There are many indicators of success. Some people find personal satisfaction in earning a certain salary, others enjoy holding a professional title, and still others seek fulfillment through the trappings of fame. Perhaps you are an expert in a field, or well-known among avid hobbyists who share your passion, or your home renovations were featured in the human interest section of the local paper.
AND MAYBE YOUR ON-LINE DIARY IS THE SECOND SITE TO APPEAR IN A GOOGLE SEARCH FOR “PARFUMS DE COEUR BOD,” SECOND ONLY TO HTTP://WWW.PARFUMSDECOEUR.COM!
You know in the movies when some evil businessman is trying to take over the old family store by slick-palming the founder’s son and trying to convince him that he’d be better off using his family’s wealth to enjoy some sun and sand, rather than mucking around with the old work mules? Meanwhile, when the heir-apparent is out of the room, the evil business man is wreaking cruelly worded havoc on all of the company’s tried and true, the ones who were personally picked out by the founder himself? And then at the very end of the movie the evil businessman comes to the board meeting expecting to be handed the cash factory on a silver platter, but instead he sees some lowly secretary sitting in his chair, and he’s like, “Didn’t I fire you?” And then the founder’s son, who is on speaker-phone, explains that he has used his family’s wealth not to travel, but to repurchase the controlling shares in the company, and he has appointed the lowly previously fired secretary to the position of CEO?
I would like someday to be in the position of that evil businessman. Not the whole getting-replaced-in-a-surprise-coup-by-some-snot-nosed-trust-fund-baby-and-a-whore-of-a-secretary-that-everyone-knows-has-slept-with-half-of-the-finance-department-and-who-spends-all-her-time-making-personal-calls-and-reading-daily-candy thing, but because I want not only the power to fire people, but to abuse that power in such a way that I can never be sure whether or not I used it on you, and I am forced to ask.
“Superficial stuff turns you off more than usual, and you want to see down to the core of everything and everyone around you. It’s time for you to strip away the layers of illusion.”
No, it’s time for you to strip away the layers of illusion.
Slower…slower….I want to see down to the core, but not all at once. TEASE ME.
“The Berenstain Bears hail from the mythical land of Bear Country and for more than a generation have helped children just shy of reading age glimpse the connection between stories and pictures, both of which the human Berenstains amply provided. As children matured, the books became wordier, although the couple, both trained as artists, hardly stinted on pictures of cuddly bears riding bicycles, stealing watermelons, having bad days and debating the existence of God.”
“Papa Bear’s bumbling incompetence, compared with Mama Bear’s warm, wise effectiveness, has spawned particular ire.”
(New York Times, emphasis added)
So…the bears can’t afford a car…they love watermelon…they have bad days…and they’re not really sure if they can justify the existence of a Superior Being in the face of so much misery? And the dad is an incompetent in overalls? And the mom is a wide, wise matron? And ain’t nobody got no shoes?
This is not the pot calling the kettle black, this is the pot calling the recently deceased kettle out on his bizarre bearification of black stereotypes.
R.I.P. Mr. Berenstain. Enjoy all the celestial honey you can eat in the Bear Country in the sky.
Clown Coffee and I have a fun game we like to play. We take snippets of my President’s speeches and/or responses to questions from the White House press pool, and we try to formulate the question that he seems to be answering that was obviously never asked.
Here are a few examples:
[Question that was never asked: Mr. President, is it hard work?]
“It’s hard work.”
–President George W. Bush
[Question that was never asked: Mr. President, should the American people be worried that (Republican Arizona Senator Jon Kyl) is the kind of fellow who might do something that would make them ashamed?]
“You don’t have to worry about him not telling the truth or doing something that would make you ashamed. He’s not that kind of fellow”
–President George W. Bush
[Question that was never asked: Mr. President, how often do you think about Iraq? And I have a follow up.]
“I think about Iraq every day.”
–President George W. Bush
[Follow-up question that was never asked: Every day?]
“Every single day.”
–President George W. Bush
I just took an on-line Meyers-Briggs personality test. I was hoping it would tell me what to do with my life, and in particular was hoping it would suggest either werewolf or vampire, as those seem like pretty good ways to meet people, feed, and cheat death. Anyway, the whole “trying to put my life in order” thing didn’t really pan out because the results didn’t give me even a hint as to what use I could possibly be put towards. But my results did attribute the following phrase to my “type.”
TRADEMARK: — “I’m really sorry you have to die.”
So, you know, the thing fucking works.
I was going to just leave it at the headline. Look at the headline again.
I said look at it again, I will wait.
You really don’t need any kind of embellishment. That pearl of journalistic prose says it all. But then I saw THIS!:
“Standard-sized needles failed to reach the buttock muscle in 23 out of 25 women whose rears were examined after what was supposed to be an intramuscular injection of a drug.”
23 OUT OF 25? Women, you are getting so fat it makes me SICK!! And after all of the work I have been doing to make you uncomfortable in your own body, were you even listening?! Yes, the bigger the cushion the better the pushin, but I don’t want to sit around and stare at my cushions all day. They’re ugly! They’re fat ugly blobs! Like your ugly butt that can’t get its medicine! And don’t tell me that there is more of you to love, either. If you lost that weight we talked about there would still be plenty. Believe me. More than enough. Still even a little bit too much but what am I going to do? Cut it out of you myself?
I did have a dream last night that I was on a date with a fat girl and dreameveryone was like, “Worker #3116, she’s kind of fat,” and dreamme was like, “I know, I didn’t have my glasses on when I met her.” And her fatness kept going in and out of focus in the dream because I still didn’t have my glasses on and she would move in and out of my natural seeing range, and then there was this long moral quandary where dreamme was trying to figure out how to let her down easy because she was really nice, and then also how to justify sleeping with her just one time and then letting her down easy because she was really nice.
Then I woke up, strangely alone.
When you schedule a meeting for 11, I expect that meeting to begin at 11. Maybe 11:03. I will give you three minutes to gather the necessary people and begin the meeting. Do not have me come to the meeting and wait for ten minutes. Not just because I could be reading the internet, but also because what happens in those ten minutes is horrible. I don’t want to sit in a windowless room with you while you drink Diet Coke and talk about babies you are going to have, babies you don’t have, babies other people you know have, babies previous co-workers had, the cost of maintaining a baby in general, and cetra. This sucks for me, and it makes me hate you, and the thing that is inside you.
I wake up relatively early, at least compared to the majority of my aimless alcoholic peers, but this morning when I went downstairs to make my morning meal I espied through the window two people not only up, but dressed (in a fashion). They were those kinds of people who run. YUCK. GO TO BED, CRAPS. If you are up that early, and outside, you should either be homeless or working as a donut delivery driver. God, I fucking hate running. And I hate people who run. Stop. Do you know why running was invented? To get away from wild beasts. And you know what else I hate? When people complain about running in a designated run-zone, like on a track at the gym or on an elliptical trainer. They always say that they hate organized (i.e. civilized) running because “it is boring.” I’m not arguing that an elliptical trainer should be renamed the runland funmachine, but what is so fascinating about running outside, in your own neighborhood? In the dark? And the cold? Unless you are somehow magically transported to the land of your favorite tv shows where you get to take part in the action, this looks so boring. And dark. And cold.
Then I got downstairs and found that one of my William Sonoma mixing bowls had been shattered in the night. Not only had it been shattered, but the big shattered piece still lay on the ground, while the rest of the bowl sat nestled inside of another bowl on the counter. These are heavy-duty plastic, so after the anger subsided came the fascination. I just don’t even know how you would go about breaking this bowl without some effort. Anyhow, I came in and told Clown Coffee about this bowl incident, and just like the chicken incident, he had to play roommate-horror-story one-up-manship. And, just like last time, he easily defeated my bowl story with the story of his friend who lived with three chicas who loved to party, only to come home one day and find that they were BURNING HER FURNITURE IN THE FIREPLACE.
2 points: Clown Coffee
0 points: Worker #3116
-1 points: My William Sonoma Mixing Bowl