I’m just a pimp on the Goodyear Blimp,
And each of my whores adores me.
Airborne ecstasy, and the healthcare is free,
And their door in the floor is above me.
I burst up like a mole if a dude gets too rude,
Levy out a toll, then lighten the mood.
“Bring out the whiskey!” I shout to the intern,
The whore leans to kiss me and continues to earn. Continue reading
The author, returning home from his day job
In my long and harried career of not writing for a living, my relationship with my crooked assistants had always been amicable, pleasant, and even enjoyable. Our partnership was one of mutual respect and camaraderie, and the fruits of our time together were considerable. But the years were difficult, and the course grew coarser, and my hoary associates bore the brunt of my opprobrium. It was frustration and weariness in part, but lo, it was largely devil intemperance that led me to ruination – yes, intemperance! I can barely bring myself to copy down the events – so chilling, so horrifying they were, and so recklessly egocentric and jejune I was! But the world needs to know of my epic folly! Read on, if you dare! Continue reading
Hey, thanks for coming in, please have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Oh, you just came back from lunch? What’s in the cafeteria today, that spinach ravioli? I get mad heartburn every Monday from that, I swear.
So look, I don’t want to keep you in suspense, you may have heard some rumors around the office, and yes, we’re gonna be doing a little restructuring, playing with the layout of the cubicals and copiers and whatnot, and the bottom line is I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.
Are you sure you don’t want some juice or something? Continue reading
Recently, I ran across a darling little article on a website (n. website – it’s sort of like a video newspaper that doesn’t get smeary on your hands) about common mistakes the average working slob is making when compiling a resume. People working in an office/business/non-sex related capacity have become so used to management speak and phrasing that they were under the assumption that this is what those thick, troglodyte starched collars wanted to see on your menu of jobs and schools. Au contraire, amigo (multi-lingual-ality, it helps)!
Another day, another search for a new job
But I felt the article left a number of things off. Not everyone is working in the corporate sector, punching the clock and not the boss, eating lunch at the same Subway every day, chatting about the same lousy local sports team, what the weather is supposed to be like Sunday, and “Oh I hope it doesn’t rain cause we’ve gotta head out to the suburbs to get that cheap produce,” and “I don’t know who’s going to be the next mayor, but they better fix this parking situation!” Nope, so not all resumes should or would contain the same trite bullshit. For every “Team player” and “Goal-oriented” they advised against, they missed equally as hackneyed and cloying terms. Here now, Knowingly Undersold’s Resume Guide of Don’ts! Continue reading
“Let me tell you, Alex Rodriguez needs to make a sincere apo-“
“I’m trying to go with that, ‘Do I think, do I not think’ and –“
“ – since the beginning of the season that UConn is the most tal-“
“Save big money at Menard’s –“
“I think Illinois could end up as high as a three or even a two seed come Selection Sun-“
6:47. Shit. I’ve got to be at work by 8. Dammit. It’s an hour and a half from stepping out of bed to punching in. I know that. It’s always the same, depending on the train, but it’s always pretty much the same. Okay, okay, yesterday I did the whole thing in an hour twelve, but I got lucky with the train. Can’t rely on that.
Wow, check out the lint in here? How does that happen? Whether I wear a shirt to bed or not, lint! Ridiculous! And I wasn’t wearing a shirt that color. How is that the color of the lint in there? I wonder if I shaved the hair around my belly button if I’d get less lint. But then maybe I’d get more, as the prickly regrowing hairs might…wow, I can’t get a temperature worth a damn happening here. Doesn’t matter, gotta keep going, gotta get there by 8. Continue reading
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