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| J.J. Abrams' concept art of "R2D2" blows chunks. |
Thursday
Saturday
Falala Banana
A little research unearthed all I needed to know about my regional manager, Falala Banana. Miss Banana is feared company-wide, and mostly because she can rip Capri pants with her calves Hulk-style at will. She is reputed to have killed underperforming employees with her toes.
But it turns out we have history.
Back in 2006, I met Mohamed "Chainsaw" Miller, a twenty-seven year old a six foot six behemoth, and a rabid football fan.
"Why aren't you in the NFL?" I asked.
He stared down at me for a second, thinking carefully."I never ate me no human pancreas before," he replied.
Glad to see we were on the same page, I instructed him to shave everything, and went on to forge his new birth certificate and enroll him into a junior high school to pursue a football scholarship.
Chainsaw Miller led the Ottawa Otters to five consecutive championships (yes, five -I recommended he flunk twice). But what I didn't know was that he was secretly being scouted by the Oakland Raiders. Chainsaw Miller wasn't ready for the "Big Leagues." For one, he couldn't read: he promptly screwed up a play and was blown up rushing center by Tyvon Branch, LaMarr Woodley, three cheerleaders embroiled in paternity lawsuits with him, and Julio Fernandez.
Julio Fernandez isn't even a Raider -he was just getting gas at a nearby convenience store.
Thus, Falala Banana was born.
The Four Corners
[LOBO]
Disposing of my junk mail and shredded bills to prevent identity theft.
At great expense to me, I fly Destry Dentin, DDS, from London to Sydney, Australia to destroy most of it. Those guys can butcher the hell out of our fine American language, and oddly understand each other. I am confident all relevant information will be promptly lost.
But Albert Dente can be a little more complicated.
"Yes I threw the crap into Mordor."
"Wait," I says into the speakerphone. "You were supposed to throw that stuff into Mount Doom."
"That fucking thing is really, really tall. And I mean that shit is in Mordor now. It's probably only a matter of time at this point."
"You just walked up to the border of Mordor, and chucked my mail?"
"Yep." [static] "... and ... have a crush on Cindy."
"Cindy and Rachel are lesbians."
"I have a crush on Rachel too."
Tuesday
Alchemy
-LOBO, Predator Press
Many immolated themselves. Many jumped from tall buildings. Many immolated themselves, then jumped from tall buildings.
-But I am having a hard time keeping up with life events.
In the meantime I will be occasionally appearing at the Humor Blogger Fantasy Football League.
I'll be back. I promise.
Many immolated themselves. Many jumped from tall buildings. Many immolated themselves, then jumped from tall buildings.
-But I am having a hard time keeping up with life events.
In the meantime I will be occasionally appearing at the Humor Blogger Fantasy Football League.
I'll be back. I promise.
Monday
Why Does Heaven Need Gates? Is It In a Bad Neighborhood?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"So you raised four times as much as you need for the divorce?" Al asks, still browsing Tinder on my phone. "How about this one?"
O please Al. Shut the fuck up. For five minutes.
"How long until the divorce is final?" Albert Dente continued relentlessly.
"Who cares?" I reply. "I decided to let the lovebirds take the hit. I paid off my car instead."
[LOBO]
"So you raised four times as much as you need for the divorce?" Al asks, still browsing Tinder on my phone. "How about this one?"
O please Al. Shut the fuck up. For five minutes.
"How long until the divorce is final?" Albert Dente continued relentlessly.
"Who cares?" I reply. "I decided to let the lovebirds take the hit. I paid off my car instead."
Wednesday
Fly Fighter
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Well, neither of us can afford a divorce," I says. "One of us had to figure out a way to monetize the situation and get it over with."
Rachel frowns. "You don't think this is a little extreme?"
"All's fair in love and war. They will thank me later."
"I kinda doubt that."
[LOBO]"Well, neither of us can afford a divorce," I says. "One of us had to figure out a way to monetize the situation and get it over with."
Rachel frowns. "You don't think this is a little extreme?"
"All's fair in love and war. They will thank me later."
"I kinda doubt that."
Thursday
Soaking Sunset
Predator Press
[LOBO]
It's bad enough I'm stuck in traffic trying to get Lars Arson to the airport. But it suddenly dawns on me Lars has chosen this moment to give me some professional criticism.
Fuck.
"You think you know everything, don't you?" he asks.
I laugh. "No."
"You need to stop answering me on reflex."
"What does that mean?" Lars and I are pretty comfortable as friends, but occasionally I forget he is one of my bosses.
"I asked you if you knew everything."
"Of course not. But if there's something I need to know, I know how to learn out about it."
Lars pauses. "But how do you know you need to know something?"
Am I being fired?
I think about these questions carefully.
"A circumstance occurs," I says, stalling words by pretending to be preoccupied by unmoving traffic. "And if I find a problem, I'll seek a solution."
"That's reactive," says Lars. "Can you be preventative?"
I'm a little stunned. "I'm not sure."
"I don't think you can."
Trapped.
"I could prevent this conversation by driving into oncoming traffic," I reply, despite the fact that oncoming traffic is stopped, and within arm's reach.
"That's reacting to this conversation," Lars replies.
"So what are you getting at?"
"You're swimming with sharks now," he replies. "Reactive animals don't fare well against sharks."
I'm getting angry, but I don't really understand the implications of what he is saying.
"I've spent three years being beat to a pulp for virtually nothing-"
"Relax," says Lars. "Nobody knows better how much of a life-imploding experience this has been on you. But you showed up."
I really can't tell where this conversation is going, but I am weirdly tearing up. This is just a really, really excruciating way to get fired.
"I've always been pretty prudent about the company," I says. "Am I going to get a decent reference?"
"You were 'prudent' before your divorce," Lars replies. "Now I'm not sure. And I'm retiring soon. I suggested you to replace me."
???
"But I hate flying."
"That," replies Lars, "is a 'reactive' problem."
[LOBO]
It's bad enough I'm stuck in traffic trying to get Lars Arson to the airport. But it suddenly dawns on me Lars has chosen this moment to give me some professional criticism.
Fuck.
"You think you know everything, don't you?" he asks.
I laugh. "No."
"You need to stop answering me on reflex."
"What does that mean?" Lars and I are pretty comfortable as friends, but occasionally I forget he is one of my bosses.
"I asked you if you knew everything."
"Of course not. But if there's something I need to know, I know how to learn out about it."
Lars pauses. "But how do you know you need to know something?"
Am I being fired?
I think about these questions carefully.
"A circumstance occurs," I says, stalling words by pretending to be preoccupied by unmoving traffic. "And if I find a problem, I'll seek a solution."
"That's reactive," says Lars. "Can you be preventative?"
I'm a little stunned. "I'm not sure."
"I don't think you can."
Trapped.
"I could prevent this conversation by driving into oncoming traffic," I reply, despite the fact that oncoming traffic is stopped, and within arm's reach.
"That's reacting to this conversation," Lars replies.
"So what are you getting at?"
"You're swimming with sharks now," he replies. "Reactive animals don't fare well against sharks."
I'm getting angry, but I don't really understand the implications of what he is saying.
"I've spent three years being beat to a pulp for virtually nothing-"
"Relax," says Lars. "Nobody knows better how much of a life-imploding experience this has been on you. But you showed up."
I really can't tell where this conversation is going, but I am weirdly tearing up. This is just a really, really excruciating way to get fired.
"I've always been pretty prudent about the company," I says. "Am I going to get a decent reference?"
"You were 'prudent' before your divorce," Lars replies. "Now I'm not sure. And I'm retiring soon. I suggested you to replace me."
???
"But I hate flying."
"That," replies Lars, "is a 'reactive' problem."
Tuesday
Al Dente Inferno
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I woke up annoyed that, for the third day in a row, something went wrong on the coffee pot timer.
The coffee didn't start, and I would have to undergo the arduous task of pressing a button and wait fifteen minutes. So I jump in the shower sans caffeine, consciously suppressing screaming obscenities into unsympathetic porcelain tiles.
My brain, well-advised against starting a day like this, tried to head me off.
"Relax, man," it said. "It's not like anyone died."
-And this kinda worked, until it added the afterthought:
"Eventually, everybody dies at the end of this story."
That thought threw me into an utter crippling existential funk. I started thinking about everyone I knew, friends, loved ones, children, pets ... all finally dying, and worse, kinda taking guesses at what Fate had in store for them.
I am supposed to take Lars Arson to the airport for his flight back to Illinois, but I don't know what time he is supposed to be taken to the airport. The couch has a wide defensive perimeter of In-N-Out Burger wrappers, video games and controllers, and Corona bottles.
Rachel yawned as she entered the kitchen. As far as I can tell, she is only wearing an oversized t-shirt.
"Are you working already?"
"I'm trying to," I says, honestly seeking distraction. "But I can't figure out if I'm supposed to log in under A01, A07, or A10."
"Go warthog," she says. "Hey, this coffee is terrible."
She didn't know I was at the show last night, because, well, she bombed pretty badly. I raced home unsure if my presence would only have somehow made things worse. The decision of who got the guest bedroom was left for my guests to decide (Lars was predictably gracious), and I retired for much-needed sleep probably long before she arrived. Call it cowardice.
"Look," I says. "If you are going to stay here for open mike nights, why not just move in? I have plenty of space, and I could use the help."
"Because the coffee is terrible," she smiles. "But thank you for letting us stay."
Us? She picked someone up -and slept with him in my home?
"Cindy came to the show," she says.
-Okay, now I am depressed and have an erection.
[LOBO]
I woke up annoyed that, for the third day in a row, something went wrong on the coffee pot timer.
The coffee didn't start, and I would have to undergo the arduous task of pressing a button and wait fifteen minutes. So I jump in the shower sans caffeine, consciously suppressing screaming obscenities into unsympathetic porcelain tiles.
My brain, well-advised against starting a day like this, tried to head me off.
"Relax, man," it said. "It's not like anyone died."
-And this kinda worked, until it added the afterthought:
"Eventually, everybody dies at the end of this story."
That thought threw me into an utter crippling existential funk. I started thinking about everyone I knew, friends, loved ones, children, pets ... all finally dying, and worse, kinda taking guesses at what Fate had in store for them.
I am supposed to take Lars Arson to the airport for his flight back to Illinois, but I don't know what time he is supposed to be taken to the airport. The couch has a wide defensive perimeter of In-N-Out Burger wrappers, video games and controllers, and Corona bottles.
Rachel yawned as she entered the kitchen. As far as I can tell, she is only wearing an oversized t-shirt.
"Are you working already?"
"I'm trying to," I says, honestly seeking distraction. "But I can't figure out if I'm supposed to log in under A01, A07, or A10."
"Go warthog," she says. "Hey, this coffee is terrible."
She didn't know I was at the show last night, because, well, she bombed pretty badly. I raced home unsure if my presence would only have somehow made things worse. The decision of who got the guest bedroom was left for my guests to decide (Lars was predictably gracious), and I retired for much-needed sleep probably long before she arrived. Call it cowardice.
"Look," I says. "If you are going to stay here for open mike nights, why not just move in? I have plenty of space, and I could use the help."
"Because the coffee is terrible," she smiles. "But thank you for letting us stay."
Us? She picked someone up -and slept with him in my home?
"Cindy came to the show," she says.
-Okay, now I am depressed and have an erection.
Sunday
Wolves v Sharks
[LOBO]
A badly sunburned Lars Arson stumbles into the campsite about 9pm. His Hawaiian shirt is tattered, and he is wearing only one flip-flop.
He has been missing for seven hours.
Music is playing, glow sticks are flying, the grilled food smell wafts through the air, and a naked woman is working a hula hoop by the bonfire.
"We were playing 'Capture the Flag!'" he gasps between gulps of water.
"Right," I says, pulling a blue rag from my back pocket. "Here. You win."
Wednesday
I Got This
[LOBO]
My iPad and iPhone are finally synced.
-And I can't type on either fucking one of them.
I would try and tough this out, but Lars Arson -somehow surprised I dabble in fiction- told me a few days ago that the company won't pay for screenplays, even if they use them. You can't throw a rock without hitting someone with stacks of screenplays here (and/or being on meth it would seem).
Now this is ironic on a lot of levels. I conspicuously never mentioned "writing" while I was interviewing. It was 50% based on strategy, 50% based on the fact that I'm pretty crappy at it frankly, and 50% based on sheer narcissism. And I am literally devoid of "fame" aspirations: my life is governed by anxiety, and I spend most of it ensuring I will be promptly forgotten as soon as whenever possible.
But specifically not getting $ disconnected me on that topic until now.
Ponder: they still give the writing credit.
That, I noticed, is weirdly in my contract.
-I am already writing "Pirate Alien Coeds versus the Astronaut Ninjas from Earth."
Monday
The Pound of Flesh
Predator Press
[LOBO]
At Saturday's company softball game I got to meet a lot of my new associates. It took place in a area on the map called "Community Garden," which is a hippie euphemism for "park." Afterwards, somewhat enthusiastic, I call my mom (amongst others), pacing outside the front of my apartment during the calls so I could simultaneously smoke.
It was during the call to my mom that I tripped on the cobblestones, and cracked my head open.
This created a lot of problems. First, I don't even know where the local hospital is yet. And I'm certainly not calling 911 for something that probably only required a few stitches. Also, I don't really know anyone here except for my new coworkers. Can you imagine? "Hi. This is your new hire, and I need medical assistance ..."
So, as head wounds tend to, I bled a lot. I stood patiently in the shower, waiting for it to stop for almost two hours. Once satisfied that it had stopped, I did exactly what you're supposed to do when you have a possible concussion: I immediately went to sleep.
Keep in mind I don't have my bed -or other comforts- yet. I am sleeping on the floor with sheets and pillows. I woke to a makeshift-bedding bloodbath. Worse, I decided to get back in the shower -now searing from my softball blowtorched sunburn- and shampooing out the blood, only starting the bleeding again.
I don't usually blog in an expository sense, but the strange thing is I seem to be better at numbers. Like I reprogrammed my new phone from memory. I memorized the new companies' account numbers and client phone numbers. Likewise, I pored over the addresses and roads, everything in the immediate vicinity.
Weird.
[LOBO]
At Saturday's company softball game I got to meet a lot of my new associates. It took place in a area on the map called "Community Garden," which is a hippie euphemism for "park." Afterwards, somewhat enthusiastic, I call my mom (amongst others), pacing outside the front of my apartment during the calls so I could simultaneously smoke.
It was during the call to my mom that I tripped on the cobblestones, and cracked my head open.
This created a lot of problems. First, I don't even know where the local hospital is yet. And I'm certainly not calling 911 for something that probably only required a few stitches. Also, I don't really know anyone here except for my new coworkers. Can you imagine? "Hi. This is your new hire, and I need medical assistance ..."
So, as head wounds tend to, I bled a lot. I stood patiently in the shower, waiting for it to stop for almost two hours. Once satisfied that it had stopped, I did exactly what you're supposed to do when you have a possible concussion: I immediately went to sleep.
Keep in mind I don't have my bed -or other comforts- yet. I am sleeping on the floor with sheets and pillows. I woke to a makeshift-bedding bloodbath. Worse, I decided to get back in the shower -now searing from my softball blowtorched sunburn- and shampooing out the blood, only starting the bleeding again.
I don't usually blog in an expository sense, but the strange thing is I seem to be better at numbers. Like I reprogrammed my new phone from memory. I memorized the new companies' account numbers and client phone numbers. Likewise, I pored over the addresses and roads, everything in the immediate vicinity.
Weird.
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