Monthly Archives: June 2004


Now, time for the “Corporate Casual Daily News Roundup!”

First off, we have a tie for the Corporate Casual Daily News Roundup Headline of the Day, or the aptly acrosticised CCDNRHOTD.

Court Pours Cold Water on Porn Law
(taken from the Washington Post)

is neck-and-neck with

‘We Want to Fly!’ Cubans Chant
(taken from the Chicago Sun Times)

These are totally excellent headlines, and the headline writers at the aforementioned estimable publications should be commended for their way with words, and human emotion.

The CCDNRAOTD, or Corporate Casual Daily News Roundup Article of the Day is a clear cut winner:

Pizza Deliveryman Loses Fight to Stay in U.S.
(taken from Capital News 9)

“A Pakistani man who lived in New York — and who was detained after taking pictures of a reservoir after 9/11 — has lost his appeal to stay in the U.S.

Immigration and Customs Enforcement authorities said no terror charges were ever filed, but that the man helped a Pakistani couple who had expired visas. He co-signed a lease and registered a car for the couple.

Supporters of Ansar Mahmood said he was just trying to be a good friend. Immigration officials said he chose to break the same law that allowed him to immigrate.

He was arrested after walking up to a guard at a water treatment plant and asking if the guard would take his picture.

Mahmood said he regularly sent scenic Hudson Valley photos — and his earnings — to family overseas.

I’m surprised that the “he was just trying to be a good friend” defense did not work. But more importantly, I really really like the fact that not one mention is even made of this man’s work as a pizza deliveryman, much less which pizza company he delivers for. Way to go, Capitol News 9, for piquing my interest and then deflating it slowly, like the way a balloon deflates when you poke a hole in it and then hold your finger over the hole and only let a little bit of air out at a time.

Finally, the Corporate Casual Daily News Roundup Big Tool of the Day goes to the kid in Florida who turned in his teacher for having sex with him. You are an idiot, my man. She wanted your tiny, hairless bod, she gave you hers, and you turned her in. Maybe you should think about working for Al Qaeda, since clearly having sex with a hot, tattoed older woman in the back of an S.U.V. while your cousin drives you around isn’t satisfying enough, you American-freedom hater. And just so you know, I know that the press isn’t allowed to disclose your name in order to protect your juvenile privacy, but the very real danger is that once all the other fourteen year-old boys in the world find out who you are they are going to kick your fucking ass.

That’s it.
No more news.


On the way to work I pass a whirlyball stadium, which, if you don’t know what whirlyball is, it’s like basketball, except you’re in bumper cars, and instead of carrying a basketball you have those little handled scoop throwers and a whiffle ball, and it is played in a small industrial warehouse in an office park. But basically it’s a pretty simple variation on basketball.

Anyway, so I’m driving by and the parking lot is full. At nine a.m. on a Wednesday morning. Full. Now, there could be a professional whirlyballers convention in town, but my guess is that these cars belong to the employees, which then leads one to the following ruminations:

a) how many employees could it possibly require to run a successful whirlyball stadium?

b) why does a whirlyball stadium need to open for business at nine a.m.?

c) do people really play whirlyball anymore, because the only time I ever played was at Dave Ecklund’s eleventh birthday party in 1900, back when gum cost a nickel and whores were free?

d) how do people who work at a whirlyball stadium afford to own a car?

e) do you think that the employees of the whirlyball stadium have an arrangement with the employees of the local Chi Chi’s by which the whirlyball stadium employees can get free chimichangas and fried ice cream in exchange for letting Team Sombrero play after-hours for as long as they want?

Then I got to work and was like “this is a place of business, not philosophy, so put your questions away and also put your yogurt away, in the fridge, before it gets lumpy.”


Last night I watched this French movie called Irreversible and made the mistake of deciding that ice cream was just what I needed, right before the totally awesome “I guess I do do anal after all” rape scene that is the movie’s selling point.

The movie’s main conceit is that everything happens backwards, so that you see the inevitable chain of events reravelling, so-to-speak. It starts with some lives destroyed and then you figure out how that happened and what they were before, but this also means that while the movie starts with a nauseating tour of chaotic violence, it ends with two people being in love. So the whole thrust of evil in the film is eventually undone, at least somewhat, by this return to the golden days of that afternoon.

Okay, wait, ha ha ha, I forgot…um, right after it sort of ends on this false high note there is a minute long sequence in which the screen just flashes white and black really rapidly with some droning noise in the background so that even if you weren’t epileptic before the movie you become epileptic at the end. True: my cat started crying during this scene. Not true, but almost true: I chewed off my own tongue and choked on it.

Anyhow, if I were the California Raisins, which I am, I would say “Irreversible, check it out!”


There’s a new guy in my office, and I was like “what’s up new guy?” and he’s like “you’ve only been here, like, six weeks,” and I was like “what’s up newer guy? Now go clean the toilets, and you’re on fryer duty for the rest of the week.”

My Brother Has Sex

Last night at dinner, somehow, democrat James Carville’s marriage to Mary Matalin, Republican lobbyist, came up, and while I will admit that it was definitely a strange choice of words on the part of my mother to describe this relationship as “a little incestuous,” which she later had to recant because it’s really not incestuous at all, but the real fucking mind-blower was when my brother took umbrage with my mother’s account and then took it upon himself to come up with an apt description of this unlikely pairing of polar opposites by saying “no, it’s like digging a hole to China and having sex with someone there.”

Dear Brother #3116, what the fuck?
Love, Worker #3116

Anyhow, that stopped the conversation right in its tracks, if you can imagine, because I don’t think anyone in my family had ever heard my brother even say the word “sex”, much less use it in a metaphor as if he knew what he was talking about. This, of course, was the sensationalist’s view, because much more important than my brother’s invocation of sex was his totally incomprehensible use of it in a metaphor that I can only describe as “super duper cuckoo crazy pants.”

This Weekend Was Not a Total Loss

This was a pretty good weekend, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I conceived a child or killed anyone, because I didn’t. Conceiving a child and committing murder are totally necessary ingredients to an awesome weekend, because how can you know how super-cool life truly is until you have simultaneously created and taken life in the same forty-eight hour period? You simply can’t at all, totally can’t.

Meanwhile, George W. Bush sure is a jerk, huh?

One day I went to Home Depot, and that day was Saturday, and Home Depot is cool. There was totally all this stuff, and McCullen and I saw it and were like “man this is so much stuff and you could totally do something with this stuff if you weren’t an idiot, but we are an idiot (collectively) and therefore French louvered doors and massive ten-foot high wooden dowels are like so much worn out kleenex to us. Read: useless.” Then I saw these plastic face-guards and I suggested to McCullen that we get a couple of those and wear them to a party and yell “No kisses” at people, but he was like “why am I going to spend six dollars NOT to kiss anyone?” and I was like “do you even have six dollars?” and then we stopped talking until we were back in the car.

Also, on Sunday morning I woke up and my lower back was killing me and I was like what the fuck, why is my lower back killing me? And then I remembered that I had gotten into at least three fights at the party the night before, and although they were totally gay sucker-punch fights with a bunch of pussies, I apparently lost.

Ha ha ha ha. Like my friend Garfield, I too love lasagna and absolutely HATE Mondays!

An Electronic Message

Taking a cue from Spunk’d, I used my gmail invitations to invite myself to open more gmail accounts. But pretty quickly, the folly of this move was made abundantly clear. It’s like wishing for more wishes, except that with more wishes you could get all the hamburgers in the world on one giant plate, or a personalized answering machine message from The Edge, while in my case I can just continue to not get email from anyone on more than one gmail account.