Pass The Dutch

2006-11-22T16:15:00.000-08:00

Hey, y'all. Thumbelina and I wish you a very Happy Thanksgiving.

Ready to Rumble

2006-08-03T02:27:00.000-07:00

Well! I have never experienced this before. About one hour ago, at 1:39 a.m., it suddenly felt as if a house-sized Hitachi Magic Wand was rubbed against my foundation. Then my potted plants wobbled a little. Then, on cue, the dachshund woke up and started barking. I must admit that my heart started to flutter a bit. This is a typical night-just-became-morning pattern 'round here at the Williams Whorehouse. However, it cannot normally be attributed to *actual* seismic activity. What a nice change of pace!

I didn't actually stand in one, but I am presently relieved that my apartment has approximately 341 doorways. Here at W2, I often rue the lack of wall space and the restricted furniture-arranging options. Oh well. The house was built by hobos who seemed to have used sand, saliva, Lincoln Logs, lead paint, and pigeon droppings as the main construction components. This time-tested and true blend of materials renders a house like WW quite flexible. I'm guessing this is a good thing.

Inflation.

2006-08-01T03:16:00.000-07:00

Seems like only yesterday that they were 10 cents.

Work. British singers.

2006-04-14T16:35:00.000-07:00

So, my original idea was that this blog would be about work, jobs, working, the jobs I have had, the job I have at the time, and so on. Well, it's true that I have another new job. Believe it or not--this is the dirtiest job I have ever had. Yes, this beats the hotel restaurant linen-washing dungeon job. (I lost patches of my fingerprints from smoothing and folding super hot and mostly polyester table linens that spilled out of the industrial dryers for 10 hours a day.) Yes, this even beats all of shrimp deveining, crab-cracking, squid-emptying, and burr-mixing of gallons of caesar dressing during my former cooking career. All of the emptying of drains, both kitchen and otherwise, and cleaning of toilets I have performed during my work life. It even beats administering the lidocaine injections and starting dialysis with an 18 gauge needle on a elderly woman. Of course, there's not much that can beat being giving the task of filling a 6 foot tall baker's rack with sheet pan after sheet pan of red jello, nor grinding up whole unwashed heads of muddy cabbage into a prep sink and then making coleslaw with your bare arms (up to the elbows, I tell you!). I only held that particular job for one half of one day. It definitely beats the job I had filling cemetary urns for Memorial Day. Of course, it really was pretty gross unplugging that fucking toilet at Cafe Wyrd at least once per shift, day after day after day. Alas, this new job is even dirtier. It is, however, finally the kind of dirty that I can get down with.

I'm at my new-ish super dirty job and I am listening to some old Erasure and I just realize that early Andy Bell and Alison Moyet sound almost exactly alike. Of course I know that she didn't she sing the magical and amazing early 90's gay anthem "Chains of Love," but she should have. Or she still could and I might not catch it.

Dear Frog,

2006-04-03T03:33:00.000-07:00

I am glad that you are my best friend.

Your Best Friend,

Toad

medi-could-not-care-less

2006-03-13T02:47:00.000-08:00

Guess where this headline is from? Go on, just guess:

America, Pull up a Chair! We've Got Something Good to Talk About.

It's from the website www.medicare.gov. Yep--that's right! That's my very own government asking me (on behalf of my mother) to come to the table and chat! I guess that's good as I have a lot of questions after trying to decipher this website full of chummy language and stock photos of happy retirees. Unfortunately, it's not really like stopping by Lloyd and Lil's country kitchen table to have some bars and coffee and good old fashioned straight talk about prescription drug coverage when you become old enough for the government to know they can confuse you because YOU'RE GETTING OLD. Looks like we're pulling up to a nice big steaming pile of crapcakes and a bottomless cup of quandary. Poor mom--after trying to figure out what she should chat about with the goWernment, I'm confused as hell and I like to think that I'm a lil' bit used to the quackery double talk of Uncle Sam. Oh my! It looks like we're going to have to switch her to dollar-store ibuprofen and some prairie medicine poultices while waiting to see if she can get the good stuff that keeps her ticking (within reason). But, please--pull up a chair!

quiz time

2005-12-27T02:13:00.000-08:00

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

it's been a while, but this Lil' Dorkly has been a-workin' bushels

2005-12-22T13:53:00.000-08:00

Time again for headlines!

from cnn.com: Hubble finds new moons, rings around Uranus

but the big winner is a one-upper found by the oft-industrious Earnestine Vines regarding some recent nuptials of note (from thesun.co.uk):

ELTON TAKES
DAVID UP
THE AISLE

Bringing Up The Rear

2005-11-28T22:43:00.000-08:00
It's been a while, but while you've been a-wonderin', I've been a-readin'. I haven't seen any really good knockout headlines, but today I came across the following gem of a quote.

"Showing women in skimpy outfits, usually from the rear, is a disservice to our country." Alice Tamborindeguy, Brazilian state legislator.

Here, here.

Just reading the news

2005-10-31T10:56:00.000-08:00
None so good as those including pork, but there was this headline, listed as "breaking news" on cnn.com this morning: Woman falls after dangling from hot air balloon

Who saw that coming?

Also, this.

Nice work on the tagline. You should check out the story, though. Personally, my theory is that what the poor Rev. Kyle came into heavenly contact with was most likely one of the cords running from the generator right past the hot tub to the dj booth, the smoke generator, the strobe lights, and then finally to the disco ball found on the ceiling of his big ex-gay church of lies. Just a guess.

Awesome headline, though.

My favorite headline this week

2005-10-22T18:38:00.000-07:00
Fla. Woman Finds Bullet in Pork Casserole

"There once was a union maid, she never was afraid"

2005-10-17T20:19:00.000-07:00
That's right, folks! Only a few short few months have passed since one of my last posts contained the statement "I am not much of a worker anymore," and now. Now, I am not only a worker, but I am a worker for The Workers. That's right, and you can't scare me. I'm stickin' to the Union. Because my comrade Ernie told the story earlier, I'll go light on it here. I was kissed with the claw end of a 16oz hammer while setting up the union hall for our campaign kick-off. I was pretty excited to see the event come off since I had spent weeks organizing the evening. Instead of listening to a fiery speech by the president of the best union in all the land, Andy Stern, I sat in the Emergicenter waiting area with a frozen water bottle on my forehead for a couple of hours. By the time I got to see the kind doctor-man, he had to re-open my head wound.

At any rate, the point of my brief entry here is to let you know that I am working hard on behalf of all workers who ever worked and continue to work. I still work in an office and I still have lots of office supplies all around, I still have cigarette breaks, I work with a bunch of other social justice-minded gaywads, and I feel like my toiling finally means something. There is not a cascade of free cheese-flavored snacks, nor unlimited cereal. There is, instead, a sense that what I do actually means something, that my coworkers don't compete with me, that my director respects me, and that the reason that people still need to do this work is because there are a lot of shitty jerky assholes out there and most often, they have a lot of people working for them.

More later!

Il Papa, Don't Preach

2005-07-21T12:45:00.000-07:00
It's official. I think that the Vatican should just suck my dick.

Somewhere Else

2005-04-26T12:13:00.000-07:00
I don't think I can be considered a "worker" anymore. All morning I have been dreaming of being somewhere else. Primarily, I wish to be nesting on my couch in my stale pajama pants, under the quilt with the smelling-like-corn-chips wiener dog, occasionally slipping in and out of consciousness only to eat a few more crackers and enjoy midday reruns of Hogan's Heroes and The Cosby Show. The day is obviously not passing in such a fashion, as I am currently at my desk and embroiled in an internal struggle as to what cheese-flavored snack to enjoy next. Cheetos? Doritos? Cheese Nips? Cheddar and Herb Kettle Chips? God, I implore you! Make it easy on me and remove my options!

So, my new soft-in-the-middle job has made me question my work ethic once again. I just wonder where my motivation lies. I've flirted with motivation and dedication and drive and obligation and focus before. Really, I have. The last time, for instance, was when I was working on a political campaign this past fall. I could work a 15 hour day, mostly standing up, with a to-go cup of coffee that became fused to my left hand, and feel like I never ran out of energy. Now that I am back in the cubicled womb of white noise and close quarters, I become extremely impatient when having to wait two or three minutes for my "scheduled" break, i.e. my 15 minute federally mandated cigarette/bathroom break (which I observe religiously). Today, I was suiting up for said break and realized that I left my little yellow box of 20 friends at home on the kitchen counter. I don't need to tell you about the miniature panic that followed. This meant that I had to find a store within walking distance to buy some more. After I found one, I bought some. Then I walked back to my usual spot (outside the building where I work) to stave off the demon inside. It's a funny spot to visit each day as it is adjacent to a high school athletic field, which fills me with residual dread but I find it very entertaining to watch the Juicy-butt suited Olympic hopefuls while I suck on a cigarette and try to prevent my pants from cutting off the circulation in my legs. So, I am standing there by the building, enjoying my cigarette and employing my thousand-yard stare to quell interactions with passersby, when a person encroaches my Safety Circle.

Person: Hey. You got a cigarette for me?

Me: Nope, sorry.

Person: Smoke somewhere else then. Jeeeeeez!

Smoke somewhere else? In order that I don't tempt you, miscellaneous person? I don't get it. You know, sometimes when I have these nonsensical and random interactions with people, I almost wonder if the questions are tricks and if I don't answer correctly that I will become the victim of a "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" style beatdown.

But, back to work. This led me to think about some things I would like to tell other people to do "somewhere else" in order to avoid tempting me into participation. These are actually activities I have been involuntarily drawn into mutual enjoyment with others while at work:

-clipping fingernails

-clipping toenails (picking at feet, generally)

-gargling in the work kitchen

-butt scratching while ascending a staircase (readjusting, generally)

-bonafide nosepicking

-"working" things out of lungs and/or throats

-eating sardines when others are present (never acceptable)

-pants-zipping and belt-buckling on the way out of the bathroom

-a litany of pooping and/or farting combinations in many areas, even including the bathroom

I think the lesson here is that there really are people everywhere, and sometimes there just isn't a "somewhere else" to do something. But there usually is. Really. Later today, I'm going to try smoking while standing on the other side of the building.

even the word "spreadsheet" is questionable, in my opinion

2005-04-25T12:46:00.000-07:00
I do believe that if I left this world right now, due to whatever chance circumstance, that the place I would end up (regardless of context or construct) would be either lined, stuffed, fueled and/or warmed by the burning of, or made from bricks of reams and reams of paper with incorrectly formatted spreadsheets printed on them. What You See Is What You Get, people. It's been that way for years. Print Preview!

There were two bags of Dangerously Cheesy Cheetos delivered this morning. I feel slightly better about things. However, the thought is still present that I may, in fact, be working with two large child characters from any combination of Stephen King novels. Diabolically manipulative children. Time for lunch!

Our motto is "Dangerously Cheesy"

2005-04-22T11:51:00.000-07:00
I just hit a new high. If you happened to be one of my coworkers, you just enjoyed the opportunity to see me actually empty the last of this week's Dangerously Cheesy bag of Cheetos directly into my head, via my gaping mouth and tipped-back head, all while sitting at my desk and reading an article about Pope Benedict the MXVIIXMIVC. As I wiped off the dusty orange Dangerously Cheesy moustache that I had just made, I was reminded that I intend (well, I've been intending since Tuesday, since the big announcement) to title a new entry "Il Papa, Don't Preach." I don't want to write it now, but I want everyone to know the title. That's just how I am. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

Sabbatical, or Toilus Interruptus

2005-04-22T11:32:00.000-07:00
Whew! I haven't had much time for a-bloggin' because I've been busy a-workin'. Here's something I've been thinking about while doing all of this aforementioned "work": I wonder if one can fire a coworker in the same way that one can make a citizen's arrest.

While I dream of the possibilities, I will revel in my rekindled love of Cheetos. They are free here. There's always another new bag each Monday. I haven't eaten this many Cheetos since I was in fifth grade and discovered Mountain Dew, laserdisc players, Saturday Night Live, Cheetos, and Vicki Johnson all in the span of one short and passionate fall. I have to remind myself of my motiviation, right? Right. Vive le weekend!

"It can't be done."

2005-03-17T15:29:00.000-08:00
"Cows don't even sleep standing up." "Yes it can!" "No. It can't!" "My buddies and I did it in college." "No you did not." I am listening to a prairie-dogging cubicle festival of a debate on whether or not cow-tipping can actually be accomplished. Ladies and gentlemen, these are the kind people who are now my co-workers. A few of them maintain that it can't be done. A few of them still believe the dream. I believe that it is time for me to leave for the day.

Happy St. Patrick's... Eve?

2005-03-16T21:45:00.000-08:00
Irish Coffee. A crappy-sounding airport lounge of a drink, a drink for Cold Girls, a supperclub dessert sort of drink, generally served in a really dumb sort of cup. One year ago, at my neighbor Danny's St. Patrick's Day Party, I was offered an Irish coffee and in the spirit of camraderie and gratitude, I accepted. I didn't mention that it would be my first. Naturally, in pure Me style, over the course of approximately three hours I drank the equivalent of three gallons of coffee, 2 liters of whiskey, one quart of heavy whipping cream, and 4 cups of sugar, portioned into roughly 52 tiny clear mugs. As I have discovered with many things, when the ingredients are of quality and are tasty on their own, an appalling idea can actually result in an okay combination. As a result of all of the coffee, I could not stop talking and blinking my eyes and being a really really intent listener for all of the other partygoers huddled around the coffeemaker. The coffee made me happy, but then again, the dark lady rarely disappoints me. The Irish whiskey just made me drunk and slightly melancholy. This year, will I go after a beverage that simultaneously makes me hyper-aware and paranoid of how utterly ridiculous I sound when drinking whiskey? Most likely. Ah... the Irish coffee. Not entirely an upper nor a downer, but a good friend indeed. Just like the Irish. Bottoms up!

Sinead O'Connor Paddywagon Lucky Charm Corned Beef Mother Can You Patch My Pants Go Bragh! Happy Boiled Dinner Three Leaf Clover Lord of The Dance Snake-Banishing St. Patrick's Day!