Inspired by The Authoring Auctioneer’s recent article found here.
Given the opportunity, people getting paid to do something for you will invariably let you down in some way. Whether it’s a movie theater usher or a barista (which is destined for inclusion on a list of words I hate) or your run-of-the-mill waiter or waitress, if you are forking over bucks for virtually anything, you are thusly entitled to find fault with their performance. It’s part of the transaction, really. You get a cup of coffee or 3D glasses or a foot massage, and you get the right to bitch and complain about this servant of yours. And they should suck it up and enjoy it, that’s there role in things, right?
My tale comes straight out of the bowels of history, stretching back to that distant memory that is Saturday, in the month known as This in the week remembered fondly by those who lived it as Last. I was with the girlfriend and the Munchagogo at a bar/pizza place watching the Olympics in a hurried rush before trying to catch the midnight showing of the 1984 classic Ghostbusters, which we wouldn’t end up making it to before the Sold Out sign was hung in our faces by the management. Continue reading
I’m not sure how old my daughter is at this point – gotta be in her late teens, I’d guess – but she has already reached an advanced developmental stage of turning out a right bitch. Walking around with her pug nose in the air, eight pounds of make-up giving her that extra bit of whorehouse flavor, too good to even say hello to the old man when she passes me in the hallway. My asshole daughter Kelly is fast on her way to being the town bicycle, which everyone gets to take free rides on. The hell with her, that no good cu- oh, wait, Kelly’s her sister – Sandy’s the slutty one. Yeah, the hell with Sandy.
But Kelly’s no walk in the goddamn park either. That rotten, Ben Gay smelling troll takes after her sister with the attitude, but at least I don’t have to worry about her getting knocked up by some skin tag with an erection. No guy with half a brain or eyesight would touch that monster kid of mine. But even if you could somehow overlook her gross ass appearance, she also happens to be just about the meanest pig-tailed, pig-faced demon seed alive. Her brother Todd is lucky to still be breathing after all the beatings and torture Kelly laid on him over the years. More about that douche son of mine in a bit though. Me and the old lady really dropped the ball not drowning that fucking Kelly straight out of the womb. The world will suffer more and more everyday for our mistake. Continue reading
The race for the 2016 Presidency is now well underway, and honestly, things could have started off better in Camp Cetta, that’s for damn sure. Thus far we’ve raised approximately squat to fund the campaign, making it hard to hire staff, and harder to afford bribes, plus we are yet to be approached by civic organizations, lobbyists, special interest groups, the mafia and/or a political party willing to endorse or even recognize our efforts. Our headquarters, currently located in the laundry room of our building, is still without so much as a banner, and our offer to appear on Hardball to discuss the issues of the future with Chris Matthews has gone unaccepted. Things are looking kinda bleak here on day five.
Nonetheless we press on. Despite our fiscal and masculine shortcomings, some events this past week showed promise for the long haul. The candidate (me) pressed the flesh while strolling past the Sheffield Garden Walk, but accidentally, as I didn’t negotiate the sidewalk well and went hands first into a group of DePaul students, who were not appreciative of my mauling. I then chose to pass up actually entering the event, as I felt the cover charge for such a thing was, in so many words, “egregious.” (The actual word used was more colorful and related to feces) Continue reading
Shit. This is ridiculous. I’ve been laying here for an hour. I’ve got to fall asleep. I’m exhausted! How the hell is it that I’m not asleep? I’m wide awake! This is bullshit.
“And crazy learner’s permit girl gave me a ride to Babbage’s.”
Aw Christ, and now I’ve got that stuck in my head. Great. I can’t fall asleep and this damn cartoon song is running through my head. Fantastic. I’m fucked. No way I’m going to work tomorrow. But I can’t not go in. But I’m worthless if I don’t get some sleep. Maybe I should take some pills. Maybe I should take some Nyquil. Sarah’s still got some of that Tylenol PM, that shit knocked me the hell out last time. She still has that, right? Did it expire? I don’t think so. But if I get up, it’ll be that much longer before I fall asleep. Continue reading
Let’s face it, the nation has gone completely to hell. This isn’t a euphemism either. I believe the explanation for the country’s ailments is that leadership bargained away our collective soul and we are now beginning the descent into the fiery abyss, replete with hot pokers aimed at the colon and demons ready to roast your tootsies on shish kebabs. Better stock up on Bermuda shorts and capris, cause the heatwave is about to become a year round event.
Thankfully, this is an election year, in which new leadership will attempt to right the rickety ship of state, and bring us back to prominence in the global community. America came in just behind Nairobi and Columbia in the popularity vote from this year’s Earth Prom in May (China won again, and we suspect voter tampering as always). Our poor showing may be due to the fact that we brought Iraq, again, as our date, and that bitch is really holding us back on the dance floor. And rumors persist that we’re practically married to that hag by now, and that we’re going to same college in the fall, so there really is no end in sight.
I have assessed the situation to the best of my political science abilities, surveyed the state of things and determined the direction best for this once great land, coming ultimately to two quick conclusions: 1) I know slightly less about international politics than I do about ice fishing and 2) I am primed and ready to announce my candidacy for President of the United States. Continue reading
Over the years while writing, or more often reading, I’ve run across a select group of words that I just don’t care for. For the most part it’s nothing I have personal against the words. They never stole my woman or cheated me at cards or lured me into a van with candy as a boy. No, it’s more the manner in which they were foisted on me that grinds my gears.
There are things in this world that I absolutely hate, but the words naming them aren’t necessarily words I can’t tolerate. Panda is a fine example of this. As some of you may know, I hate pandas with all the passion normally reserved by the American male for the NFL, Coors Light, and Las Vegas. I abhor pandas. I can’t stand them. Their entire existence and society’s insistence that it continues despite any bit of interest in it displayed by the fluffy ignoramuses boggles my mind. But the word panda itself isn’t verboten with me. Hell, I liked Kung Fu Panda quite a bit. Continue reading
Probably the best thing about living in Chicago I’ve got to say is not having a car. In Scranton, there was no having a job or going out or being seen as a respectable member of society if I didn’t have a car. It was just a given, it was a necessity. But here, a car? What the hell would I do with a car?
Besides having the highest gas prices in the country (allegedly), there is also nowhere to park. Were I to drive to work, between garages and filling up I’d be blowing nearly the whole paycheck on the lousy car. The girlfriend drives to the suburbs every day for work and even though her car gets roughly a thousand miles to the gallon (I have no idea) she’s still filling up twice a week or more. So no car is awesome. Continue reading
There are two subversive forces at work in the apartment complex I live in (three, if you count the mailman). The first of these is a cat I cannot curse at enough. Sarah has claimed that one of these days, Chester (as she has christened him) will be living with us, and I have said in no uncertain terms that we will have had to have death-matched and I’ll have to have lost for that to have come to be.
(Please note in the most previous sentence to this, I used “had,” “has” twice, and “have” a ridiculous six times. I’m not proud, but point it out and I’d like to invite you to come stare at my high-falutin’ writing degree sometime. So just shut yer yap!) Continue reading
The second installment in my epic threepiece of a children’s book series, circa 2005ish:
Thank You, Coma!
Joe was sad 😦
Life had sort of failed him lately 😦
Things took a turn for the worse when he was drinking on a Tuesday 😦
He had it bad, and that ain’t good.
One night, he went to a shindig at a local university.
While there he met many pretty girls and happening dudes, many of whom were playing an insane amount of a game called beer pong.
Joe decided he wanted to try this beer pong, and hang with the pretty girls and happening dudes. Continue reading
The company I’ve just recently snuck away from has a system in place to rate your performance based on a number of incredibly pedestrian attributes they determined were most important to them. None of these, I might add, play to my strengths at work, such as killing time, maximizing lunch breaks, and making it look like I’m working full blast all day long. Also, I have to rate my own performance, based on these categories they are interested in, and so, when I fill out mid-year and year-end reviews for the appraisal, it doesn’t often play in my favor.
Most years I got Ns, for Not Meeting, Not Good, Needs Improvement, Nincompoop, etc. I’d get Ss here and there, usually for things like Participating in Pot Luck Lunches, and “Attends” Meetings. But overall, it was the big N adorning the Rating column. Still, I tried to evaluate myself based mostly on what I figured they’d want to hear, and mark areas where I was weak on the job accordingly. Continue reading
Filed under humor, Life, Work
Given that I plan to relocate halfway across the country in a matter of days, I did what a faithful employee in good standing should and submitted a letter of resignation, giving plenty of advance notice to explain my absence, which may have gone unnoticed otherwise. What follows is the actual letter I submitted, with my manager’s name and that of the company I work for processing medical claims omitted, for obvious reasons: Continue reading
Dear sir or madam,
So you’re my kid, huh? As I write this I am currently safe in the knowledge that I have never impregnated anyone that I’m aware of, and have no pressing interest in this activity anytime in the near future (impregnating, I mean, not the activity – er, well, you know what I mean, I hope). If you are reading this I assume that you do, in fact, exist, and therefore I must have knocked someone up and some court must have determined after a no doubt exhaustive legal battle that you are a product of my own drunken doing. So, hello.
I’m sure by this point that you are aware what a great guy I am, so I’m not about to remind you with a detailed breakdown and comprehensive history of my excellence. Let’s just say I’m awesome and leave it at that. The purpose of writing this letter to you, my supposed progeny, is to pass down some ideas direct from the horse’s mouth, as I may be old, broken-down, senile, and incontinent by the time you exist. On the other hand, if you’re going around referring to your old man as a horse, you’ll be feeling the back of my senile hand, punk! Continue reading