to maintain a corporate website. From my perspective, it's a brainless, pedestrian task. I literally put p tags around misspelled paragraphs that I copy from executives' emails.

But the key words there are "corporate" and "executives." They are remorseless visibility whores, and I'm the guy who puts batteries in the spotlight.

Thus do I find myself on ridiculously broad threads with five levels of management competing to congratulate one another on my adding a link. They are a marvel. I'll get the request, spent 10 seconds creating the link, tell them it's done, and then watch the full day of frenzied back-slapping and spunk-guzzling unfold.

My boss thinks this task is a waste of me. In so far as the task goes, I agree. "You ever thnk about getting back into mangement?" [sic] he'll ask.

"I'm good, thanks."

to oldly go

There are definite upsides to being single as long as I've been single. The disposable income is handy. My doorknobs are largely unfettered by unsightly brassieres. And my holidays are largely unfettered by unsightly in-laws.

But combine a lot of ex-girlfriends with the ravages that advancing age has wrought on my memory, and you have me thinking "Which one was it who...?" a lot.

Which one was it who I caught listening to the Backstreet Boys?

Which one was it who pathologically hated Clint Howard?

Which one was it who asked me to [insert genuinely disturbing sexual request]?

I don't know, I don't know, and I don't know. Neither do they, because they're all old now, too. Often the best I can do is "someone in the '90s. Or maybe the '80s or '00s. But definitely not the '10s."

clinging to the primordial tidepool

A few weeks ago, I looked in a long-forgotten drawer and found a screenplay written by a college friend. Typical excerpt from this masterwork:

ROBBER 1 AND ROBBER 2 (bouncing up and down)

"WHOO-HOO! Five hunnerd clams!"

Needless to say, I tortured my friend, and this soon became a reunion in Portland. Twenty years after college, several of us convened in a diner. It was great fun.

We reminisced about the people we hated, but soon an alarming trend became apparent. After we derisively snorted about an idiot poet who since became an idiot life-coach, one of my friends softened it. "But I'll give her this," said Mariko. "I admire her confidence. She really set out to do what she wanted to do."

"Yeah," said Jon.

Yeah, whatever. She was an idiot then, and she's an idiot now. Next.

We then bashed our old boss, a loser in any decade, a man who tortured us and compelled us to torture others. "But as much as I hate to admit it," said Jon at one point, "He was right."

Mariko nodded.

What?! What was going on here? And then it hit me. They've grown.

We then bashed a cheating shrew for a while, a reprehensible, pointless woman whom I still despise for once making me sit in 12 degrees for several hours. Invariably, one of my pussified friends cited her rough childhood as something we should really acknowledge.

I had had enough.

"Oh, for the love of fuck. Can you just let me hate her?"

"Sorry sorry sorry," said Mariko.

"You are cleared to hate," allowed Jon.

To their credit, their overdeveloped sense of understanding extends to those who refuse to evolve.

Perhaps he expected to hunt quail after the game?


in the air tonight

I overnighted on Seattle's affluent eastside last week, dining with four friends in two days. The seeing-my-friends part was great fun. The being-on-the-eastside part was cancerously unpleasant.

I'm starting to notice a pattern with my discomfort around people. I cannot abide clusters of rich people. When in packs, they secrete some sort of obnoxious pheromone that permeates everything and everyone in their vicinity. They've aerosolized assholery. In wealthy areas, even the clerks making minimum wage are imperial, entitled assholes. I spent every second on the eastside wanting to throttle someone.

And then I went to a bar in Tacoma, a decidedly less wealthy community. I had a great time and met some really warm, interesting folks. It was just like my experiences in Spokane, Bellingham or Vancouver WA, or Pittsburgh, or pretty much anywhere but Seattle. It's more and more apparent that there's a direct correlation between a community's average income and my stabbiness there.

My dog Fredo has taken to dropping bombs on my floor, and, giving him undue benefit of the doubt, I had these munitions tested.

"The tests all came back negative for parasites," said my vet.

"Did you test for stupidity?"

"Oh, I don't really need to..." he replied.

I texted Dorkass this week, and she called me back a few minutes later.

"Hey, was that post about me?" she demanded.

"What post?"

This post: Shall I give Karyn a third chance to cancel dinner plans at the last minute? No, I delete her from my phone.

I stared at the phone in my hand—the phone I had just used to text the person now asking if I'd deleted her from my phone.

"Is your name spelled Karyn with a y?"


"Have you stood me up for dinner a couple times?"


"Then how could it possibly be about you?"

"Just making sure."

the butterfly effect

It all started, as debacles often do, with my laziness.

I hired someone to clean my house. While she was here, I locked the dogs in the car so that she might walk freely, without Fredo's snout impacted in her crotch. I'm just that thoughtful. I left the windows down a few inches for the dogs, and when I retrieved them a few hours later, I forgot to put them back up. I discovered this the next morning and promptly sealed the windows.


Heading to town, I noticed something was awry as soon as I reached for the door handle. What was all that all over my car's upholstery?

And thus did scrub 30 hours' worth of panicked-bird shit out of my car, working far harder than I ever would if I were merely cleaning my house.

the quick hook

I wonder if my growing impatience is a function of a increasing awareness of my finite time on earth. For whatever reason, I'm giving everything the quick hook lately. Movies, meals, staff, friends, household projects, you name it. I just can't stand to wait for things to improve or, in some cases, to improve them myself. Toward that end, I waste anything but time.

Shall I help the staffer better understand that missing deadlines is not okay? Nah, I just fire him. Next.

Shall I give Karyn a third chance to cancel dinner plans at the last minute? No, I delete her from my phone. Next.

Shall I finish this crappy restaurant meal? Surely you jest. Shall I send it back and give them a chance to care so little again? No thank you. Here's your money. On to another restaurant. Next.

I went to tremendous lengths yesterday to ferry over to Seattle and see "The Walk" in IMAX 3d. I instantly found it dreadful, affected. At the 15 minute mark, Joseph Gordon-Levitt stood in a CGI Statute of Liberty torch, with a even faker-looking CGI World Trade Center looming in the background. He spoke directly to the camera, twinkling I suppose impishly. Heez cartooneesh fake Fronch accent, eet grated moi nerves eento a fine poodoor. By the 30 minute mark, I was in my car. Neext.

days since the last mass shooting in america

We did it, people! Three of these on this page at the same time!

U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

I have a solution to this problem: let's make guns look less like enormous wangs and more like vaginas. Maybe paint them pink and put My Pretty Pony stickers on them. We won't have to take guns away from gun-fuckers. They'll throw them away themselves.

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