here we go again

Do you hear that?

Somewhere, a stapler is being used.

Somewhere, an elevator button is being pressed with a little more anger than usual. And everywhere, across this entire nation, people are dying inside.

You want a day of mourning?  That’s today – the Monday after the new year, when everyone ventures back into the office, and stares at their computer with hatred usually reserved for people who wear turtlenecks.

Today, in Blue Rapids, Kansas, Kathy is going to tell Tim about her dog for the 457th time.

In Baltimore, Maryland, Dan will spill his coffee on the counter top and not clean it up (then blame Gary because no one likes Gary anyway, mainly because “Gary” is such a creepy name) for the 92nd time.

In Eastport, Maine, Pete is going to tell his friend “Happy New Year,” and his friend will reply, “I hate that sentence. It’s completely false. There’s nothing happy, or new about this year.  My wife still left me for that dude who owns a gas station, my hair is still falling out and I am still unable to do simple math without using my fingers.  You want to tell me something?  Say, ‘Welcome to the beginning of the calendar year.’ That’s accurate. Because, Pete, there is nothing new, and there is certainly nothing happy about today.”

Everywhere across the United States people are sad, angry and depressed today, and they have every right to be.

So welcome back my friends.  I wish I could say it’s going to get better, but,  you know, that’s not really my thing.

dedicated

Because Google rules the world and controls all we do with an iron electronic fist, I am of course a proud user of Gmail.

This morning, when I opened my account up, I was greeted with yet another innovation from the Google god’s: the ability to make a task list.

Of course this would be my First Task – to make a task list.  So I did, and for your enjoyment, here are the things I need to accomplish before I leave the office tonight.

I bow down to you all powerful Google gods.

As you can see I have quite the day ahead of me.

Of course, like most things I come in contact with, I will exhibit a large amount of enthusiasm about these task lists at first, and then promptly forget about them in a couple of days.

But for now, I think I’ll go add another task to my list. 

Perhaps something about coming up with excuses for my boss as to why I was drooling on my desk while looking at pictures of Kim Kardashian.

In fact that might have to be made a priority.

very easy

I have today off.

I know, you’re mad at me.  But don’t be mad at me, be mad at Chris Columbus, one of the most biggest idiots ever to grace the earth.

The man sailed some ships to a completely wrong destination, told everyone he was first even though he wasn’t, tortured and brutalized the natives that were already there and then became instantly famous for it.

I would love it if my job was exactly the same way.

Me: [Confidently] “Well I wrote the article, but I used facts from other stories and I interviewed someone who doesn’t have anything to do with the subject.”

Boss: “That’s great!”

Me: “Oh, and I punched Sally in the face this morning.”

Boss: [Smiling] “Even better – now let’s talk about that raise.”

Have you ever heard of a job as easy as Christopher Columbus had?

The guy was a complete moron, yet here I am, sitting at home because we recognize his “accomplishments” every single year.

Never has there been a more celebrated idiot than him.  Okay, wait, I take that back – people elected Bush twice didn’t they?

So Bush first, Columbus second.  I’m thinking Martha Stewart third.

(Since I have the day off, that’s all I got today.  I’ve got lots of other stuff to do, like rub my dog’s belly and watch Sportscenter forty times in a row.  If you want more, please go check out my guest post at Clever Girl Goes Blog, where I’m talking about a famous person I could do without.)

better than before

Sometimes, when work seems to drag and I want to think about something other than if Dentyne’s new ads are going to resonate with their target consumer and if Stacey is going wear sneakers with her suit again, my mind drifts and I imagine better working conditions.

There’s obviously a million things that could make work better, but one thing that would really improve my moral would be if my boss hired Chewbacca.

It would make my work say so fun, I think I’d actually look forward to coming into the office.

Just look at him.

Smoke break.

Tell me you wouldn’t love to have him greet you every time you step foot into work.

Chewie (of course I’d call him this because we’d be boys) would be the best at inter-office small talk too.

Me: “Damn man, did you see the game?  Parker had, what, 180 yards and three touchdowns, right?”

Chewie: “Aarrgggh!”

Me: “Fucking right man.  So what’s up this weekend, you gonna hang out with that hottie Melissa again?”

Chewie: “Aarrgggh!”

Me: “Nice!”

If Chewie was my coworker, I’d never have to change the water cooler again, because hello?  He’s like a million times stronger than me.  Even when I’m drunk.

Another benefit of having a Wookie around would be if any of my interviews started going a little stale. After a particularly bland reply to one of my questions, I could simply tell them, “Look, I’ve got Chewie here next to me. He just told me if you don’t give me some usable quotes, he’s going to come to your office, rip your arms out of your sockets and use them as utensils to eat your ham sandwich.”

Presto!  They’d start telling me some good stuff.

Really, the only down side to having Chewie as my work buddy would be the shedding, but c’mon, is that any worse than having to look at Jerry’s suspenders for eight hours a day?

I bet Chewie would even give me a piggyback ride to lunch every day.  Now that would be something to put on my resumé.

before 7:56

On my way to the gym, I’m sitting on the train and listening to some rocking jams when my phone freezes. Of course this is not shocking to me, because although the iPhone makes you 37% cooler than other people, it fucks up all the time.

I decide to just forget it and brave the commute without music.

The snoring coming from the Dog The Bounty Hunter lookalike to my left makes me want to vomit in my mouth, but somehow I don’t.

I get to the gym and realize that I didn’t pack my shorts.  I think for a second about how fun it would be to just work out in my boxer briefs, but then realize that it might be against club policy, so I decide that I’m going to have to buy some new ones at the store.

The store is closed.

I ask one of the personal trainers what time it opens and she tells me seven.

It is 7:10.

I decide to wait around for a couple minutes.

I stand in front of the store looking like some kind of jack ass as people pass by me and wonder if maybe I’m trying to get a peep in the women’s locker room, which is located right next to the store.  I think I even see one of the women mouth “Pervert” as she walks by.  I take it as a compliment.

After standing there for way too long and freaking out some of the women, I decide to leave.  Just as I’m about to walk out with my bag in tow, I see the guy who runs the shop opening it up.

I am excited.  I think that maybe my morning might not be so shitty after all.

The store does not have any shorts my size.  The guy tries to convince me that a extra large would fit me, but I just look at him and say, “I don’t think this is going to work out” and leave.

I walk to work and when I get there, I realize that because my phone won’t work, I can’t access the code to turn off the alarm once I get inside.

I decide to go in anyway because I think I can remember the code.

I get in and the alarm starts blazing.

I can’t remember the code.

I start searching the other desks frantically, hoping that someone has it written down somewhere. Meanwhile the alarm is going off, my phone won’t work and dammit I am not an extra large.

My ears are about to begin bleeding when I plug my phone into the charger to see if that will turn it on.  It works.  I turn off the alarm and sit down at my desk.

Ten minutes go by.

I hear the door to the front of the office open, and in walk two cops.

I tell them that I set the alarm off and they just shake their heads.  They ask me if I have any dead bodies hidden under the desk.

I smile and say, “Not yet.”

They leave and I turn back to my computer.  I try my phone and it does not work.  I tell it that it is going to burn in hell.

It is 7:57.

tgif

I love Fridays.

Not just for the fact that it’s the start of the weekend when anything can happen, from drinking too much and partying to drinking too much and sitting on the couch, but because it’s an instant conversation piece.

Fridays are something that you can always bring up in the office, and feel safe that the person opposite you will respond pleasantly.

The weather is another great fall back conversation.  Remark on how it “Looks like rain” and you can slip away safely, back to your work/blogs/porn.

But when it comes to classics, Friday Lines trump all.

When someone you don’t feel like talking to approaches and asks how things are going, you can always bust one out, “Well, it’s Friday, can’t complain!”  And safely avoid actually having to think.

The Friday Line is always lame and terrible, but trust me, it’s a lot safer than the things you’d rather say.

“Hey Steve, good to see you’re still wearing that shirt even though the pit stains have cemented.”

“Oh hi Barbara, yeah, I love that you never actually do any work yet somehow still have a job.”

“No, Carl, really, I think it’s great that you fart all the time and people think it’s me.”

“Hey, don’t come too close there Sue, I drank tequila last night and your nasty perfume is making my stomach notice your Poor Decision.”

“Looking great Laura – that skirt really shows off those cankles.”

“Yeah Jim, I feel much better knowing that you got that boil removed off your back.”

“See you tomorrow Dan, though I hope I don’t, one more conversation with you about the feeding habits of deer and I may have to gut you.”

This is the reason the Friday line is the best decision.  It keeps you out of these kinds of conversations, which will only lead to hurt feelings and maybe the end of your employment.

Though that might be a good thing, seeing as how we all know Carl is never going to stop.

prophecy

Bogus.

That was the first word out of my mouth this morning when I looked out the window and noticed that it was raining.  And unfortunately I was not just waking from an awesome dream in which I was hanging out with Bill and Ted.

I don’t use bogus lightly either, I usually reserve it for Times Of Great Stress, like when I found out that Horatio Sanz was getting dropped from Saturday Night Live.  Dude was awesome.

The first word you speak in the morning is an ominous one.  In my case, I’m pretty sure because I said “bogus,” my day is going to be, sadly, depressingly, bogus.

I’ll probably step in a puddle and get Wet Foot (the worst thing that can happen to you aside from dying) on my lunch hour, then have to replace the water cooler twice.  I’ll be living in hell, is what I’m saying.

If only my first word had been something more cheery and upbeat.  You know, something completely uncharacteristic of me.  Then I would have a good day, because once that first word hits the air in front of you – your day is planned out.

In a lot of ways, your first word in the morning is like your first word as a baby.

Whatever your first word was, it has a great bearing on what you’re like as an adult.

Mine was “ball.”

This sounds good, right?

No.  No it was not good.

I said ball, but what I held in my hand was an egg, which I promptly threw against the wall.

Perfect.

Now you see what I’m saying.  I said something pretty dumb and as an adult, I’ve never been confused for the brightest bulb in the pack.  I like simple things like Big Trouble in Little China, Gonzo Grape bubble gum and Coors Light.

If I had said something Brilliant And Thoughtful, like “Momma” when I saw my Mom, maybe things would’ve turned out better for me.  Maybe I’d be an engineer or that dude who invented Lunchables.

But I’m not.

I’m just a blogger and really, that’s okay with me.

As long as I don’t get Wet Foot.

stylized insanity

If there is one thing that can make me feel Crazy, it’s a tie.

I’ve got this tie on today that has defeated me.

A grown man, beaten by a single piece of cloth.

Every single time I tried to make it into a perfect-looking knot this morning, it ended up being either too short or too long, which means that the little end would be sticking out when it’s not supposed to be. And I do believe “little end” is a technical term.

I started wrestling with the bastard this morning before I went to the gym.

Over and over I tried to get it right.

The more I tried and failed, the more my anger increased, culminating with me yelling, “Fuck this stupid fucking shit!” and my dog looking at me like I was an asshole for being so loud in the morning.

I ended up leaving for the gym with my tie half-knotted and sweat pouring down my face.

That may have had something to do with why people on the train were staring at me like I was a Normal Person Who Has Had Enough With Society and was about to gun everyone down. Like that movie Falling Down. Which was pretty cool.

Then, after I was done working out and I had to get dressed again, I attacked the tie again.

Once again I failed and left for work looking like a little kid trying to play dress up.

When I got on the elevator at my building, I could feel people’s eyes on me. I swear there was one woman who was looking at me like an aunt does, probably thinking, “Aww, look at Chris, he’s so cute! He tried to put on his little tie for the big day at the office and look what happened!” I think she was about to pinch my cheeks, but I was saved by the elevator finally reaching my floor.

Now I’m sitting here, typing this damn blog post and looking like a complete fucking idiot.

I’m just waiting for someone to ask me what’s wrong with my tie, because when they do, I’m just going to smile and calmly reply, “Nothing, everything is fine with my day today. Thank you for asking fellow coworker.”

Or maybe I’ll take my tie off, shove it in their face and scream, “Here! You do it! See if you can do any better because I can’t fucking take it! Yes, I know what I look like and yes I am aware that screaming is unnecessary but I think I’m losing my mind and it’s all because of this tie!”

Either one would work I think.

cover letter

Sometimes I sit at my desk and think to myself, “How is this what I ended up becoming?”

When I was young I had much more exciting things in mind for myself when I got Old.

Not once do I recall imagining myself as a pseudo-writer who obsesses about his blog and sometimes wishes he could drink whiskey at his desk.

No, I had much more planned for myself when I was a kid.

First I wanted to be a firefighter. This dream fizzled out when I realized that firemen had to actually fight fires – which are hot – and not just push around a toy fire engine and say, “Vrooommm!” all day long.

Though I think some of them still do that.

After that, I thought maybe I could be a Sound Effects Man for the movies. I could make really good sound effects, like the sound of a gun or something blowing up, so I thought that would be A Good Career. I had no idea that sound effects are made by a machine and not a kid who wears green corduroys, so that idea died.

Then I wanted to be a member of the A-Team. Sadly, this idea disappeared when I was playing A-Team with some friends and I thought some girl was A Bad Guy, so I punched her like any good A-Team member would do. She was not playing A-Team with us, so I had to sit in the corner.

I got the teacher back by crawling under the desks whenever she turned her back to the class. I was a Good Student.

After The A-Team Incident, I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark, and wanted to become an archaeologist. Somehow I failed to realize that they do not actually get to kiss pretty women, defeat the Nazis and dodge boulders all day long, so that career faded for me as well.

Now, after all that, here I am.

Not fighting fires, not making cool stuff with B.A. Baracus and definitely not defeating the Nazis.

Sometimes though, when my boss edits an article of mine entirely too much, I wait for her to turn around and bam! I’m crawling around under the desks.

I guess things turned out okay after all.

silence is golden

I’m a man of few words.  If you don’t know me in real life, you can tell this because my posts are never much more than 350 words.  And no, that’s not because I’m not smart enough to come up with more to write about.  Stop thinking that.  Stop it!

It’s because there isn’t a lot to say.

Things About Life can be summed up a lot quicker than most people think.

Person: “How do you feel about the continuing war in Iraq?”

Me: “Bad idea.”

Person: “Tell me about your childhood, what was your relationship with your father like?”

Me: “I drink a lot.”

See?

There is no need for lots of words.

Life is really not that complicated.  Sometimes it sucks and sometimes it doesn’t.  That’s really it folks!

Because I’m a man of few words, I cannot stand people who talk a lot.

It drives me fucking crazy – especially in the morning.

Just a couple minutes ago this guy came into the office just blabbing about complete nonsense.  Well, it wasn’t really nonsense – it was just stuff that I didn’t want to hear about – which to me meant it sucked.

He started talking and all I could think was this:

Shut the fuck up!  No one cares about your wild experience at Starbucks on your way here!  No one!

I didn’t say that, but I did say, “Wow!  Someone took some fucking energy pills this morning!  Let’s take it down a notch, okay?”

It got my point across because the room got silent right after I said that.

This moment illustrates my point – there is usually no need to talk.

When you think you have something to say, think about it for twenty seconds and you’ll probably realize it’s dumb or you can say it with a lot less words.

Now let’s all play the quiet game.

First one to speak gets a fist in the eye.