Things You Don't Want to See At Work

Posted by John

In no way is this intended to be a comprehensive list, it’s simply a list of things that I’ve recently seen at work that I wish I hadn’t, and I think you’ll agree:

Chest Hair – This almost goes without saying, but of course I’ll say it anyway. One of the kids at work is in a band so on casual Fridays he likes to dress up like a rock and roll star to pretend his real job isn’t working in a shitty office for 40 hours each week. That means lots of necklaces, leather wristbands, and on more than one occasion, a rock star Affliction shirt with two too many buttons unbuttoned, showing off his less-than-manly chest hair. The first time I saw it I almost threw up like, “Dude, come on; it looks like you have a daddy-long-legs crawling around in there. Can you like button that up or wax that shit or something? I had chest hair like that when I was 7. Grow up.”

It’s worse when it’s like your boss’ Burt Reynolds chest hair or some shit. Chest hair stopped being manly in 1978, which is probably the last time your boss looked in the mirror.

Ankles – This might seem obscure until I put this mental image in your head: You’re sitting there in a meeting when the 50-something year old dude in the faded Dockers and scuffed up loafers sitting next to you leans way back in his chair and kicks his one leg up onto the knee of his other leg because old folks can’t sit in chairs without crossing their legs, and as he’s sitting there with his pant leg, that is too short to begin with, riding up to about mid calf and the worn out black dress sock that lost its elasticity about 8 years ago is wallowing somewhere down around the top of his shoe, all you can see is that pasty white ankle flesh that hasn’t seen the light of day in 3 decades. It’s even worse when you can see all those disgusting blue varicose veins all over the ankles. Obviously this example involves a man, but women are not exempt either. If anyone is looking down at your lower legs right now and it reminds you of directions you printed off from Mapquest, you need to cover up those ankles and those disgusting veins.

Wedding Photos – I guess it’s ok to have pictures of you and your spouse in your office or cube but if one of those pictures is from your wedding it’s so goddamn depressing and can mean only a handful of things: 1) After 20 years and three kids your spouse is now hideously ugly and you only want to remember him or her from the last day you actually found them attractive; 2) That or you want to remember what it was like the last time someone found you attractive.

“Oh, sweet picture, Bob. Was this your wedding day? That’s really neat. What was this, like a barbeque themed wedding or something? You look good in this photo; I didn’t think I could imagine you with hair…”

Hot Dogs – Certainly this one is very obscure but I can assure you it’s true. I recently had to relocate desks to a cubicle just outside the office kitchenette. Just the other day I was seated in my new cube at 9:45 AM when I detected the unmistakable scent of hot dog. No shit. I stood up immediately to see if my olfactory was deceiving me just in time to see someone emerge from the kitchenette with a goddamn hotdog in their hand. A hot dog! At 9:30 in the goddamn morning? If you start your day with a hot dog, where does it go from there? I can tell you this – wherever the day does go it’s going to pause for about 30 minutes in the shitter. No question about that.

That reminds me of the time at my old job when a woman had finally earned her US citizenship having lived and worked in the country for more than a decade, so her department threw a congratulations-on-your-naturalization-hot-dog-party for her. I’m not making that shit up. They wanted to celebrate her citizenship in the most American way they could think of. Nothing says welcome to the United States like some pig innards boiled to perfection followed by two days of indescribable indigestion. God bless Oscar Mayer!

That also reminds me how the wife and I were out with some friends a few weekends ago at a new restaurant/bar in town. It was a long wait for a table so we bellied up to the bar for some drinks. As 30-something-year-old breast-less dudes, my buddy and I had to increase our chances of getting the bartender’s attention so we had to flank either side of a couple sitting at the bar eating their dinner. Admittedly I was standing uncomfortably close to the female in the couple but I didn’t have much choice and she took notice.

“You look bored,” she said to me.

“I’m sorry?”

“You look bored.”

No, I really enjoy fucking standing here trying to get this slapdick bartender’s attention, “Oh, no, I’m just trying to get a drink while we’re waiting for a table.”

“Well, the food is really good here so it’s worth the wait.”

I found it extremely odd that she was talking to me at all because I certainly wasn’t projecting the need or desire to be having a conversation. I don’t think she was hitting on me largely because she was with another dude and largely because at my age and marital status random females don’t talk to me anymore basically because my cubicle is covered in wedding photos. I figured ultimately she must have been projecting her boredom onto me. Still, it was odd for her to be speaking to me at all.

“Oh really, do you recommend anything on the menu?” I asked.

“Well, the pizza is great, as is the hamburger, and I really like the salmon and the tuna wrap…”

“I’m sorry, do you work and/or live here? Didn’t this place just open?” Clearly I wasn’t hitting on her.

“No, but I do live nearby.”

“I see,” I said, “Well is there anything on the menu you wouldn’t recommend?”

Without hesitation, “The hot dog. It’s not very good at all.”

Really? The fucking hot dog isn’t good? I’m shocked. “Well, I haven’t eaten a hot dog since 1997, so I wasn’t going to order it, but thanks for the warning.”

“What???” she said, beside herself, “You don’t eat hot dogs? You must not get wasted.”

“I’m sorry?” I said, confused, “I thought we were talking about hot dogs. What does getting wasted have to do with hot dogs?”

“You’ve never been wasted at 3 AM craving a hot dog?”

It’s at this exact moment in the conversation that I knew the conversation was over. IF this girl had been hitting on me, which I don’t think she was, in a mere 30 seconds she told me she can’t cook, she still routinely gets wasted in her mid-30’s, and she has an insatiable jones for hot dogs. The conversation was over.

“Just last weekend,” she continued, “my girlfriend and I were wasted at like 2 AM and we were SOOO hungry so we went to the Exxon station for some hot dogs. It was SOOO good. You’ve never done that?”

Fucking-A lady, why would you admit to anyone that you ate a hot dog from and Exxon Mobile gas station? I’m surprised the fumes from your colon haven’t escaped your mouth and eaten the flesh off my face over the course of this conversation. Suddenly I’m not hungry anymore. Ever.

Phull On Lander

Posted by John


If any of you read my good friend Chris’ post the other day and thought, “Hey, what’s wrong with Nickelback? I really like that Rockstar song on the radio,” go ahead and stop what you’re doing right now, stand up, do a few trunk twists, knock out a couple toe touches, really stretch out those hammies and quads, and just get loosened up all around so you can kick yourself in the goddamn face. Nickelback is horrible. Twenty years from now Nickelback will replace Aerosmith as the band of choice in every seedy strip club in America where all the fat, sweaty, bald, sleazy 50-something year old dirtbag men who are currently in your peer group are paying your daughter’s way through college.

--

We went to a Predator’s Hockey game the other night, or as the wife says, “What the fuck kind of mascot is a predator?” with a friend of ours. The game itself was quite fun if a bit uneventful, but the true action was not on the ice, rather it was up in Section 305, Row M, Seat 19 to be exact.

We were lucky enough to have been seated next to the friendliest and most talkative 6-year-old imaginable, who also happened to be the biggest Predator’s fan on the face of the earth. We weren’t in our seats more than 30 seconds before he started chatting up our friend and the wife and he didn’t stop talking for the next two hours. He was largely regaling them with every ounce of knowledge he had in his head, 90% of which was about dinosaurs. No shit, this kid had compiled more information about dinosaurs in his six years on the planet than I have in my 30, and that says a lot because I was the Triceratops in the 4^th Grade Layton Elementary School play and you don’t get a part like that simply with good looks. At any rate, it was like this kid had practically lived through the Mesozoic era, talking about what they ate, how big they were, how they hunted in packs. The kid even talked about the meteor that struck the earth and wiped them all out 65 million years ago. Most Americans, including most former vice presidential and future presidential candidates, don’t even know that shit.

The kid was truly precocious and full of wonderment in every sense of the phrase, right down to the little rat tail he had hanging off the back of his head. At first I thought it was hilarious and awesome but then I realized at the ripe age of 6 he lacked the irony to realize how funny the rat tail was so I was left with only one thought – “Wow, his parents make bad decisions.”

We learned a lot from the kid that night, but some things really stuck out, as in, I will never in my life forget some of the shit the kid said. Our collective mental reactions to his statements are in italics below:

Our Friend: “So do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Boy: “I have a brother but he’s in heaven.”

Oh. My. God. That is the most horrible thing I have ever heard.

Dad: “What’d you say boy?”

Boy: “I said my brother is in heaven.”

Wow, it sounds even worse the second time.

Dad: “You know that’s not true, boy…”

Oh, thank god it’s not true.

Dad: “Your sister is in heaven. She died in a car crash when she was 2…”

Ahh, fucking-a, that is now the absolute worst thing I have ever heard.

Dad: “He has two half brothers too, but we don’t know where they is…”

Holy shit, stop talking now. This can’t possibly get any worse.

But that’s not the worst part because our friend asked the boy what his name was. Again, our collective thoughts are in italics:

Boy: “Philander.”

What the fuck did you say? Your name is “Philander”??? (Honestly from my seat I thought he said, “Salander,” which I thought was perhaps the strangest name I’d ever heard, until….)

Philander: “Wanna hear me spell it? P-h-i-l-a-n-d-e-r! Philander!”

Fucking-A, your name is Philander!

I seriously had to Google that shit to make sure it was actually a name. It is:

“From the Greek name Philandros meaning “friend of man”; from Greek philos, “friend,” and andros, “of a man.” In the 18^th century this was coined as a word meaning “to womanize”, and the name subsequently dropped out of use.”

Or so we thought.

Seriously, how the hell did the kid get the name Philander? I’m guessing the dad’s name was Phil and his two sons who disappeared with their mother were probably named Phil Jr. and Philips while his daughter in heaven was named Philippine , so pops was at a loss as the new son was baking in the oven until he informed one of his other baby’s mamas that he impregnated another woman, again, and she flew off the handle, “You are such a philandering asshole!” and the rather dim light bulb went off, so was born Philander Asshole Jones. Then again, based on the father’s obvious lack of dental insurance, I’m pretty certain none of his babies’ mamas knew what philosophy was, let alone philandering.

After all that I couldn't help but think about what I would name my three sons if I were so lucky to have three sons with one or more mothers. I’m thinking probably Johnson, Tommy Johns, and Jongleur, or something. 

Instant Analysis

Posted By Chris

The first time I meet someone, there may be some things that are said during our first conversation that make it obvious to me that I will click with this person (“Nice to meet you Chris, I just got back from Vegas where I played blackjack and saw the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s in concert. Can I buy you a shot of Patron?”), or that I won’t click with this person (“Hey Chris, I was just released from prison after serving 3 years on a child pornography conviction. I need to catch a bus downtown. Do you know where the nearest bus stop is? Preferably one by a middle school.”).

I’ve decided to make a list of immediate tell-tale signs on whether I will or won’t like a new acquaintance. If you read this and it seems like you're on the “Won’t Like” list, I’m sorry. Maybe you should try harder to stop sucking at life and then we can be friends.

1. Will Like: You are a fan of the cancelled television show Arrested Development. I’ve never met someone who said this show was “just OK”. You either love it (to the point of obsession), or hate it. It’s a similar response if you ask someone if they like the New York Yankees. They either immediately say, “Fuck the Yankees”, or they rattle off stats about Paul O’Neill in 1994 with a tear in their eye. I’m the same way about Gob Bluth.

2. Won’t Like: You like the show Two and a Half Men. I could write a month full of blog posts on why this show, and shows like it, are exactly what’s wrong with America. I don’t know how a show like this reaches number one in the ratings, but it speaks directly to the dumbing down of our culture. It's a ridiculously simple show, with a douchebag cast of characters, badly reciting un-funny jokes. Watching this show for 5 minutes will have you begging to trade places with Helen Keller.

3. Won’t Like: You have attended, or have wanted to attend, the American Idols concert tour. Here’s some advice, save yourself $75 and go to your local mall in 2 years and watch any of these people preform for free outside the food court.

4. Will Like: You like the Handsome Furs. In my opinion, album of the year so far in 2009. I have a long, funny story I will share at another time which involves The Handsome Furs, shots of Jameson, a missing friend, a lawn chair, moonwalking, off-broadway actors, and a 4 hour shower.

5. Will Like: You’d rather have a TiVo than a dog. I’m not a big dog person. I’m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with having to wake up to take out the dog at 3:00am in January in zero degree weather, or having to purchase new furniture after the dog scratches it and ruins it, or having to buy new shoes after the dog chews them up, or having to pay hundreds of dollars to put your dog in a kennel while you go out of town for the weekend, or even worse, having to inconvenience someone by asking them to watch your dog while you go out of town for the weekend, or being forced to follow around the dog and pick up it’s shit or else run the risk of being looked on by society as a terrible human being, or having to buy food for the dog, or making sure the dog gets his appropriate shots, or having to take a large amount of time to train the dog, or if you are an incapable or lazy person, having to pay someone else to train your dog for you, or installing an invisible fence around your yard so your untrained dog doesn’t run away, or having to be extra careful when backing out of your driveway to make sure you don’t run over the dog, or being forced to watch the movie “Marley and Me” by your wife or kids because it’s a movie about dogs, or being forced to go into a pet store every time you walk by one to see if there’s anything new you need for the dog, or being bothered by your dog barking every time a leaf blows in the yard or a squirrel runs by the window, or having your guests bothered by a dog who won’t stop jumping on them or licking them, or feeling absolutely ridiculous about yourself when you’re using your high pitched dog voice while at home alone with your dog. With a TiVo, you plug it in, hit a few buttons, and never miss another television show the rest of your life. Man’s best friend? The answer is 4 letters, and it’s not Fido.

6. Won’t Like: You’ve been to more than one Nascar race. I have several friends that have been to one, and only one, Nascar race. And most say it’s not as bad as they thought. But no friend of mine would go back twice. You’ve got to know your limits. One and done. It’s like going to a really shady strip club. You went once, saw what it was like, got a funny story or two, and can say you’ve done it. Any more than that, you’re just looking at a bunch of toothless people with sad back-stories and STD’s.

7. Will Like: You know where the “Jerk Store” line comes from: Hint: Season 8, episode 13.

8. Won’t Like: You are emotionally invested in The Hills. I should extend this to anyone who watches MTV at all, but I’ll keep it to the viewers of this bottom of the barrel TV show that is slowly turning the young girls of America into bitchy drama queens who want nothing more than to look good in expensive dresses and go to the club. The sluts on this show and the people that watch it usually have one thing in common, which is....

9. Won’t Like: You speak using texting abbreviations. OMG, IDK Y people actually talk like this when the are speaking to you. LOL! Well, IHATPLTATS. (translation: I Hope All These People Lose The Ability To Speak).

10. Will Like: You never attend work the first two days of March Madness. This Thursday and Friday in March present some of the best sports drama of the year, and it’s a time for undiscovered student athletes to shine on the national spotlight. It’s a time to cheer for the underdog, and to celebrate the efforts of these unpaid college athletes. It’s also a time to load up your online gambling account and hope you cover the spread.

11. Won’t Like: You enjoy the musical stylings of Nickelback. Hey, maybe I’ll purchase some black jeans, get some tattoos of chinese symbols of which I don’t know the meaning, buy some Skoal, and we can listen to over-produced radio pop-rock together. Umm..... doubtful. What isn’t doubtful is that this is the worst band ever.

12. Will Like: You throw up in your mouth a little bit every time you hear the words “John Elway” and “The Drive” in the same sentence. It’s hard being a fan of Cleveland professional sports, especially The Browns. It’s a great bonding experience to commiserate with fellow Browns fans about the ineptitude of our once beloved franchise. A franchise that is currently run by completely clueless idiots and is in total free-fall mode. It must be how Glenn Beck feels talking to his callers every day.

13. Won’t Like: You are asked what a goal that you have is, and you answer, “To run a marathon. I love to challenge myself.” Get off your high horse douchebag. I can challenge myself by only getting 2 helpings of dinner instead of 3. I don’t need 6 gallons of sweat and chapped inner thighs to prove my will power to anybody.

14. Will Like: You know Zack and Kelly’s song is A-12 on the jukebox. Nothing beats a good episode of Saved By The Bell when you want to go back to a simpler time in your life. A time when you lived at home with mom and dad, didn’t have bills to pay, and could watch Kelly Kapowski become a woman right before your eyes. Those were the days.

15: Won’t Like: You release a petition directly opposing my petition:

http://www.petitiononline.com/genesis/

License to Douche

Posted by John

A few weeks ago the wife and I went to dinner with some friends at a great little local, family owned Mexican restaurant not too far from our house. We were seated right away and ordered the requisite pitcher of margaritas. The waitress did her job and requested our ID’s, which my wife was more than happy to brandish because she’s getting old and being carded makes her feel young or something. The other couple we were with are also transplants from Ohio and commented on the fact that the wife and I still hadn’t gotten Tennessee licenses even though you are required by law to do so within 30 days of moving. The wife, unfazed by breaking any laws said, “I know, we’re still here illegally!”

Dear god, you should have seen the look on my fucking face. We were in a goddamn Mexican family restaurant and she announced to the entire goddamn place that we are here “illegally.” I thought for sure the doors to the kitchen would burst open and a mariachi band in full poncho and sombrero regalia would emerge singing a song like, “Fiesta! Bienvenido a America! Cha, cha, cha! Fiesta!”

Then they’d see we’re nothing but a couple northern Yankees and they’d be like, “Ah, stupid fucking gringos! You spend 4 hours tied to the chassis of a goddamn pickup truck and then tell me about being illegal!”

I didn’t want that incident to ever happen again so a few days later I took a half-day off work to go to the DMV and get a new license. I arrived 15 minutes before it opened only to find a line 50 people deep already standing outside, most of whom didn’t look like they could read, let alone drive.

After standing in line, filling out the requisite forms and paying the fee, I was finally seated in front of the teal blue Tennessee license backdrop to have my picture taken. The woman behind the camera said, “Smile on the count of three. One… Two……………..”

Jesus Christ lady, what are you doing, reinstalling the camera software on the computer or some shit? Take the fucking picture already!

For the record, I’m a horribly un-photogenic person. I’ve known this my whole life so consequently I shy away from photographs whenever possible unless I’m wasted. If I’m wasted at least later I can be like, “Oh look, I was wasted; that’s hilarious.” Otherwise if I’m not wasted it’s like, “Oh wow, I look like I’m wasted but I’m not; that’s hideous.” It’s worse when I have to pose for formal pictures or when I have to hold some sort of facial expression until the picture is taken. It’s like I have to concentrate so hard on not moving a muscle in my face that when the picture is finally taken I’m wearing an expression that looks like I’m trying not to shit my pants. Just the other night in fact, we were out with some friends celebrating a birthday and had the waitress take a picture of the group. Immediately after she snapped the photo she was like, “Oh, yeah, I can just go ahead and take another one if you want…” We declined but I knew right away what the problem was and sure enough, 4 of the 5 faces in the picture looked great but there I was looking like I’d just pooped in my pants a little bit. I’m powerless to stop it. In fact, I don’t have any evidence to support this, but I’d be willing to bet that I’ve lost friends because of my lack of photogenicity. I’m sure this exact conversation has happened among former friends of mine:

“Hank, we can not invite that guy out any more. Every time we do someone inevitably brings out a camera and he ruins every one of the pictures. It’s like he’s ruining our memories.”

“Come on Bonnie, he’s not that bad. What’s the big deal if he looks funny in photographs?”

“Hank! I swear he looks like he has a turtle head poking out or something. It just creeps me out and I’m tired of it.”

“Well, you’re kind of right about that. I wonder what his problem is. Maybe he does have a turtle head poking out…”

Anyway, when the woman behind the camera at the DMV finally said, “Three!” I knew my face looked like I was trying not to shit in my pants.

I asked her immediately, “How was that picture?”

“Oh it’s just great,” she said, “You look great.”

“Really??? Because it felt like I looked like I was trying not to shit. Are you sure it’s okay?”

“I’m just printing it off right now and you’ll be all set to go…”

It’s at this point in the story that I’ll let you have the same reaction to seeing my new license as I did:

I’m not making this up. That’s my actual Tennessee driver’s license now. How the fuck does that happen? I think I actually uttered the words, “Shit balls,” out loud when I saw it.

I looked up at the lady as if to say, “What the fuck is this???”

She replied, “It looks good. You have a nice day now,” in a tone that suggested what she was really saying was, “Listen here dick face; there are 137 people in line behind you right now; it’s Friday; I hate my job and I hate my life and right now all I can think about is going home to eat some pie, smoke some cigarettes, and pass out on my couch watching old episodes of Night Court, so you can take that ugly ass license and shove it up your pretty little corn hole because I am not taking your picture again. Now fuck off.”

Seriously, look at how horrible that picture is. It honestly looks like I’m still wasted the day after a bar fight. Either that or I’m auditioning to be a backup singer in Radiohead. 

Plus, look at how my gigantic ears are casting massive shadows on the backdrop behind me, making it look like I have the biggest mullet this side of Arkansas. This whole thing is just all types of embarrassing.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words but this picture is only saying one thing, “Hi, my name is Trevor and I like young boy’s penises, sometimes I enjoy torturing small domesticated house pets, and occasionally I wear pretty blouses fashioned from human skin.”

Seriously, have you ever seen a worse photo ID? If yours is even remotely this bad I implore you to scan it in and send it to me. I promise I’ll post it on the blog and make fun of you. 

Charity Case

Posted by John

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love charity. In fact, they used to call me Johnny Charity Case for the longest time because I was so charitable.

It was exactly because of my charitableness that I was so excited for Charity Week at work recently. Truthfully it wasn’t actually called “Charity Week,” it was “United Way Week,” but it’s pretty much the same thing. If there’s one thing that’s more into charity than I am, it’s my company. I had just started working there last year when Charity Week came around so I failed to grasp the importance of it at the time, largely because all the turd-log engineers I work with are anti-social, selfish pricks. So it wasn’t until after Charity Week last year that I came to realize how important United Way, and charity in general, is to the company.

I was ready for it this year though. The Monday of Charity Week kicked off with a lunch potluck, complete with door prizes and games to get everyone fired up for all the charity that was to come. Tuesday was designated as a “Day of Caring” during which the company encouraged everyone to take two hours off of work to volunteer at a local Goodwill-like clothing store. Wednesday was a big Volunteer Fair at the office where various organizations associated with United Way came in to set up booths to try to encourage people to donate time or money to their causes. Thursday was another Day of Caring at an inner city daycare/school. Friday was a big wrap-up tailgate and concert on the plaza in front of the office building.

I had another obligation on Monday so I didn’t make it to the potluck, which was just as well because I was already fired up for charity. Tuesday couldn’t come soon enough though. I signed up for both Days of Caring because not only did I want to help, but I also wanted to take two hours off of work. That and I didn’t want to be the only person in the company to not volunteer.

Well, how silly of me, because it turned out I wouldn’t have been the only one to not volunteer - I was one of only 8 people to volunteer. I walked in like, “Where the fuck is everyone?”

“This is it, man.”

“Really? We have an office of 250 fucking people and only 8 volunteered?”

Whatever. I don’t need a crowd of people to do charity.

The Volunteer Fair on Wednesday was really good. There were 10 different very worthy, very needy organizations so I gathered information from all of them to consider my charitable options. There was a lot more attendance at the fair than the Day of Caring, but truthfully that was only because you could enter your name into a raffle to win an iPod Nano if you visited all the booths and had them sign your ticket. In all honesty I would have gone to the fair regardless, but fuck it, while I was there I was dead set on winning that Nano.

It was awkward though, as you can imagine approaching someone’s booth, listening to their pitch about how they work with at-risk, illiterate, homeless kids with heart disease and cerebral palsy, or whatever the case was, then being like, “It sounds like you do really great work… by the way, can you sign my ticket here? I really want to win that Nano.”

I actually felt so bad and awkward about it that I made it a point to stay and talk to each of the presenters for several minutes, then I developed this admittedly retarded little routine where I would thank them for their time, take two steps away, turn suddenly on my heel like I’d forgotten something, then say, “Oh, I just remembered… could you possibly sign this ticket for me?” I’m such a douche.

I volunteered for Thursday’s Day of Caring expecting more people to show up. Again, silly me. I walked into the place to find another 8 fucking people. And the thing was, only 4 of the people were repeats. That means the other 4 people who volunteered on Tuesday were like, “Yup, that’s good enough for me. Two hours a year is about all I have time for. I sure am happy with the turn out though. We really represented the shit out of the company at this charity today…” Fuck it, whatever.

Like I said, I was at an inner city daycare/school that I will say in all honesty is one of the most remarkable places I’ve ever been to for what they’re able to accomplish with how little they have to work with. In fact, they asked us just to help out with landscaping and cleaning carpets and whatnot because they simply don’t have time for it. I got put on playground cleaning duty, which is exactly what it sounds like. They had one of those big metal and plastic jungle gym playgrounds that looked like it had 25-years of child-filth all over it. The problem was, the only supplies we had available to us were two bottles of 409 and some old t-shirt rags. 409? Seriously, I didn’t know they even still made that shit.

After spending an hour-and-45-minutes scrubbing the shit out of that playground, thinking the whole time how I could have brought my pressure washer if only I’d known, the assistant maintenance man for the school walked on by and was like, “Ya’ll know we have a pressure washer here, don’t you?”

I glared back at him with a look that said, “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

Apparently he could read my mind because he said, “Seriously; it’s right here,” where he literally took 15 steps to a utility closet and produced a gasoline powered pressure washer.

Again, the look on my face said, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

We then spent the next 15 minutes unsuccessfully trying to get the fucking thing to start, after which he said, “Well, apparently it doesn’t work. At least you didn’t miss out on anything.”

Actually, I beg to differ shitface. I could have spent the last hour-and-45-minutes figuring out how to get the fucking thing started then I could have power washed the whole fucking playground in 15 minutes and my fingers wouldn’t be bleeding and burning from scrubbing the shit out it with old rags and fucking 409. But whatever. Whatever. This was for charity and I’m all about fucking charity.

Friday was the wrap-up tailgate and concert. Lest you get excited like I did and think there was beer and shit for the tailgate, there wasn’t. In fact, I don’t know why they called it a tailgate because there wasn’t anything remotely resembling a tailgate. To make matters more confusing, each of the divisions was supposed to set up their own themed tailgates and the best theme would win something for the division. Do you have any idea what the theme of my division’s tailgate was? It was “tailgate.” I’m not making this shit up. The goddamn theme of our tailgate was “tailgate.” What the fuck? What are we, like 4 years old here or something? That’s like getting an orange cat as a kid and naming it Orange Cat. Who does that?

I was bombarded all week with e-mails from my division leader suggesting, then asking, then demanding we all bring tailgate food, flags, chairs, coolers, ice… everything you could think of for a “tailgate” tailgate except the one thing you really need – beer. Sign up sheets were passed around once, twice, three times, each with more pressure and guilt in tow. Finally I caved and signed up to bring a veggie tray and two fold out camping chairs, which I immediately regretted as I was lugging all that shit with me while trying to ride the shuttle into work Friday morning. My only saving grace was the fact that everyone was supposed to wear their favorite football jersey for the tailgates, so instead of wearing a football jersey, I wore a futbol jersey. So there I was, holding two chairs and a goddamn veggie try but I was just as smug as a clam because I had on my number 8, Steven Gerrard, Liverpool soccer jersey.

Well, silly me, yet again. Apparently while I was out of the office on Thursday afternoon doing charity work like I thought I was supposed to be doing during fucking Charity Week, an e-mail circulated through the company explaining the Friday tailgate and concert would be postponed until Monday due to the inclement weather forecast. So after dragging in a goddamn veggie tray and two fucking camping chairs, not only was I the only person in the office wearing a futbol jersey, I was the only one in the office wearing a goddamn jersey of any type because all the other fuck-all employees skipped the Day of Caring and therefore got the e-mail about the postponed tailgate. Fuck me. I looked like such an idiot.

Not only that but I didn’t win the goddamn iPod Nano. In fact, some ancient 70-year-old woman won the fucking thing. I was so furious, like what in the hell is this decrepit, old woman going to do with a fucking Nano? Download weather reports from the internet or something?  

I hate fucking charity. 

Love and Peace or Else

Posted by John


I'm sure you all saw the news that my boy 'Bama won the Nobel Peace Prize the other day. Depending on whether you own a bunch of guns or not you either find that news irritating at best, infuriating at worst, and further evidence of a broad liberal media conspiracy, OR you find the news awesome, encouraging, and further evidence that people who believe in a broad liberal media conspiracy need to suck it. I’m just kidding; that’s not very peaceful of me.

Regardless of your stance on the legality of shooting your neighbor in the face if he sets foot on your property, Obama's honor admittedly comes as a surprise. Let me put it in perspective - It would be the same as if we were to fast forward to the 2009 Heisman Trophy Presentation; Tim Tebow would be sitting there, nervous yet confident like all pompous assholes are, certain that he'll be only the second player in history to win two Heisman’s. Then next thing he knows, the presenter steps to the podium and announces the name, "Jesus Christ!¹"

Understandably Tebow would be shocked. He'd be like, "What the fuck? Jesus Christ? I mean, the guy is awesome, don't get me wrong. I just didn't even know he was like eligible for a Heisman. Granted, he has saved way more souls than I've thrown touchdown passes but I was totally not expecting this. I mean, I can't be upset about this, right? It's Jesus Christ for Christ's sake."

Clearly the Peace Prize is as much about what Obama's already done as it is about the potential for what he will do, and I honestly believe he will do it. But it's also clearly just an absolute referendum against everything the previous administration did. You know Bush was just clearing some brush on his ranch in Crawford when he heard the news and he was like, "Really? The fucking Nobel Peace Prize? I understand I was the worst president the intergalactic community will ever know - like way worse than that Emperor guy from those Space Wars movies - but come on! The guy hasn't even had time to take a shit in all the toilets in the White House yet! How are you gonna give him the Nobel Peace Prize already???"

It would be the same if in the year after Michael Vick was convicted for dog fighting and kicked out of the league, the NFL got together and decided they were going to give the Super Bowl trophy to the Atlanta Falcons without even bothering to play the season. Like, "We're not even sure who the next quarterback will be for the Falcons, but fuck it, the last guy was such a dick we're just going to give them the trophy this year. All in favor say, 'Aye!' Let the record show there was a unanimous vote: Michael Vick is a dick and the Falcons are the 2007-2008 Super Bowl Champions!"

Vick would be thinking, "Ahh, come on! The Super Bowl? Really? Seriously, if someone had just pulled me aside to tell me that it is not cool to raise dogs for the sole purpose of killing other dogs; nor is it cool to beat the dogs mercilessly to toughen them up; nor is it cool to euthanize dogs who perform poorly, chop their bodies up into little pieces, then bury then in shallow graves throughout the backyard; if anyone had told me that stuff wasn’t cool I totally would have stopped. Seriously, I would have stopped. But now here I am rotting in this minimum security prison while you have to go and give my former team the Super Bowl? Well that’s just a kick in the nuts.”

Clearly the fallacy of this analogy is if anyone had ever pulled Bush aside to tell him everything he did on a daily basis was wrong, he would have been like, “Oh really? You don’t think it’s cool for me to make back room deals with the coal companies to allow them to dump billions of tons of carbon into the atmosphere? Maybe you’ll feel differently if my pet Rottweiler is chewing on your balls. You like that? This little puppy was a gift from Michael Vick. I’ll tell you, you won’t find a more loyal pup than one raised by Michael Vick. I like that guy; he’s fast…”

1. Before all of you Fox Newsies get your panties in a bunch and run out to stock up on more ammo², I am NOT saying Obama is Jesus Christ; I’m just making a funny analogy that basically boils down to the fact that Tim Tebow is a raging douchebag.

2. Who am I kidding? All of those people stopped reading after the line, “My boy ‘Bama...”