Monthly Archives: April 2004

Worthwhile? No.

I totally let out the biggest, loudest fart in karate class this afternoon. But when my fist smashed through those 17,000 cement blocks, all I could smell was VICTORY!

ALSO:

I have a feeling that sometime in the future, when I look back on these days of unemployment, I’m going to think Maybe it wasn’t such a great use of time, playing all that Final Fantasy X. But for now, the pursuit of the red amulet and the staff of wisdom is drowning out those concerns in waves of spectacular fantasy!

Putting Shit in Perspective

Being unemployed, writing in this diary is totally not lucrative at all. Why do for free what you could not do for free? There are a lot of things that I can do for absolutely no pay at all, and writing in my gay diary is not at the top of the list.

Anyhow, let me tell you this fact: not working is totally fucking awesome. It is not, however, very interesting. Today, for example, my alarm went off at nine. Did I get up at nine, ready to take the bit in the teeth and kick the shit out of this day? Absofuckingnotly. I went right back to sleep, a-holes. Then I ate three donuts and two eggs. By the time I return to the ranks of the gainfully employed I hope to have gainfully employed three hundred pounds.

Ask me how many times I have played playstation 2 since I have stopped working? Only once, motherfuckers, once because THE VIDEO GAMES NEVER STOP!

I don’t listen to NPR or read the NewsPapeR anymore because current events are for fags! I did glance at the headlines in the New York Times long enough to give you the Corporate Casual Headline of the Week. It was the tagline for a review of the new Denzel Washington–greatest blactor ever, according to the Academy–and it said “There Is a Price to Pay For Kidnapping Little Girls.” Judging by the previews, the price involves Mexico City and fire.

In the time it has taken you to read this post, someone has died.

Corporate Casual Midget

Earlier today I tried to download pages from this diary into some kind of text file. So the program said it was downloading, but then I couldn’t find anything on my computer. I did a search of “livejournal” and then a search of “corporate” and found an old word document titled “Corporate Casual Midget”. I opened the document and this is what I found:

On the street Maston saw a little midget walking with his normal sized friend. The little midget was wearing a tan, button-down shirt and dark gray wool pants. Corporate casual midget, Maston thought to himself. Look at that little corporate casual midget there, he thought. Boy. People in bad movies, or old copies of Mad magazine, theyâ??d see a giant standing next to them and ask Howâ??s the weather up there, and think themselves very funny. But Maston wanted to know about the weather down there, and didnâ??t think it was very funny at all. Could you smell different things at crotch level? You thought like an adult but saw through the eyes of a child. Even if Maston got down on his knees, he could never think anything other than Iâ??m on my knees here, this is what things look like when Iâ??m on my knees. And he could never move with any particular agility like that, no one could. Knee walking is hard and not much fun. A midget could cut through that half space like a wire through cheese, a short, well dressed wire.

How cheap it would be to drink as a corporate casual midget, Maston thought to himself. One drink and youâ??d practically be smashed, I bet. Oh, the life of the corporate casual midget, the darling of your co-workers. Everybody would say Hey there guy, howâ??s things for the Little Big Man? But how hard he must have worked to get that job, Maston realized, what a struggle it must be. Imagine sitting through a job interview, as smart as the next guy, as professional a demeanor, as snappily dressed, but youâ??re a midget and the other guy is totally regular sized. He might even be a bit dumber than you, because you worked your ass off in college, being a midget and all. But the drinks, Maston couldnâ??t get over the idea of being drunk every night for a couple of bucks. He himself was up to five, six drinks. Thirty dollars plus at the bar, and still at least nine or ten if he drank beers at home.

Oh corporate casual midget. Ha ha. You are so tiny!

A Reference Lost on Everyone

In the G-Unit song, My Buddy, 50 Cents raps the chorus:

“My buddy, my buddy, wherever I go, he go.”

This obviously references the popular, overalls-wearing doll made by Hasbro in the mid-eighties. I feel pretty sure that very few G-Unit fans remember this doll, as most of them are adolescent suburban white kids, but 50 Cents is certainly showing his age. This reference also makes me wonder about Mr. Cents’s creative process. I’m very much looking forward to the new G-Unit album featuring Teddy Ruxpin Is A Baller and Poppin’ Bitches With My Popples.

Love,
Unemployee #3116

Adieu, Fuckwads!

Today is my last day in this office, so it’s goodbye to Lambchop, Left Eye, Shaft’s Cousin, Prince Akeem, Gramms, Crazy Aunt, Phylicia Rashad, and Onion Ring.

Prince Akeem came by my desk with this really nice “thinking man” statue from Ghana. He is from Ghana and he just took a trip there. “This is for you,” he said. I was very surprised and thought that it was sort of an over-the-top gesture considering that Prince Akeem and I have not really spoken that much in the entire eight months that I’ve been here. “Actually, I give it to Onion Ring, but she say I have to give it to you, and she the manager, so she call everyone in her office and you were not around or something I don’t know.”

WOW! Thanks, Prince Akeem. I will cherish this regift always. It was very thoughtful of Onion Ring to tell you to give it to me, and even more thoughtful of you to tell me how she made you do so!

I fucking hate this place. And as nice as this “thinking man” statue is, it is clearly a cursed object as it will forever remind me of my work here. I’m sure that at some point this summer I will be drunk and the statue will be on fire.

In related news, I fucking hate this place.

I Will Give You $100 Dollars to Kill Yourself

Rarely does Falluja make it into the Corporate Casual Headline of the Day, and today’s winner is no exception:

“Son to Hitman: ‘Kill Mom, Don’t Hurt the TV”
(cnn.com)

Usually, I think that parents are being kind of awful when they talk about how ungrateful their children are, but this woman may have a pretty strong argument to back up such a claim.

“Tipped by an informant that Chereza had offered to pay to have his mother killed, an undercover detective posed as someone willing to do the job, Fort Myers police said.

Chereza offered the detective $2,000 that he expected to inherit from his mother’s bank account, and gave him the keys to the family apartment, a map of the apartment and a picture of his mother, the police report said. He asked that the shooting be made to look like a burglary, it said.

‘Carlos stated that he didn’t want anything to happen to the television,’ the detective wrote in the arrest report.”

First of all, this kid should have known he was being set-up. $2000 dollars is a very cheap hit, especially when you are trying to pay using the victim’s own money. I’m not sure there is a single hitman on the planet who’s like “well, so you really can’t pay until after the hit? Not even half? (whistle) Two grand is a helluva lotta money, I guess it’s a risk I just have to take!” Also, if you have to ask that the shooting look like a burglary, you’re probably not dealing with a professional. More importantly, though, let’s look at all the facts:

1. “Please make it look like a burglary.”
2. “Please do not let anything happen to the television.”
3. “Upon completion of the task I will give you my entire inheritance: $2000.”

Now, WHAT, may I ask you, was this hitman supposed to burgle? A box of Bugles and old issues of Hawk magazine?

Speaking of Hawk magazine, any skinmag that publishes a picture of a girl sitting spread-eagle on the floor, eating a can of beans with a plastic fork, is the kind of skinmag that makes me want to rub one out.

And It’s Hard to Hold a Candle…

I used to go to a summer camp in Chicago, and the year before I entered high school I had a camp girlfriend. Our song was “November Rain”, and she wore daisy dukes every single day. She was so hot. When was the last time you dated a girl who wore daisy dukes every day and just couldn’t get enough Gn’R? Never, you fucking lonely ass nerds.

On my last night in Chicago we were very sad because we were going to have to break up. It was hot…crying and making out is very very hot! Her dad dropped me off at my dad’s apartment in his little Volkswagon and was like “um…well…I guess this is goodbye…” you know, trying to be the cool dad to his daisy-dukes-wearing-Gn’R-listening-gum-chewing daughter’s boyfriend. “Here you go, consider this a going-away present.” And he handed me a giant kosher salami. I fuck you not at all. I was weirded out and kind of embarrassed, so I hid it in my backpack. Later that night, not knowing what to do but knowing that I didn’t want my dad to find a kosher salami in the garbage and ask me about it and me having to tell anyone that my girlfriend’s dad gave me a kosher salami that he had in the back of his hatchback, I just threw it in the closet.

It is still there.

John F. Kerry: Politician. Fool.

Sometimes my mom tries to be cool, so she’ll buy a hat like Six used to wear on Blossom, or refer to a new grocery store as “da bomb”. It does not make her cooler, but it definitely makes expressions like “da bomb” less cool.

The effect is similar when politicians try to appeal to young people. They played a bit of a John Kerry speech, which he was giving to students on a college campus somewhere, on the radio. “There’s a lot of energy in this room,” the democratic candidate for President said. “I can feel it. It reminds me of when I was in college. You know, living up here, pizza or whatever. Wooo.” Did you hear all of that in a flat mortician’s voice? Because that’s how it was delivered, even the exclamatory “wooo”. And “pizza or whatever”? Pizza…or whatever…Don’t get my boner up so quickly, Mr. Kerry, I want to make it through your whole speech.

Oh, and did I mention that before John Kerry got up to speak, the crowd might have gotten a bit of a warm-up from the musical band known as Guster.

Guster.

The Kerry campaign has it’s fingers firmly on the pulse of something, but I’m not sure what, and I don’t think it’s anything kids like.

Vomit Tastes Better Than This

The office smells like someone took a poop on the carpet and someone else stepped in the poop and then took the long way back to their office and then forgot they had to make a copy and took the long way to the copy room and then decided to get a cup of coffee and then went to the kitchenette for some cream and then all the way to the other side of the building to visit a friend and then back. Meanwhile, as this person tracks poop everywhere, their chimichanga lunch is repeating on them and they begin to fart diarrhea smelling farts and burping bean and salsa burps.

Incidentally, it has smelled this way for months, MONTHS. But for some reason, the geniuses for whom I work have only just discovered it, and somehow their discovery is making it worse. It’s like they’re opening doors unto dimensions that should never be opened. I don’t know what they’re doing, they’re certainly not making it any better, and I wish they would stop. It used to be I’d only smell the foulest of sewer odors when I walked down the hall towards the bathroom. Since yesterday’s discovery, I now smell it at my desk. Moreover, everyone talks about the smell but their conversations sound like this:

Worker #1: Have you smelled that, in the hallway?
Worker #2: It’s awful.
Worker #1: I don’t know where it’s coming from.
Worker #2: Me neither.
Worker #3: It smells like brussels sprouts.
Worker #2: Or stuff rotting in a refrigerator.
Worker #1: It’s awful.
Worker #2: I don’t like the way it smells.
Worker #3: It smells bad.

Imagine this conversation repeated over and over again with minimal variation all day long while you endlessly hit the refresh button on your Yahoo e-mail account and the air fills with the pungent odor of cooking diapers.