THE FAX MACHINE

If I rolled over at 8 am, flipped four hits of acid into my mouth and washed it down with a warm case of Genny Ale Light, the shit I heard throughout my career as I relaxed in my various Officles would still sound fucked up and out of sorts,like watching porn stars break into Shakespearan English right before the 'pipes get fixed' or after the wife 'gets even.' And it's not because I work in a complicated arena of intellectual giants who speak with such rhetoric and vigor that you actually care about what the person is mumbling. I mean,if anything, I think I work in the one profession where it's acceptable and dare I say expected to be a hack. So let's click our heals and go back to a memory, where I heard one of the top three worst statements ever oozed out of a fucking idiot, compounded by the fact that they said it all with that "take me serious because I am important and earned the word 'Executive' in my 'Executive Adminstrative Assistant' title. (NOTE: that title alone warrants a fucking blog)

I asked the following question verbatim. "Hey, what's the number of this fax machine so I can get something faxed here?" (NOTE: I don't know how many faxes you receive a year or how many you even try to send out, but it's a quarter short of a ton for me. So you would assume this question would be pretty 'in and out.')

Not so. I received a response that hit me in both crotch and throat...I was speechless and more then anything, confused.

"You should probably use another fax machine...this one is William's. (name
is fake to protect me).

Instantly I pulled back and shook my head right to left and tripped back three steps like I just heard the Chrystler Sebring was actually created and engineered by a straight man....because that statement COULDN'T have actually been said...not in reality at least. But no, I wasn't dreaming....Your own fax machine! The amount of people who decide 'fuck email' I'm gonna just fax it, is so much that the level of paper intake can not spare one more 8.5 x 11???? What...if you can't get me on my
blackberry, cell, or email just hit me on my fax machine????? Is that even an option to communicate anymore?? It's actually the most annoying way to communicate. Either that or 'Tele-Conferencing' which is more creepy then cool.(Not 'creepy' Haunted House, but 'sit on my lap eventhough I am a grown man 'creepy.' It's about one level above pony express in efficient communicating and you need your own??? How many times have you heard someone stress out because the 'faxes just keep coming through.'???

In and out my chest pushes slowly as to not have a John Cougar Mellencamp meltdown.

I love this job. I thank G-d for everyday I get to work in this field...Huurah.

Seriously.....what the fuck???

In between exit 72 and 75 there is a man walking on the side of the I-n-t-e-r-s-t-a-t-e (said really slow with a variety of enunciation as to emphasize ‘Interstate’) who is wearing a faded black outfit, possibly jorts, outlined in sweat stains with a plastic bag from Wall Greens in their hands. Three questions…that’s all I ask. 1. Where are they going on FOOT 2. Where the fuck are they coming from considering they wound up on the side of a highway and 3. What is penciled in on their ‘agenda for life.’

The highway wanderer and their garb isn’t one visual you can look at and dissect in the ‘oh NOW I get it’ type thinking now is it. And don’t give me the ‘maybe that’s the only way they can get around’ statement because a Lynx bus ticket is comparable in price to one of those atrocious light blue “Community Matters” wrist bands (popularized by one nut Armstrong…thanks asshole) so we aren’t talking a huge amount of money. And common sense should tell us all that walking side by side with 70 mile per hour cars, most of which are navigated by 75+ people who still wear Sani-Pads ain’t the best fucking way to ensure you make it to your final destination, unless its death, in which case, you are on target.

I'll even go ahead and say they didn't find the shortest route using MAPQUEST, so that excuse is out. I haven’t been this confused since I drove past RaceRock and saw it offered vanilla shakes and H-E-L-I-C-O-P-T-E-R Rides (said exactly like Interstate).

And always a black shirt, black pants, black shoes, or one of the before mentioned. Now, for Johnny Rapist, who just got done eyeing down a recently rohypnol’d UCF Delta Gamma in the middle of the ‘Paris Hilton’ dance club, this outfit makes sense…which I use loosely. Other then that, black is the one color, which absorbs heat as if you are asking the sun to focus on you. Walking in Orlando to keep warm are we?? And don’t give me the ‘have no money for clothes’ statement, because ‘sans’ shirt is free, which is a better option that using your shirt as a thin veil for your sweaty chest. The only other group I know who has such a dressing ritual is retards, because they are always wearing those black sneakers found on the creepy racks at Wall Mart…you know the brand…they’re called ‘Sierras” or “TopFlights” or some other cool name that no one has every heard of but aesthetically resemble Reebok or Nikes including the pocket of no return where you can keep a quarter. And don’t act like your not thinking the same G-d damn thing…because you are. Moving on….

“Wow, hurricane Katrina is just like 9-11.” Yeah, and Nickelback is just like Metallica. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. I have now heard over one hundred idiots make that statement and if you wear black sneakers you might be able to make sense of this statement, or at least drool on your shirt and piss yourself. The only thing they have in common is that it was bad and people died. Outside of that, you’ve left logic back where I left my class. It’s like drawing a comparison between getting kicked in the nuts by an ex girlfriend who you passed VD too and your brakes giving out while driving down a road. Both suck. Both will hurt cha, but one was done on purpose and the other…well the other one involved brake pads, rotors, manifold gaskets, and other shit I don’t understand. Two things can’t be the same if one lacks PURPOSE. A second grader who still wipes his ass with his hands can point that difference out to you. (DISCLAIMER: If you see a second grader wiping his ass with his hand I think it might be best to ‘pass’ on getting his opinion because he might be dealing with a couple other deeper issues…and one probably involves the next store neighbor who insists on being called Uncle).

Now, I admit, this rambling was a little bit vulgar and distasteful, but you know what…people are fucking weird and fucking annoying...me included. Guess I’ll have to deal with it then…

"Finding" Myself

In many fields you don’t really stumble upon people who are ‘interesting’ or ‘cool’ but rather ‘creepy’ and ‘boring.’ I have had this pleasure while doing work at such 5 Star shit dumps as the Clerks Office and Pep Boys Part Tires and Service. And while advertising does have an eclectic array of personalities and allows you to work ‘sans’ shower with alcohol still fresh on the tongue I decided to change all that. This will all be altered with my new ‘job transition.’ I needed to find the thing that was missing from my life. Now ‘finding Jesus’ would have been the easy, obvious ‘go to’ choice, but with my upbringing I would have surely failed that background check. After countless years and classes I think I have found the job that will bind body and soul. I have decided to become a detective.

I know what you are thinking..."You lose everything you own including your cell phone, belt, shoes, virginity and underwear, how are you going to find anyone or anything." Easy…practice and training. I will begin by hiding things around my house each week when I am drunk. In the morning when I awake I will take stock of what I am missing, and then 'track' those things down. This would mainly take place on the weekend and will serve as the foundation for my detective skills.

I will also sharpen my mind. I will do this by buying the board game "Guess Who." I will challenge people around the neighborhood until I have beaten them all. In case you don't know, "Guess Who" is a game of wits, skill, and anticipation in which one must deduce who the assailant is through a serious of detailed questions. These range from eye color, to gender, to fashion accessories. An example would be "Is your person wearing red glasses” Opponents Response: "Yes". Then you go in for the kill and the victory. "Is your person Bob?” If you are correct the game is over and you have correctly 'guessed who.' These are just building blocks, to further my development along until I achieve substantial detective skills. I will also start out small, as an entry-level detective. (Detectives with 0-2 years experience). I will specialize in lost puppies and kitties until I get my feet wet and gain the necessarily experience I need to move up.

My clients will consist of children ages 13 and under.... I will receive cookies and jokes as payment, although the experience I gain cannot be measured in rewards. Eventually I will move up to stolen cars and the like. Finally, I will be a full-blown detective, searching for missing children, much like the ones I used to work for. This will give me a competitive edge over other detectives because I will understand the victims since I have experience working close with them. (I will be the complete package). So this is my new plan, I figure I should achieve senior level detective by my 30th birthday as long as everything goes right and I don't 'lose a victim' or 'don't solve a case.' Anyone else have any career aspirations??

BEING QUEENS BOULEVARD

Unfortunately for you, you probably saw the subject line and thought I was going to go into something semi interesting and engrossing (or you were confused as fuck depending on the amount of HBO you watch). This unfortunately is a great accomplishment on my part of misdirection. The following will talk about what it takes outside of acumen and fervor to kick open double doors, beater stretched over with spinner necklace dangling all with a twice glazed look and a puzzling smile which says to the audience of malcontents that you don't need claps, handshakes or even that quick reassuring glance for approval. You are here to be a lunatic and enter a realm outside of any water cooler conversation. You are here because even though you forgot your ID you still got on to the plane using your Steamboat Season Pass, Insurance Card, and rhetoric. You are here screaming like a dusted homeless guy and the red paint from the town is dripping on your hands as you enter your fourth bar. You are here for Simple Man, Chimay White, and the step closer to owning your own glass complete with "JOO" engraving. You are here to add a sprinkle of idiocricy to a once calm and yet seemingly pretentious Sunday Brunch because your drink of choice is much stronger then those who dine off $1.50 Mimosas....and your choice of garb is 'slightly' off. You are here because in your jaded mind there is not a fucking person in eyesight who is immersing themselves in the oyster popping fun that is a Saturday night. You are here because you simply like being here. You might not always be here, this is true. But you will always be Queens Boulevard.

SKINS TURNING FROM YELLOW JAUNDICE, NEXT POST ON 8/14

4th of July: 5,000 Word Picture

IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S THAT I JUST DON'T CARE

Are you kidding me? He called you up past midnight on a Thursday asking you to come pick him up because he was so fuckin drunk that he could barely walk and then had the nerve to call you a nickel whore? Wow, that is so...

who fuckin cares.

As my heart tries to squeeze out just one more tear to the 'tough life' that some of the young successful professionals who live in ideal cities so very much desire, I will have to take a four second inhale/exhale Tantric breath because if I hear one more complaint that rivals the interest of Mannequin Two on the Move(although Kristy Swanson is at minimum an Golden Globe nominee), my head will explode into little tiny pieces of fragmented skull. Yes, I know that was a run on sentence, but grammar nor reason can stand in the way of my totally unprovoked rant on the weak willed that I have come to coin as the 'whaa generation.'

And it's not that I am bitter..I swear. I just think your stories belong on Lifetime or it's big gay sister, WE. After all, your story can slide in right before the program that depicts Johnny Nimble, the highschool jock who was an all star wrestler. You know, the boy with super smarts and exceptional hair and all the abilities that would gurantee such an bright sunny future except for that fact that Johnny is hell belt on believing 'no means yes' and you should be able to 'take what you think you earned and deserved'....not so good Johnny, not so good at all.

Here are a few helpful tips that you and Jeffrey might learn before your next trip to Toys R'Us.

1. Learning to love yourself first is the lamest thing on earth to say. Worse than baiting to that 4 second scene in Doc Hollywood when you see Julie Warner's(my apologizes as I had Andie McDowell at first) breasts. These are the same people who grew up having nightmares of the evil villain in the movie Ricochet..played by John effing Lithgow.
2. Don't put family first...They can fend for themselves.
3. Karma is NOT a scientific fact, so waiting around for someone to 'get theirs' is like watching a PG 13 movie and waiting for the hardcore porn scene...yes I realize Doc Hollywood was PG 13, but I challenge anyone to....nevermind.
4. If you don't like the way you are being treated by someone, GET FUCKING EVEN. If they are a co-worker, simply run a 'smear campaign' which would include ficticious lies which destroys their credibility and respect amongst the everyday office folk. For instance,
"Yeah, Jenny hasn't been the same since she cheated on her husband."
Response: "Jenny has a husband?"
Answer: "Only for like SEVEN years, but they have that whole 'open relationship' going on."

Problem solved...Jenny is done and you are king. Vicious? Mean? Ill-willed?
No sorry, the answer we were looking for was effective...Yes...Effective.

5. If you don't like your job...fuckin quit. And I swear to Christ if I give another answer to what people should do and they respond with "Yeah your right, but.." I'm gonna sack punch um or stick a hanger up their nose, rip out their brains, slash a gash in their back and stuff it with daffodils.

DISCLAIMER: I am not responsible for any advice I provide or advise against. My answers to problems are fruitless and nonsensical and I would fuck up the track that LeRon the cracked out skibby, who provides male/female oral to anyone with a 5 bag or a TooJays sandwich, is on.

These problems that I hear are as legitimate as the email I get on a semi regular basis, which makes bold promises such as a 24 hour erection and a real college degree in only 12 weeks.

Care gauge just hit empty.