Reasons NOT to join Match.com if you’re a woman

Meet Brad:

Match.com profile #1:

“Hi, I’m Brad. I’m a successful executive in the gaming industry.  Not only do I DESIGN the games for virtual online playing, I also market them all over the world!  I am into my health, I’m hygienic, and I believe in the sanctity of the body. I am looking for a woman who is sure of herself, believes in her own inner beauty, has a plan for the future, and is looking for a one on one relationship with a quality human being.  I love dogs, children and living life in general.  If this is you, I want to meet you as soon as possible!  All beautiful women of every size and shape are welcome to reply – I love them all!”

MISmatch.com #1 profile reality:

“My name really is Brad, I’m 26, and I live in my Grandmother’s basement.  I am into playstation 3 games, and I play them ALL day, while I’m telling that old bitch I’m online looking for a pizza delivery job.  I only WISH I had the talent to design the new arrivals, like Call of Duty, but SHIT! I can’t even spell my last name!  In fact, I don’t really even know what my last  name is. My Grandma justs keeps referring to my father as that “transvestite bastard”, and tells me…Carla, SHUT UP and quit asking questions!.  Anyway, I’m healthy enough to sack away a dozen donuts every morning and I even remember to take a shower once in awhile.  I am looking for a woman – ANY WOMAN – to get with me so we can “go steady”  I don’t have much experience in the intimacy department- except for that time with my grandmother’s poodle Coco, but then he ran away. (Kids don’t like for some reason, but I can’t put my finger on it!) Please, ANYONE! Call me! as you can see I LOVE breasts and have my own! So, even if yours aren’t so great, we can kill time playing with mine!  Hope to hear from you soon!

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A brief commentary on some search words that brought HERPES visitors to my blog

My search engine terms from today 6/23/10

I  want to make just a brief commentary on some of the search terms that people are using  that subsequently land them on my blog. I think they all tie into our nations new obsession – and yes, crazy love – with herpes.  Here are my favorites as I see them:

GENITAL HERPES IN WOMEN – Now, I don’t know if this is a female person who truly wants to find out about her predicament – or if this is a person who’s LOOKING for a female with genital herpes. And, I really don’t want to think about it beyond this mention.

BLACK ASS – At first glance, this key word item looks like someone was looking for a porn site, and ended up here by mistake.  But upon closer reflection, I’m wondering if the BLACK ASS isn’t a result of a combination of the above terms .

MATH PROBLEM:

Genital herpes + pubic lice + genital herpes in women +  pubic crabs = BLACK ASS (What do you think?)

Now MILD GENITAL HERPES is certainly a more optimistic search term than just GENITAL SORES, isn’t it? Could you imagine the “love connection” dating site intro:

Hi, My name is Tina. I  have herpes, HOWEVER, I would just like to say it’s MILD genital herpes. I swear, it’s SO light, you won’t even notice.  How about giving me a try? I will send pictures upon request.  I’m just itching to meet you! Toodles!

Now, maybe Tina should  hook up with the person looking for WOMEN HERPES GENITAL PICTURE because this person really seems interested in seeing them – I mean, he or she, went to all the trouble to hunt them down, right? But I don’t get what GENITAL HERPES PICTURES ON WOMEN means, do you? The closest thing I can come up with is that it’s one of the “niche fetishes”, where a secret click of horny men – or women – want to glue GENITAL HERPES PICTURES on a woman, and masturbate to them. But do they want the picture wearer to be WITH or  WITHOUT clothes?

GENITAL HERPES ON FACE? OK, Tina isn’t that pathethic, there’s actually someone out there who is broken out with STD ACNE! And it’s probably NOT mild. In fact, she – or he – is probably also dealing with PUBIC FAT. Now THERE is a person who will be living with Mom and Dad for a few years out of high school.

And, what about GENITAL UCUK? Do Russian people have this obsession with the itchy vaginal netherworld too?

Is South Park and it’s gone, some poor infected asshole’s (pun? perhaps) way of trying to use that “Wizard of Oz” move?   You know – click 3 times and say “there’s no place like home” and then voila! You’re home again. So maybe this guy watches episodes of South Park – naked from the waist down – then, as soon as the credits start rolling, closes his eyes, says “abracadabra, and it’s gone!” – and then peeks hopefully at the offending critter infested parts below. But we all know what happens, don’t we?  For all his optimistic enthusiasm, what he sees when he opens his eyes is that – ALAS  it’s NOT gone.

And my favorite (near the end) – Someone in cyber land is interested in fucking an UGLY VAGINA with a VINTAGE DILDO.  However it appears they’re having trouble finding the real thing, because they’re actually thinking of using an old Aunt Jemima bottle.  But FIRST, they want to know OLD AUNT JEMIMA BOTTLES VALUE before they stupidly commit to that “ugly vagina” and end up ruining an irreplaceable antique on a bad piece of poon tang!

Worn out Shoe Strings

This picture is ALMOST the spitting image of  HER – the bag lady we call Shoe Strings. The reason I say almost, is because when my computer crashed I lost my photo imaging program that I was getting really good at in photochopping normal pictures into what I wanted to show you – however,  now I have a newfangled one with all the doodads and I’m frigging lost. Oh well,  just use your imagination…

Back to Shoe Strings. When you look at this picture just imagine her squatter, blacker, bent over like a paranthesis. Grumbling as she skitters, always with  an “up yours” attitude as she slowly wheels her cart to  your front porch. A cart that is filled with either A. the flashlight that went missing from your garage last week, B. The neighbor’s weed wacker that you asked to borrow a couple of days ago – and you didn’t believe him when he said he couldn’t find it, you thought he just didn’t want to loan it to you, or C: Some type of confused rodent she’s trying to pull off as a prize cat at a bargain price. And she comes by EVERY night. ….Ever since you  gave her a dollar and a ride to the Quik Mart, well… you’re her golden goose.

The story of Shoe Strings has been going on since back in September, when Todd saw something in the window at 3 a.m. and went to investigate. What he saw was a pair of “shoe strings” hanging down from the window at crotch level.  It was crotch level because whatever arthritis Shoe Strings has causes her to stay bent at an angle – and our front window is just perfect for her to look into, and scare the bejesus out of whoever’s at the computer.  Her name is Shoe Strings because the first thing we ever laid eyes on was two dirty shoe strings in the window – that of course, turned out to be two dirty hoody strings dangling from her sweat jacket.  But hell, Shoe Strings stuck. My nickname of course – besides, it sounds so much better than “hoody strings”.

Anyway, Shoe Strings has kind of adopted us as her “benefactors” – and I will say she is quite the character. Sometimes, when I’m done researching, writing, and getting my SEO articles back under the deadline, and I can relax, I find her show up visits down right entertaining. But other times – like when I’m going over a bill that shows my car insurance is doubled, or I’m in the middle of trying to figure out just how the hell a 650 square foot apartment can elicit a PG&E bill of $240.oo per month – and she comes knocking on the window, calling “Hey DAD!” (That’s what she calls Todd), those times I don’t feel quite so kindly towards her – and I’ll tell you why.

Shoe Strings is a hustler. She doesn’t give up till she gets what she wants. And, God Love her – I know in her own “streetwise” way she considers Todd and I friends – and vice versa – but we ALL know that when Shoe Strings comes by, she’s not going to be leaving until she’s either sold us something we thought we got rid of at a garage sale the week before,  she’s weaseled us out of our last dollar OR, she talks Todd into taking her somewhere by car.  And just to make sure that WE know she’s marked us as her territory, she leaves one of her two stolen Rite Aide shopping carts on our porch like a calling card, so she has an excuse to return with more things we don’t need.

Now, I love Todd with all my heart. There’s pretty much nothing I  wouldn’t do for him, except for THIS. Todd brought the saga of Shoe Strings upon us all by himself. ALL BY HIMSELF. One night, he was feeling good, was in a great mood, and HE OPENED THE DOOR AND welcomed Shoe Strings into our lives by paying her an unheard of hustler dream street price of  $15 for a stolen lawnmower – and our fate was sealed. Our fate was sealed that night he invited her into our driveway – let her invade our privacy.  Now she’s here forever, or at least for as long as we live here. That having been said – every night as I hear the creak of that stolen cart’s wheel slipping over the potholes in our street, I look at Todd pointedly, and start packing up my things.

This is the one time it doesn’t work on my heart when Todd starts feeling sorry for himself…Too bad!   Or, when he bats those incredibly long lashes and looks at me like, “Aren’t you going to fix this, Honey?”  No. I’m. Not.  So, I smile, grab my wine,  and my smokes – do a Mission Impossible tumble slide past the window if need be so I remain undetected by her eagle eye.. and say out loud – NOPE!  Whoever smelt it dealt it! Have fun.

Even though I love him, this is ALL him. He did it to himself. He finally got enough Shoe String to hang himself with.

I wonder if this has actually happened?

Here’s a story for you.  But I promise  –  it’s short.  And to the point.

There was a  vietnamese woman who had a great-grandfather she loved very much.  His name was  PHUC NYONAGNA.

When she grew up, she went against her culture, and married the man she loved – a Sheik, no less! 

 Sheik Alibadoubadah Yousef.  

 They had a child. A boy.  The Vietnamese woman gave him the first name of her beloved great-grandfather – Phuc.  And the boy’s last name was Yousef – after his Daddy, the Sheik.

 So all his life – from birth until he died at the age of 103.  This man was known as PHUC Yousef.

What a drag…

The spector of Phil continues on…

         

I find I HAVE to revisit a new favorite – the man who was the inspiration behind my photochop creation the SLUGGY    –  Mr.  Phil Spector.          

        

You must have heard of Mr. Spector by now, but I’ll break it down for you anyway.          

Phil  was a talented and quirky record producer – a 1960’s music legend. The originator of the “the wall of sound” production technique and a songwriter, Phil was also responsible for the success of some talented musicians who are still working today.   This quirky genius was also married to  Ronnie Spector, lead singer of the 1960’s girl group,  The Ronettes.  Ronnie was apparently terrified of her husband and stated as much in a book she wrote about her life.             

And it turns out that Phil was to get even “quirkier” over the next few decades, and in 2007 gave in to homicidal urges when he killed an actress in his Malibu home  – for what?  Well I suspect it may have been the crime of  laughing at whatever ridiculous doo he was sporting at the time he was trying to get her in his sheets.   But old Phil told the cops her death was an accident – in fact, he actually stated that the actress “slipped and kissed” the gun she was shot with, while in his bedroom.   So, do I say this to justify my need to photochop and bag on yet another defenseless pyscho?  Well of course I do. Look at  him! He obviously deserves it.     

As you may notice from the above picture  – Phil’s  ‘doos have changed over the years, yet he’s never swerved from looking extremely creepy. Personally, I think he looks a lot like actor Beverly Archer of “Mama’s Family” fame.  Ms. Archer was awesome as skinny, nervous next door neighbor Iola Boylen.  I watched that show faithfully into reruns – it was hysterical for its time!     Here’s a promo of the Mama’s Family crew in the 80’s.  Beverly Archer is the one sitting on the bottom left.  (The gal in the pink gingham dress who looks like she’s seriously regretting her decision to forgoe her usual  “OOPS I crapped my pants” adult briefs in honor of  picture day.  Well hell – who can blame her?  They probably bulked up under her pantyhose and made her dress puff out all unfeminine-like)       

         

Anyway, I really notice a resemblance to Phil Spector in her face.  Especially in this next photo taken at the end of their last season:         

        

          

And just look at this next picture of him with his latest ‘doo – how could ANYONE NOT  be rivited to THAT HAIR?        

           

It looks like he’s either wearing a Dollar Tree bath scrubby on his head or some really hairy woman left her hooha velcroed to his dome during the performance of some unnatural act.    And I do have one more theory regarding Phil and that particular hair “don’t”, but I should stop right now.  To continue writing in detail my thoughts on the mind of Phil S. would only serve to pervert and taint a beloved childhood memory, so familiar to us all.  I really shouldn’t spoil it for the yet unborn.     

But because I’m “inappropriate like that” I’ll do it anyway. Behold…    

Children make a wish and BLOW on the head of dandelion...

  

       Ok, try not to think about that sweet caption you just read when you view this next pictoral portion of my theory about Phil’s hair.  Ready?  Ok.       

Phil has always wanted to be just like a dandelion...!

  

Here is my theory:  Now that old age, decaying brain cells and the psychotic tendencies have come to fruition, Phil is finally taking his dandelion desire public.  I know, I know – innocent kids blowing dandelions was probably a horrible set up.  And I agree, Phil Spector is even grosser than “HEY!” child molester-rocker Gary Glitter for a number of reasons. But anti-taboo blogging is my forte…so how could I not?  And face it – the mere thought of witnessing an evil “dandelion-troll” as he throws eyeball daggers at the world from a courtroom in which he is being tried for murder, well…it’s more than funny to me.          

So, because Phil has done me the solid of making me laugh my ass off with his different ‘doos and his very persona,  I now present to you a photoshop exclusive!  A tribute to Phil and his quest to be a dandelion. And I must warn you – this is serious art and is meant to be sold at an auction and placed upon the wall of the gentry. Behold! An object d’art  – created  with an illegally used photo or two, and my fine chopping abilities applied at just the right time, of course.         

Note that I attempted to paint Phil in a softer, more humane light…       

        

Instead, I’m fairly positive that I’ve created a piece of art so horrific that one  shudders at the mere thought of inheriting it from an elderly relative one day. For starters, where would one hang such a monstrosity? and for what reason would you want to assault the eyes of innocent people who visit your home?  what reason indeed…Hmmm.  I’ve got it!   

My soon- to- be famous immortalization of  Phil/Dandelion could be utilized as the worst punishment a child could imagine.  The portrait would be placed INSIDE the child’s bedroom – in fact, hanging on his bedroom door as recompense for whatever the child has done.  Think of the years you could save having to deal with a spoiled brat.   

You simply force the child to his room and lock him in for the night – with the painting – and let Phil do the rest of the work.  After a night of being glared down at from a crazy human dandelion from hell, a former holy terror is now sincerely remorseful and has changed over night into an angel of helpfulness to his parents!    

The only downside is for the rest of their lives, whenever a dandelion happens to be in their range of vision, all that little Johnny or Suzy will be able to see is that ugly troll with his huge head of wiry brown pubic hair glaring at them satanically in their traumatized minds.     

 That’s so cruel, isn’t it?   But why stop there?   Why not put a permanent stop to the annual “I want…..”  Christmas list whine-fest expense that always hits you painfully in the ass like you’re being buggered for the first time by Rudolph himself.  Go ahead and be creative – ruin Christmas for the ungrateful turds too.  Phil will be happy to help – with a nice christmas rememberance just for the kiddies, like this:        

 (I know it’s lame but there’s something about the bow on the top of his pubes that always makes me smile….)

Some alternatives to Twitter…

I’m on Twitter and it’s kinda fun.  It’s a unique social venue –  and it IS cool the times i’m surprised by someone’s written reply to a “random inside voice” comment  I barely remember thinking – let alone remember updating my status with.  And the way the website is arranged, I always feel like I’m hundreds of feet above land when I access it. But these novelties aside, I think the Twitter idea could be improved upon.

1. The Twitter general population has grown to such a mass that it often shuts down from communication overload.

2. My “followers” list goes up and down daily.  Before I found out that Twitter will remove spammers from your list automatically, I thought that one by one the people on my list had clicked on my Herpes posts and had abandoned me – disgusted by what they read. (That also led me to believe that most of my followers must have their own personal STD to get so riled over a humor post.)

 

So my solution is simple. Since there are so many people on Twitter and they come from so many different backgrounds – it would be a good idea to create some spin-offs to Twitter. And each spin-off would cater to a select group of people and their lifestyles.

Here are two prototypes for your consideration: (don’t forget to click on the picture for a much bigger view:)

For the people who like to play with doody, and for those who can’t stop leaving logs in their pants there’s Shitter.com.

twitform1    

And for the STD crowd with their many different personalities, likes and afflictions, its all good.  We just band them together, come one itch come all, and give them a hopping good time with their own site – Critter.com.

critterAA

See now we solve two problems.  The followers can pick scads of people to follow based on their interests and tastes, and Twitter won’t crash with an overload the next time Michael Jackson dies…

Revenge of the Pac Man monsters…

Wednesday 8 A.M. to 8:15 A.m. – the  pac-man monsters arrive for work.

 

ASSPACCHOM

later that morning the “pacmen” roll in. to find out they’re covering for the monsters today – who are all out sick…

“piece of cake”!!

 

(Well..cake most likely did play a role in it – but i think it was more than a piece…)

pacscream23

Trailer Magik!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wouldn’t this be a COOL storm?

 

 

Are You alive?

Remember that song Born to Be Alive?

Back in ..whenever it first came out – I thought it was the lamest song I’d ever heard. Here we had a stupid looking guy (I think he may actually be Mr. Bean – but a younger one – with an 80’s perm)  

He  didn’t even appear to know or care, that he was stupid looking. And his song was just a bunch of obsessive compulsive dribble he repeated over and over and over like a retard with a lobotomy. And as far as 2 am shut the bar down extended tunes went? Forget it! I wouldn’t have danced the last dance to THAT crap if David Lee Roth had suddenly appeared by my side and begged me to. I put that song down to another example of a lapse in reality via disco, and forgot about it.

Then while watching National Lampoon’s Las Vegas Vacation, I heard it again in one of the first scenes in the movie – and it called to me like a siren song.  I was so struck by it this time that i almost missed the hilarity of Chevy Chases daughter getting stuck in the moon roof of the car when Chevy closes the window on her mid section in his scattered way.  Such was my sudden obsession with that song.  It was like it was my time to look beyond Mr. Bean with a Perm – really listen to his message.  So today I share this with you.

Now’s that time to please click on the video, if you will –  and read along with the lyrics.   Which first appear to be a waste of words that contain no depth whatsoever, I know.  But read them again..and ask yourself if they make sense to you, wherever you are in your life, and  in your head right now.    And see, if like the elusive Popes in da Pizzas, you can find the wisdom on his face – which at first makes him look like a dick, and ellicits an urge to slap  him hard for attempting “smartass chic”  while wearing an utterly ridiculous suit):

BORN TO BE ALIVE

WE WERE BORN TO BE, ALIVE WE WERE BORN TO BE, ALIVE
BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE (BORN TO BE ALIVE)
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE
PEOPLE ASK ME WHY I NEVER FIND A PLACE TO STOP AND SETTLE
DOWN DOWN DOWN
BUT I NEVER WANTED ALL THE THINGS THAT PEOPLE NEED TO FIND THEIR
LIVES LIVES LIVES
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE (BORN TO BE ALIVE)
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN
IT’S GOOD TO BE ALIVE, TO BE ALIVE, TO BE ALIVE
IT’S GOOD TO BE ALIVE, TO BE ALIVE, TO BE ALIVE
IT’S GOOD TO BE ALIVE
TIMES WAS ON MY SIDE WHEN I RUNNIN’ IN THE STREET IT WAS THE
BY BY BY
A SUITCASE AND AN OLD GUITAR AND SOMETHING NEW TO OCCUPY MY
MIND MIND MIND
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE (BORN TO BE ALIVE)
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE (BORN TO BE ALIVE) BORN TO BE ALIVE

OK this particular sensei will NEVER be sexy, I admit.  But still his statement is a strong one. I wonder how many people out there can answer that question honestly – or if they even think of it as  they go along their ever-deadening path from the job to home and back.  I’m aware there’s a lot of us who wont’ even admit to the existance of anything we think is out of  reach in our lives.

And what does our hippy Mr. Bean mean by being “born to be alive” anyway? 

This is where you have to look beyond the one dimensional ordinary world visible to our eyes, and part the veil to find what’s been hidden from us..but not hidden, most of our lives ….and look for it.  Seek and ye shall find – I promise.  And some of you already know what I mean by this.  Some of you know that to BE ALIVE means to immerse yourself in anything that makes your heart beat faster, your blood run quicker, makes you laugh out loud in delight…like you did as a child…when you instinctively knew you were born to be alive – and to hell what everyone else thinks. Want some examples? Ok.

Like …….taking whatever your mind has created as a icon of a true expression of yourself – (be it the elegant or raw and left-field) and throwing it out there – knowing it may drown without anyone ever knowing it was there – but you.   And not expecting anything to wash up your beach looking for a home, except for maybe some garbage.  But then all of a sudden finding out that maybe there are really 100 billion castaways looking for your home-o. (And by the time you’ve done the first step in throwing yourself out there to begin with you’ve probably come to realize that solitude ISN’T a bad thing after all – and the company that seeks you out is an added bonus – a wonderful added bonus because now you have someone else to share parts of your spirit with). 

And it’s also …discovering that you’re really OK with not having the world’s acceptance of you (or that of most people, come to think of it).  But finally knowing you’ve always had the only validation of your existance you’ve ever needed – that of yourself.  You just couldn’t see it until it was time.

And it’s…being glad that you don’t KNOW everything about life, or even yourself yet.  This means that you still have so much more to look forward to. The universe will always have so much more to reveal to you – and the fascination with  “what’s next?” (yes – even the bad things, ) this willingness to accept and embrace them – this  is what not only helps us grow into who we were meant to be but makes us feel and keeps us ALIVE!

I think Patrick just KNEW what being alive meant …and tried to tell us in terms a Bocefus would understand.  I think he dressed and acted in a kind of stark relief contrast to the meaning in the simple lyrics of his song. (Then again, I could be all wrong about everything  – Maybe I’m wasting time romancticizing a clueless idiot whose  B-MOVIE mama was owed a HUGE favor by the famous music producer who knocked her up back in the day – and his dribble about being “born to be alive” was only brought to fruition as it was included in part of his mother’s “hush” deal with the studio….but I don’t think so…)

So anyway, listen to this song maybe a few more times for courage –  and if you’re up to it make a mental list of the things that keep you from “being ALIVE” – and work on cutting them out of your life, one by one, like the cancers they are.  Don’t let them consume your spirit. Start doing what we are all  born to do.  What are we all born to do?  Be Alive: 

Leave that one-sided boring relationship that’s holding you back.  If you feel guilty, picture the person in their underwear…(hey, it worked for Marsha on the Brady Bunch)

Tell your know-it-all brother in law to bite you.  If you can’t do that, trip him down a flight of stairs by accident…

Throw away that ugly un-sexy “power suit” and wear some G-strings over some tight jeans to the office tomorrow. (I mean you guys too!)

Call the white house and leave a personal message for our Commander in Chief to bite you – you QUIT! (Make sure you blame that one on your brother in law – HINT: if you tripped him down the stairs as I suggested he might be in a coma by now and won’t be able to deny the charges)

If  doing any of these things causes an unexpected move to another country and a change of  name – WHO CARES? Just do it! Just Be Alive…

Thank you for your time, see you in Mexico in about a week:)

 OH and P.S. – Here’s the Extended club version of Born to be Alive – I think based on where I’m at in my head today – I would gladly dance to this WHOLE song, drunk off my ass, with a full bladder and be happy to spend the next several  hours dodging  Roxbury boy for old time’s sake. …

DISCLAIMER: ALTHOUGH THIS POST IS BASED ON A TRUE AND CORRECT OPINION OF WHAT “BEING  ALIVE MEANS TO ME –  THERE IS SOME HUMOR INTERJECTED HERE. FOR INSTANCE – EVEN A HALF TARD KNOWS THAT “WHITE HOUSE” IS  CODE FOR “AM/PM” AND “COMMANDER IN CHIEF” IS CODE FOR THAT DOPEY TEENAGE MANAGER YOU WORK FOR…that’s all…….duh

I have to be in the office and at my desk by 8 AM every DAY?..(That’s INJUSTICE!)


Member of Private Furr’s ANTI-INJUSTICE Maker’s burrow

“We start our work day promptly at 8 am, no excuses!!”

OK management, supervisors, and self-appointed Top Dawgs of EVERY office job I’ve ever held   – I need to say this and get it off my chest – This “be here at 8 am” bullshit is BULLSHIT! 

 
 

 

In fact, it’s one of the top 5 contenders on my list of unjust demands that one person is allowed to demand of another.  Especially when that other person has to wake up even earlier at 6 am in order to make it to the stifling prison of the office at 8 am  – in an effort to stay way under your radar and get through another miserable day. Do you think I want to hear it AGAIN from you?  Do you think I yearn to see you in your “fat” dress lurking at the door? Your hair curled up like stupid little Jimmy Dean sausages due to that ridiculous perm that I hope for the sake of my vision is very temporary. I know you’re just WAITING for me to appear, right? So you can make yet ANOTHER example of my tardiness to the rest of my co-workers who are just as bored with this neverending broken record as I am. Do you think I look forward to the same old scene where you slowly shake your head while pointedly glancing at the wall clock, pausing dramatically as its second hand makes a homerun sweep past the 5 -second –after- 8 -am position –  JUST as  I’m skidding into my desk at 80 miles an hour at 8:00 and 15 seconds? Umpire what’s your call? She’s OUUUUUUT!


I’m tired of all the drama I go through every morning just to keep a job that’s starting to make me seriously consider becoming one of the local street people.  People who aren’t only missing their teeth, but also rigid schedules, and who probably don’t remember HOW to tell time or even care if they recognize a wall clock again.    

What a LOAD of injustical CRAP you dump on us (I as well as my brothers and sisters in work-slavery) with this ‘be here at 8 am every day’ nonsense. (Yeah, I know “injustical” isn’t in Webster’s dictionary yet, but I just made it up this very moment, so give it a few days)

And WHY 8 am? Why not 8:15? 8:10? Or even 8:01 am? What’s the untold story behind it? Will worlds collide and the heavens fall if 8 am isn’t successfully synchronized by every drone, every day? Do we prevent the coming of the anti-Christ by our mute and methodical obedience to this annoying hour?

Give me “THE” reason – that’s all I’m asking.  The ONE reason that causes a light bulb to suddenly light up my brain cells and VOILA! I get it! It makes perfect sense!  MAKE ME understand the logic behind this non-negotiable 8 am work doctrine. Present your argument, I’ll listen, I promise. But I have to tell you – the cards are stacked against you so far. Your redundant comment “that’s just our policy” is starting to stink like a 3 day visit from my in-laws.

What’s the use anyway? I already know I’ve gotten all I’m going to get from you explanation wise on this subject – but that’s OK. I’m quite happy to give you my opinion of the 8 am thing loud and clear.

First off it’s the pinning of my hell down to one specific hour FOREVER  that bugs me.  Did it ever occur to you that I’m only ONE of the billions of workers in California upon who this same demand is made by boring asswipes like you? And I’m not counting the demands made of us by you assholes in the other 51 states. So figure in Cali there are approximately 7 million or so of us stamped indelibly on the forehead with a “666” satanic demand to be at the office at promptly 8 am every day – just like the rest of the drones. BORING…

 

Would it kill you to be different from the rest of the sheepherders for once?  Give me one good reason you can’t stand apart from the crowd –   be unique and jazz the “time thing” around a little?  Like say – DEMAND we come in at 6:30 am, or PM? I’d go for that. I can have a life in between, even WITH little situations arising in my day.  But you won’t.  And I need to inform you that your “set in stone” passive conformity with all the rest is not only mind-deadening and sleep depriving to us – it’s also dangerous for everyone involved, including you.  Why? Well consider this.   

Every day 7 million suckers are focused on one thing and one thing only – we HAVE to be at our offices, seated at our desks at promptly 8 am to keep the job with “security” – the one that drains us of more life every day we’re forced like cattle to return to it. That’s 7 million of us who drive by ourselves or carpool.  7 million of us who all end up on the same roads together, at the same time every morning.  All driving erratically and trying not to spill our coffee while attempting to block out last night’s shocker announcement by our previously college-bound daughter that there’s been a slight change in plans,  Mom and Dad! Turns out she’s confirmed what she’s suspected for the last 5 years. She’s an alien from the planet Merknoid, and instead of San Jose State next month, she’ll be traveling invisibly to Boise, Idaho at 3 am this Tuesday morning to meet up with the space ship that’s scheduled to land in a corn field at 4:30 am earth time, to take her back to her real home. Sorry about the non-refundable first semester deposit Mom and Dad…or whoever you are.”  ” Oh, that’s OK R2D2-ette; all that matters is that Mom be in her seat at the office by 8 a.m. tomorrow.  Sorry I can’t stay up to say a long goodbye but be sure to say hi to your people from Dad and me, and have a safe trip!” So all that turmoil we feel when one of life’s unexpected but certain to happen little disasters happen just sits on our mental shelves.  Gosh, it could actually be dealt with if we had but a little extra time to absorb, reflect and accept it.  It could be marked off as complete and filed away. But instead it’s visibly gone, but not forgotten – all to make sure we accomplish our main purpose in life – which is to get to the job and be in our desks no later than 8 am every day.  And because our problem hasn’t been dealt with, our minds drift back to it even as our feet accelerate on the gas pedal to make our cars go even faster – and that’s when accidents, big ones, happen-  causing traffic jams that tie up the freeways for hours.   Maybe the lucky ones get taken away to hospital or maybe just…away…The rest of us still have to face YOU.


Then there’s the question of why one human being would make such an asinine demand on another human being in the first place. All I’m able to discern from my unsuccessful quest for the Holy 8 am grail is this:  You must have a sadistic need to see us lined up and sitting in a perfect row.  Your little clique of office automatons – doing your bidding without question in your secret fantasy of power and intrigue. 10 or 12 of us – our eyes bright and alert, ears perked up, pencils in hand and poised, quivering, over our legal tablets, as we wait with bated breath for your next batch of pearls to fall upon our tender ears.  What will you impart to us that we can’t live without knowing about this time, O great one? Shall it be the usual 45 minute “10 second staff meeting” to whine about “some of us forgetting” to sign up on the list you posted in the break room for our turn to clean the refrigerator on Fridays? Or will you this time be thrilling the masses with your recycled life-affirming informational essay on how drinking coffee at our desks is a no-no as it leaves rings on the ugly fake plastic wood (I call it plood) finish?  

Well I have news for you. No one in the office “forgot” about the fridge clean up list. We just ignore it. And another thing, we don’t drink coffee at our desks….while you’re there anyway. However, the minute you leave the office for longer than 10 minutes we bring out the coffee, creamers and mugs, like we’re partying at Starbucks on someone else’s dime.  And in my case, it’s not coffee that makes an appearance in my contraband mug, but Smirnoff Vodka. But my desk continues to be “ring free”.  You won’t ever see a hint of a ring on MY desk.

 

 
 

BUT, I always take care to make sure that YOUR desk gets a few professional coats of  vodka varnish – which I lovingly apply with your sweater or coat …whatever you have hanging in your office closet that day. Then I apply the ring end of the coffee mug I pilfered from my co-worker’s desk drawer when her back was turned. She won’t notice her “Worlds best Lesbian Grandma” mug is gone for at least another hour.  And I make sure to push that cup ring REALLY  hard into the thickening vodka varnish coating your desk , and I twist it in several different places – till there’s 5 or 6 perfect rings illuminating the cheesiness of  Wal*marts finest example of office furniture – from their “Pieces of Shit” collection. Then I return the cup to my co-worker’s drawer, my ass to my seat and it’s like I never even left my desk at all.

I figure since I can’t expect justice from someone like you – whose vocabulary doesn’t contain such a word – I have to invent my own. You’ll never look hard enough between the lines to investigate the molester of  your fine plood furniture, or  even question what the rest of us might have been up to for that matter – you’ll only notice us if we’re not at our desks every day at 8 a.m.

 

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