June 2016 Archives

craigslidiots

I've been giving away a few items on craigslist this week, which is nothing so much as reminder of how flabbergastingly stupid and entitled people are. "Call me," half of them respond in entirety, right before I delete their demand.

Free generator, runs great, says my ad.

"Does it run?" asked no less than 30 people.

Free dresser, but you must take it today

"Can I pick it up on Saturday instead?" asked two people who didn't get a response.

Potted japanese maple. Free to the person who annoys me the least.

It went to the woman who asked merely if I would deliver it to her 30 miles away.

or maybe both

I was once in a hip furnishings shop when I met the Most Beautiful Girl I've Ever Seen. She works there. A couple decades my junior and not a remotely plausible prospect even if she weren't, she nonetheless effortlessly oozes loveliness and grace out every pore. Helping matters is that she's extraordinarily personable. She should, by rights, be a ball-castrating show pony. Alas. For hours after we chatted, all I could think was "Wow. Wow." She lingered in my mind for days, like when I see a truly great film or concert.

Let's call this work of art "Mirabelle." We talked for maybe a half hour in 2014 and never since.

A few weeks ago, I ran into her on the street. She spotted me first and greeted me warmly. She couldn't remember my name, but she remembered details about me. I can't remember a single thing about her life, I marveled to myself. If I can't make myself care about her details, what chance does anyone else really have? She charmed my friends and spun off, long brown hair cascading down her back, like in take 84 of a shampoo commercial.

"How." asked my stunned, lovestruck buddy.

I am sure I do not know. But next time I see Mirabelle, I'm thanking her for making me look like a stud. Or maybe a pervy old fart.

There's big goings on in these parts, and I'll write more about them when they're done. Internet weirdos, and all. You can expect the next week to be pretty dull. For your fun, go read some news.

Yeah...maybe not. I've steered clear of writing about Trump and Orlando because, well, I find their unrelenting depressingness to be depressing. But since you asked, I'm solidly against both calamities.

Whenever something like the Orlando shootings unfolds, I cringe and steel myself for the first responders. I don't mean the heroes in uniform. I don't mean the media or the families of victims. I mean the asshats who rush to co-opt the tragedy in support of whatever their dumbass cause is before some other asshat can. Morbidly, I started refreshing my Facebook page, waiting to see the usual suspects' faces change in a conspicuous show of...I don't know. "Helping," I suppose. And this being an election year, the candidates quickly issued statements about how these murders validated their positions, all before the blood dried. So unfathomably cringe-inducing. Conspicuous in their (relative) silence are the gun-fetishists at the NRA. It's certainly not out of taste, so I conclude they started to type "THIS WOULDN'T HAPPEN IF MORE GAYS CARRIED GU—" and then had second thoughts.

risky click of the day

In a chat with Flo, I called myself a dick. "i was thinking gaping walk-in asshole, but sure, dick works, too," she replied.

Certain that she did not coin such eloquence, I googled "gaping walk-in asshole."

First of all, don't do it. Second of all, if you do, don't click the first link.

judged

I stayed in a fancy-pants hotel last weekend. How fancy? US Open golfers were trickling in. And I still managed to be the worst dressed person in the lobby.

At one point, I called room service and ordered two desserts. There was the dessert that sounded good, and then there was the back-up dessert.

"And how many people is this for?" asked the voice on the hotel phone.

"Um. Two?" I lied.

He knew.

“smells like pizza”

— Septic guy, after popping the lid on my tank

born this way

I was in the bar at a Cleveland Buffalo Wild Wings when it was time for my 1:1 meeting with Sal, my boss of six years. He squinted at his screen and saw where I was.

"Oh, good. You're already drinking. That'll help. I just quit."

I grabbed my glass and stabbed at it with my finger. "THIS IS ICED TEA, SAL! I FEEL EVERYTHING, SAL!"

• • •

6GROm.gifIn short order, all of his FTE folks bailed from the company. Every one of them was gone in three weeks. I attended a meeting five days ago with the panel of moronic executives who would take ownership of Sal's projects, of which my company is an integral part. They talked about the horrific tasks they would have us perform, all of them desecrations of our earlier work. No one asked if my company would be staying on. They just assumed. I smiled at their arrogant presumption and enjoyed their mindless buzzword-regurgitation far more than I ordinarily would. And then yesterday, when the last of Sal's folks were gone, I sent mail that I was terminating my company's relationship with their company.

Complete pandemonium ensued. Offers were sweetened. Character was assassinated. Threats were implied.

"I choose who I work for," I replied repeatedly. One would think that this is an unassailable argument, but these are corporate executives. I simply do not understand that their baseless assumptions about my plans are law.

It's been six years since I quit a job, six long years. I forgot how much I enjoy it. I was born for this.

listing badly

I listed my Metamuville house last week, and then I fled it. I crashed in Seattle and visited friends for two days while random sales reps from Confederated Realty Morons showed prospective buyers my digs. When I returned home, I found changes.

Some things were merely annoying. For instance, I purposefully left lights on. Who went around and turned them all off? And if you're going to open a cabinet, please close it.

Some things were appalling. Whoever dropped a deuce in my master bath, you really needed to flush twice.

And some things were psychotic. That same toilet was clogged on next use. When I plunged it, I found a handful of change in the bowl.

And people still ask me why I'm a recluse.

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