Interesting
Does anyone else find it odd that both my happiest memory and my deepest, darkest secret start with “Once, when I was out of underwear...”?
Friday, June 25, 2004
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Relationships
I just read this post over at Jez’s blog, and it got me thinking about Red and I. Red and I have lived together for a year and a half, and I would have trouble calling a place home if she weren't in it.
But it wasn't always that way.
At first, we lived in a smaller place and neither of us ever had our own space. In fact, the place we lived in was so small, that when you closed the front door, the doorknob got in bed with you. And I liked it. It was in those first six months that I realized that living together is TOTALLY different from sleeping over. Even sleeping over every night.
It took quite a while, and two new places, for us to finally get into a good rhythm. A rhythm where we didn’t keep the neighbors awake all night with our yelling. A rhythm where I realized that she’s not just my girlfriend, she’s a person. A rhythm where she realized that I’m a total asshole, and that’s one of the reasons she loves me. A rhythm nation.
We’ve had our ups and downs, our trials and tribulations, our victories and defeats, our hits and misses, our smiles and frowns, our Dean Martins and our Jerry Lewises. Hell, I’ve broken my share of plates, and she’s, well, she’s watched me break my share of plates. And we came through it in the end.
And now she’s wearing a ring that I bought on sale. And we’re getting married in less than four months. And my life is going to be as wonderful as Wonder-Boy wondering if he can carve a statue of Wonder-Woman out of Wonder-Bread.
I guess what I'm saying is that living together has, at different times, been the best and the worst thing to happen to our relationship. I can't blame anyone for not being sure about taking that step, no matter how committed you are to each other.
It’s a big fucking step.
But don't read too much into it if your significant other isn’t sure about sharing an address: Sometimes talking about marriage is easier than sharing a TV remote.
I just read this post over at Jez’s blog, and it got me thinking about Red and I. Red and I have lived together for a year and a half, and I would have trouble calling a place home if she weren't in it.
But it wasn't always that way.
At first, we lived in a smaller place and neither of us ever had our own space. In fact, the place we lived in was so small, that when you closed the front door, the doorknob got in bed with you. And I liked it. It was in those first six months that I realized that living together is TOTALLY different from sleeping over. Even sleeping over every night.
It took quite a while, and two new places, for us to finally get into a good rhythm. A rhythm where we didn’t keep the neighbors awake all night with our yelling. A rhythm where I realized that she’s not just my girlfriend, she’s a person. A rhythm where she realized that I’m a total asshole, and that’s one of the reasons she loves me. A rhythm nation.
We’ve had our ups and downs, our trials and tribulations, our victories and defeats, our hits and misses, our smiles and frowns, our Dean Martins and our Jerry Lewises. Hell, I’ve broken my share of plates, and she’s, well, she’s watched me break my share of plates. And we came through it in the end.
And now she’s wearing a ring that I bought on sale. And we’re getting married in less than four months. And my life is going to be as wonderful as Wonder-Boy wondering if he can carve a statue of Wonder-Woman out of Wonder-Bread.
I guess what I'm saying is that living together has, at different times, been the best and the worst thing to happen to our relationship. I can't blame anyone for not being sure about taking that step, no matter how committed you are to each other.
It’s a big fucking step.
But don't read too much into it if your significant other isn’t sure about sharing an address: Sometimes talking about marriage is easier than sharing a TV remote.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Make Me Stop!
She said she wanted a mink, so I bought her a mink. She said she wanted a silver fox, so I bought her a silver fox. She said she wanted a beaver, so I bought her a beaver. It was ridiculous: the house was full of animals.
She wanted a silver fox, I wanted a new car. We compromised. We bought the fur, but we keep it in the garage.
Red and I are going to have a great marriage. We laid some ground rules, and we’re sticking to them. For example: “Three nights out with the boys every week.” She wants to go out with the boys more, but I won’t let her.
A friend of mine asked, “KOTWF, should I talk to my wife during sex?” I said, “If there’s a phone handy.”
She didn’t like doing the dishes, so I bought her an electric dishwasher. She didn’t like doing laundry, so I bought her an electric washing machine. She complained that now the house is so full of gadgets there’s no place to sit...so I bought her an electric chair.
She has the most beautiful red hair growing halfway down her back. I just wish there were some on her head.
“KOTWF,” she asked, “were there many women before me?” After a pause she said, “Well! I’m still waiting!” I replied, “And I’m still counting.”
As a traveling salesman, I find myself in a lot of strange situations. Once, I broke down on a back country road, and I went to the closest farmhouse to seek accommodations. “Well,” said the farmer, “you’ll have to share a bed with my son.” “Shit,” I replied, “I’m in the wrong joke.”
Take my wife, please!
She said she wanted a mink, so I bought her a mink. She said she wanted a silver fox, so I bought her a silver fox. She said she wanted a beaver, so I bought her a beaver. It was ridiculous: the house was full of animals.
She wanted a silver fox, I wanted a new car. We compromised. We bought the fur, but we keep it in the garage.
Red and I are going to have a great marriage. We laid some ground rules, and we’re sticking to them. For example: “Three nights out with the boys every week.” She wants to go out with the boys more, but I won’t let her.
A friend of mine asked, “KOTWF, should I talk to my wife during sex?” I said, “If there’s a phone handy.”
She didn’t like doing the dishes, so I bought her an electric dishwasher. She didn’t like doing laundry, so I bought her an electric washing machine. She complained that now the house is so full of gadgets there’s no place to sit...so I bought her an electric chair.
She has the most beautiful red hair growing halfway down her back. I just wish there were some on her head.
“KOTWF,” she asked, “were there many women before me?” After a pause she said, “Well! I’m still waiting!” I replied, “And I’m still counting.”
As a traveling salesman, I find myself in a lot of strange situations. Once, I broke down on a back country road, and I went to the closest farmhouse to seek accommodations. “Well,” said the farmer, “you’ll have to share a bed with my son.” “Shit,” I replied, “I’m in the wrong joke.”
Take my wife, please!
Friday, June 04, 2004
Monday, May 31, 2004
Yorkie
I was the last one on the plane. They were already closing the fuselage door and had announced boarding for the next flight as I ran up. I embarked and found my seat as the plane taxied toward the runway.
After stowing my briefcase, I looked around the craft. It was a typical commuter flight: half-full, people spread around to even out the weight. I was sitting across the aisle from an older woman and her pet dog.
At first, I didn’t realize it was a dog. She had it under the seat in front of her, confined to one of those little pet carriers that looks like a suitcase or an oversized purse. I realized it was a dog when it started yipping.
And it yipped a lot.
And every time it yipped, the lady would kick the case. Or hit the top of it. Or shake it.
And every time she did this, it made the little bundle of hair, teeth, and bows yip all the louder.
So she would kick the case.
So it would yip.
So she would kick the case.
So it would yip.
My amazement at discovering the location of Yorkshire Terriers’ volume control soon gave way to mild irritation, then distress, then an urgent plea that the stewardess bring me “just one more triple gin and tonic.”
She did.
About halfway through the flight, the dog got tired of being kicked. It quit yipping, and she quit kicking. In fact, it got so tired of being kicked, that it lay down on its back, with its tongue sticking out. It didn’t move the whole rest of the flight. It didn’t move when the plane landed. It didn’t move when she picked up the case and set it on her lap preparatory to disembarking. When it crossed her mind that maybe she had kicked her dog to death, the look on her face was priceless. I wake up laughing, remembering her face.
And how much she jumped when the dog woke up, that too was classic.
I just hope she learned her lesson.
I was the last one on the plane. They were already closing the fuselage door and had announced boarding for the next flight as I ran up. I embarked and found my seat as the plane taxied toward the runway.
After stowing my briefcase, I looked around the craft. It was a typical commuter flight: half-full, people spread around to even out the weight. I was sitting across the aisle from an older woman and her pet dog.
At first, I didn’t realize it was a dog. She had it under the seat in front of her, confined to one of those little pet carriers that looks like a suitcase or an oversized purse. I realized it was a dog when it started yipping.
And it yipped a lot.
And every time it yipped, the lady would kick the case. Or hit the top of it. Or shake it.
And every time she did this, it made the little bundle of hair, teeth, and bows yip all the louder.
So she would kick the case.
So it would yip.
So she would kick the case.
So it would yip.
My amazement at discovering the location of Yorkshire Terriers’ volume control soon gave way to mild irritation, then distress, then an urgent plea that the stewardess bring me “just one more triple gin and tonic.”
She did.
About halfway through the flight, the dog got tired of being kicked. It quit yipping, and she quit kicking. In fact, it got so tired of being kicked, that it lay down on its back, with its tongue sticking out. It didn’t move the whole rest of the flight. It didn’t move when the plane landed. It didn’t move when she picked up the case and set it on her lap preparatory to disembarking. When it crossed her mind that maybe she had kicked her dog to death, the look on her face was priceless. I wake up laughing, remembering her face.
And how much she jumped when the dog woke up, that too was classic.
I just hope she learned her lesson.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Spring Cleaning
The time has come to get my ass in gear. I'll never be a world famous internet personality if I don't do several things:
1. Post more regularly.
2. Restart my campaign of oral sex in exchange for links on other sites.
3. Fill my text with buzz words like HOT LESBIAN SEX, BRITNEY SPEARS, FREE PICS, PORN, and AUTOEROTICASPHYXIATION that are sure to get me hits on Google.
4. Get people who can actually write to start doing my posts.
5. Marry into the Gates family.
6. Comment on other blogs more.
As you can see, I have my work cut out for me. The first matter of business is to start cutting some of the dead weight off of the links bar. Blogs that haven't updated for several months are being cut. Over the next few days, I will be auditioning some other sites to fill those sad and atrophied shoes. If you'd like to place your site on my casting couch, send me a link.
See you 'round. I'll be here.
The time has come to get my ass in gear. I'll never be a world famous internet personality if I don't do several things:
1. Post more regularly.
2. Restart my campaign of oral sex in exchange for links on other sites.
3. Fill my text with buzz words like HOT LESBIAN SEX, BRITNEY SPEARS, FREE PICS, PORN, and AUTOEROTICASPHYXIATION that are sure to get me hits on Google.
4. Get people who can actually write to start doing my posts.
5. Marry into the Gates family.
6. Comment on other blogs more.
As you can see, I have my work cut out for me. The first matter of business is to start cutting some of the dead weight off of the links bar. Blogs that haven't updated for several months are being cut. Over the next few days, I will be auditioning some other sites to fill those sad and atrophied shoes. If you'd like to place your site on my casting couch, send me a link.
See you 'round. I'll be here.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Sunday, May 16, 2004
Friday, May 14, 2004
Friday, May 07, 2004
Sunshine
The light glistens, amicably, off of the water. I look at it through the pink hues of my fourth rumrunner, then get bored with light and start looking at bikinis again. The faint, salty smell of sea air mixes with the aromas coming from my Romeo Y Julieta cigar and takes me back to easier days when I didn’t bare the weight of the world on my narrow shoulders. A seagull calls in the distance, and everything is so perfect that I don’t even want to shoot it.
Red flops down next to me, dripping sand and surf. She smells more like fish than usual, but I assume it’s just the ocean, and, for once, I allow her to get closer than the restraining order dictates. Her kisses mix with the seawater on her lips, and I realize that a little salt would go well with my drink. While we kiss, I discretely rub her sopping hair around my glass-rim.
Tonight, we’ll eat lobster and drink glass after glass of absinthe. Then we’ll stumble out to a moonlit beach where we will dance, barefoot, on a stretch of sand that is fairly free of jelly-fish. We’ll make love as the tide comes in, and fall asleep under the stars. Tomorrow, we’ll awaken to the stares of families on vacation and gain a new knowledge of public indecency laws. Holding manacled hand in manacled hand, we’ll endure our arrest and subsequent incarceration with a wormwood induced headache, and sand up our asses.
At least that’s the way it should be.
Fucking Ohio rain.
The light glistens, amicably, off of the water. I look at it through the pink hues of my fourth rumrunner, then get bored with light and start looking at bikinis again. The faint, salty smell of sea air mixes with the aromas coming from my Romeo Y Julieta cigar and takes me back to easier days when I didn’t bare the weight of the world on my narrow shoulders. A seagull calls in the distance, and everything is so perfect that I don’t even want to shoot it.
Red flops down next to me, dripping sand and surf. She smells more like fish than usual, but I assume it’s just the ocean, and, for once, I allow her to get closer than the restraining order dictates. Her kisses mix with the seawater on her lips, and I realize that a little salt would go well with my drink. While we kiss, I discretely rub her sopping hair around my glass-rim.
Tonight, we’ll eat lobster and drink glass after glass of absinthe. Then we’ll stumble out to a moonlit beach where we will dance, barefoot, on a stretch of sand that is fairly free of jelly-fish. We’ll make love as the tide comes in, and fall asleep under the stars. Tomorrow, we’ll awaken to the stares of families on vacation and gain a new knowledge of public indecency laws. Holding manacled hand in manacled hand, we’ll endure our arrest and subsequent incarceration with a wormwood induced headache, and sand up our asses.
At least that’s the way it should be.
Fucking Ohio rain.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
What the Hell Happened to Me?
When I moved back here from Chicago, I lived alone, in a one-room cabin, in the woods, next to a fish pond that was home to bass, bluegills, geese, and ducks, without air conditioning, TV, internet, or telephone. I would lie awake at night, listening to the cicadas in the trees, the packs of wolves being slaughtered by nomadic tribes of Neanderthal, and the banjo tunes of the hill people. Often I would sit on my porch, martini in hand, and do nothing but…well…and do nothing.
Now that has all changed.
Now I live with my beautiful fiancee, two cats, an aquarium full of fishes ( most of which I can’t identify, and only one of which is named. He’s a bottom feeder, named after a former business associate ), a phone line with caller ID, call waiting and automatic redial, a cable internet which randomly throws scat-porn onto my screen, and a babble-box that sits in the corner loudly broadcasting 500 channels to distract me while it eats my everlasting soul, much like the parrot that says cute things while pecking at Prometheus’ liver.
Here’s the problem. I like TEE-VEE as much as the next guy, but why on Earth do I need five hundred channels if all that is going to do is give me 450 extra channels with nothing on? I was perfectly happy being irritated that I had 50 channels of absolute crap.
For your reading pleasure, here is a listing of the type of fecal detritus my tele spews out daily:
Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle
My God! The only thing that made this movie worth watching was the thought that, with how bad this film is, maybe they won’t make another.
Law & Order
Don’t get me wrong. I like Law & Order. I think it is well-written, well-directed, well-edited, and well-acted. It is also on at least 97 channels at any given time.
Law & Order: Criminal intent
Another 23 channels.
Law & Order: SVU
Yes! All the excitement and macabre humor of the other two PLUS violent rape! This takes up another 30 channels to bring the Law & Order franchise up to an even 150 channels, 24/7.
Oh yeah, speaking of 24/7, Twenty-Four
Just how much shit can happen to the leader of the Lost Boys in one day?
Lost Boys
This movie did a great job of reminding me why the eighties are over (I mean, besides the relentless onslaught of time). Great closing line though, where you think that Grandpa is flipping out because he comes home to find a vampire in his house, and he says “One thing I never could stomach about living in Santa Carla: All the God-Damn vampires.” Oh, eighties flicks, you are sooooo clever!
Friends: 2 Hour Season Finale
Wow! It’s actually ending. I mean, I’m sad because this will mean that there is now even less stuff on Tee-Vee, but, well, two fucking hours? How can they make this last two hours? Ross, you’d better follow Rachel to Paris! Chandler, you and Monica better move to the ‘burbs where you will hang with a young Tom Hanks and raise that Hill-Jack Ohio baby! Joey, you’d better say “how you doin’?” and fuck someone! Phoebe, you’d better be dumb! There, shows over! Leave your keys in the ashtray on the way to your two hour special with Matt Lauer and Katie Couric. Matt The White, go freshen up. You have to be ready to eat sandwiches and use women in new and exciting ways next season in your new show.
I guess that’s a bit overly mean. I suppose that I’m really just upset about the whole situation. Now that Friends is ending, I’ll never get to see that monstrous, 2 hour, Friends: SVU crossover I’ve been dreaming of.
Later, guys, I’m gonna go see what’s on TV.
When I moved back here from Chicago, I lived alone, in a one-room cabin, in the woods, next to a fish pond that was home to bass, bluegills, geese, and ducks, without air conditioning, TV, internet, or telephone. I would lie awake at night, listening to the cicadas in the trees, the packs of wolves being slaughtered by nomadic tribes of Neanderthal, and the banjo tunes of the hill people. Often I would sit on my porch, martini in hand, and do nothing but…well…and do nothing.
Now that has all changed.
Now I live with my beautiful fiancee, two cats, an aquarium full of fishes ( most of which I can’t identify, and only one of which is named. He’s a bottom feeder, named after a former business associate ), a phone line with caller ID, call waiting and automatic redial, a cable internet which randomly throws scat-porn onto my screen, and a babble-box that sits in the corner loudly broadcasting 500 channels to distract me while it eats my everlasting soul, much like the parrot that says cute things while pecking at Prometheus’ liver.
Here’s the problem. I like TEE-VEE as much as the next guy, but why on Earth do I need five hundred channels if all that is going to do is give me 450 extra channels with nothing on? I was perfectly happy being irritated that I had 50 channels of absolute crap.
For your reading pleasure, here is a listing of the type of fecal detritus my tele spews out daily:
Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle
My God! The only thing that made this movie worth watching was the thought that, with how bad this film is, maybe they won’t make another.
Law & Order
Don’t get me wrong. I like Law & Order. I think it is well-written, well-directed, well-edited, and well-acted. It is also on at least 97 channels at any given time.
Law & Order: Criminal intent
Another 23 channels.
Law & Order: SVU
Yes! All the excitement and macabre humor of the other two PLUS violent rape! This takes up another 30 channels to bring the Law & Order franchise up to an even 150 channels, 24/7.
Oh yeah, speaking of 24/7, Twenty-Four
Just how much shit can happen to the leader of the Lost Boys in one day?
Lost Boys
This movie did a great job of reminding me why the eighties are over (I mean, besides the relentless onslaught of time). Great closing line though, where you think that Grandpa is flipping out because he comes home to find a vampire in his house, and he says “One thing I never could stomach about living in Santa Carla: All the God-Damn vampires.” Oh, eighties flicks, you are sooooo clever!
Friends: 2 Hour Season Finale
Wow! It’s actually ending. I mean, I’m sad because this will mean that there is now even less stuff on Tee-Vee, but, well, two fucking hours? How can they make this last two hours? Ross, you’d better follow Rachel to Paris! Chandler, you and Monica better move to the ‘burbs where you will hang with a young Tom Hanks and raise that Hill-Jack Ohio baby! Joey, you’d better say “how you doin’?” and fuck someone! Phoebe, you’d better be dumb! There, shows over! Leave your keys in the ashtray on the way to your two hour special with Matt Lauer and Katie Couric. Matt The White, go freshen up. You have to be ready to eat sandwiches and use women in new and exciting ways next season in your new show.
I guess that’s a bit overly mean. I suppose that I’m really just upset about the whole situation. Now that Friends is ending, I’ll never get to see that monstrous, 2 hour, Friends: SVU crossover I’ve been dreaming of.
Later, guys, I’m gonna go see what’s on TV.
Friday, April 30, 2004
You Must Remember This…
Father time, that bastard, has got me by the balls. I blink, and another year has passed. With every breath I move that much closer to a shallow grave filled with scary clowns and the ghosts of all the Chinese whores I’ve killed.
In fact, time goes by so quickly, that I didn’t notice when I passed the 1 year of blogging mark. I started KOTWF April 10, 2003.
The next year will be filled with even more Bloggy Goodness.
Father time, that bastard, has got me by the balls. I blink, and another year has passed. With every breath I move that much closer to a shallow grave filled with scary clowns and the ghosts of all the Chinese whores I’ve killed.
In fact, time goes by so quickly, that I didn’t notice when I passed the 1 year of blogging mark. I started KOTWF April 10, 2003.
The next year will be filled with even more Bloggy Goodness.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Noose
There are few constants in life. The world flows around us, beating us down in a maelstrom of change. Every time you think you understand life, it jumps up and hits you on the head like a wooden mallet or a cartoon piano. In my quarter century, I’ve been through a lot, and I’ve seen plenty. Hell! I’ve been to two county fairs and a hog-fuck, and nothing prepared me for this.
Red is no longer my girlfriend.
You see, a couple weeks ago, we were all lined up to go out. We were heading to a dirty, nasty, standing-room-only college bar that serves up almost as many horny drunk chicks as it does pitchers of beer, and Red decided to change her clothes no less than 5 times before we left while I lay on the floor, fucking around with my new piano.
She was finally ready, and I got up on my knees when she walked into the room.
KOTWF: Is that what you’re wearing out?
Red: What?
KOTWF: You heard me.
Red: Why?
KOTWF: You don’t look right.
Red: What is that supposed to mean?
KOTWF: Your outfit doesn’t look right. It’s missing something.
Red: (Angrily) Like what?
KOTWF: (Holding up diamond ring) Like this….
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Nevermind.
Red: Yes! Yes! I thought you would never ask.
KOTWF: And I thought you would never answer.
Being the sweet, loving Fiance that I am, I still took her out. And I bought her as many pitchers of Killian’s as she could drink.
There are few constants in life. The world flows around us, beating us down in a maelstrom of change. Every time you think you understand life, it jumps up and hits you on the head like a wooden mallet or a cartoon piano. In my quarter century, I’ve been through a lot, and I’ve seen plenty. Hell! I’ve been to two county fairs and a hog-fuck, and nothing prepared me for this.
Red is no longer my girlfriend.
You see, a couple weeks ago, we were all lined up to go out. We were heading to a dirty, nasty, standing-room-only college bar that serves up almost as many horny drunk chicks as it does pitchers of beer, and Red decided to change her clothes no less than 5 times before we left while I lay on the floor, fucking around with my new piano.
She was finally ready, and I got up on my knees when she walked into the room.
KOTWF: Is that what you’re wearing out?
Red: What?
KOTWF: You heard me.
Red: Why?
KOTWF: You don’t look right.
Red: What is that supposed to mean?
KOTWF: Your outfit doesn’t look right. It’s missing something.
Red: (Angrily) Like what?
KOTWF: (Holding up diamond ring) Like this….
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Nevermind.
Red: Yes! Yes! I thought you would never ask.
KOTWF: And I thought you would never answer.
Being the sweet, loving Fiance that I am, I still took her out. And I bought her as many pitchers of Killian’s as she could drink.
Friday, April 23, 2004
Welcome Back to the Wild World of Sports!
A lot has happened during the break so we’ll fill you in.
Firstly, as you may or may not realize, one of the primary reasons for the break was technical difficulties. You see, I’m what you call a computer wizard. And no, I don’t mean that I am an expert by any stretch. What I mean is that if there is something wrong with a computer, I resort to unplugging and replugging the fucking thing while performing ancient resurrection rites and praying that either magic will fire out of my fingertips and heal it, or lightning will shoot out of my ass and fry the fucking thing beyond all recognition.
Neither has occurred. Instead, I stand before you a broken, beaten man, with a very expensive, portable DVD player that used to act like a laptop. I even had Oarah, gentleman blogger and computer guru (kind of like a wizard, but more knowledgeable, less reliant on magic, and calmer), come look at the thing. He drank all my rum and announced that there was nothing wrong with it. It just doesn’t work.
Fuck.
No problem, I’ll just do my posts from work, right? Guess again, our blessed lady of maternity leave. The girl downstairs, for whom I am the backup, decided that she should shit out her beautiful new baby about a month ahead of schedule. Luckily, we had just hired her replacement.
About an hour before she went into labor.
So, needless to say, I have been slaving away in front of a computer which operates on some strange amalgam of SAP and one of those superheated pokers used by the Spanish Inquisitors. The premise of the system is this. I sit in a special “SAP Chair” where I am forced to do intricate algorithms in my head, while listening to Replacement Girl ask questions about why I don’t just write a new, more user friendly, system to replace this one, while randomly punching keys and hoping that one of them is the “fix everything I’ve just fucked up” button, and while a red hot poker comes up through the chair and skewers my catflap.
At least some of the time.
You see, I also got a promotion. The current director of marketing is retiring in May. I share an office with him, but I am the quality manager. I found it rather interesting, then, when I happened to see some ad copy that said “KOTWF, Director of Marketing” and had my email address on it.
I must have missed the memo talking about my NEW AND IMPROVED job description, as well as my exorbitant payraise.
I’m sure I would’ve been told if it was important.
Check in soon, I’ll be writing more regularly from now on.
There is more news, but I’m afraid I just don’t have time to tell you right now. I hear the SAP Forge heating up.
A lot has happened during the break so we’ll fill you in.
Firstly, as you may or may not realize, one of the primary reasons for the break was technical difficulties. You see, I’m what you call a computer wizard. And no, I don’t mean that I am an expert by any stretch. What I mean is that if there is something wrong with a computer, I resort to unplugging and replugging the fucking thing while performing ancient resurrection rites and praying that either magic will fire out of my fingertips and heal it, or lightning will shoot out of my ass and fry the fucking thing beyond all recognition.
Neither has occurred. Instead, I stand before you a broken, beaten man, with a very expensive, portable DVD player that used to act like a laptop. I even had Oarah, gentleman blogger and computer guru (kind of like a wizard, but more knowledgeable, less reliant on magic, and calmer), come look at the thing. He drank all my rum and announced that there was nothing wrong with it. It just doesn’t work.
Fuck.
No problem, I’ll just do my posts from work, right? Guess again, our blessed lady of maternity leave. The girl downstairs, for whom I am the backup, decided that she should shit out her beautiful new baby about a month ahead of schedule. Luckily, we had just hired her replacement.
About an hour before she went into labor.
So, needless to say, I have been slaving away in front of a computer which operates on some strange amalgam of SAP and one of those superheated pokers used by the Spanish Inquisitors. The premise of the system is this. I sit in a special “SAP Chair” where I am forced to do intricate algorithms in my head, while listening to Replacement Girl ask questions about why I don’t just write a new, more user friendly, system to replace this one, while randomly punching keys and hoping that one of them is the “fix everything I’ve just fucked up” button, and while a red hot poker comes up through the chair and skewers my catflap.
At least some of the time.
You see, I also got a promotion. The current director of marketing is retiring in May. I share an office with him, but I am the quality manager. I found it rather interesting, then, when I happened to see some ad copy that said “KOTWF, Director of Marketing” and had my email address on it.
I must have missed the memo talking about my NEW AND IMPROVED job description, as well as my exorbitant payraise.
I’m sure I would’ve been told if it was important.
Check in soon, I’ll be writing more regularly from now on.
There is more news, but I’m afraid I just don’t have time to tell you right now. I hear the SAP Forge heating up.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
And This Here’s What We Call A Necktie
I had to go to Charleston, West-By-God-Virginia the other day for work. I had a couple of good meetings, and a nice dinner at Laury’s, an old train station that is now a five star restaurant. On the way home, my boss decided to stop at a little bar he likes in the hills of Ripley, West Virginia.
This place was great. It is an old barn/garage that has been converted into a bar, complete with pool-tables, a dance-floor, and flat screen television. Getting there was a bit of a trick, though. You have to drive down a back road until you come across a hole in a fence. You turn through the hole in the fence and into a field. After you go around the barn, you come over a ridge and find yourself looking at a parking lot with at least two-dozen cars in it. There is no road, no sign, no evidence at all that this place is a bar. You use the single halogen light to find your way from your car to the windowless door.
Once we were inside, everyone in the place turned to look at the two suits that just walked in. Every single eye was on us as we approached the bar and ordered a couple of scotches.
“We’re out of scotch.” Said the bartender.
“No Problem,” we said.
“Hey guys” spoke up a drunk at the bar, “I’ll buy your first round, and before you finish it I’ll be back with a bottle of Dewars, okay?”
“That’s really not necessary, we’ll drink something else.”
“No, I want to go get you a bottle of Dewars.”
“We’ll drink gin, or rum, or anything else you have.”
“Okay, let me at least buy your first drink for you.”
This is decidedly odd. Taking our cocktails that had been purchased by the man next to us, we surveyed the room.
“Hey!” said the mouth-breather to my left, “you guys lawyers or something?”
“No” I said, “We run a trucking company.”
“Yeah, right! You some kind of fucking narc or cop or something?”
“No, we run a trucking company.”
“Sure. What do you haul? Fucking cocaine or heroin?”
“No, just gravel, coal, that sort of thing.”
“Yeah right. Are you reporters doing a story on the bar? Are they in trouble?”
“No, we just wanted a drink.”
“Whatever, man” he said as he walked away.
I was beginning to feel that maybe we were not welcome in this place, being sharp-dressed city slickers from a bustling metropolis of 15,000. I guess I can understand their awe-filled terror. But, to make matters worse, we had brought our big-city gadgets. The boss pulled out his cell-phone, and the bartender suddenly said, “Hey, put that away.”
“What?”
“That’s one of them camera phones! We don’t want no pictures in here. I mean, just supposin’ a feller was in here with an old lady that ain’t exactly his old lady. He ain’t gonna be wantin’ no pictures tooked of him. I’m sure you can understand. I gotta look out for my customers and I’m sure some of them don’t want what they do in a picture.”
“Right. Just another drink then.”
It became time to go. We finished our drinks and settled our tab. Before we left, the bartender spoke again. “I just want to let you know that you guy’s are alright. I mean, you’re welcome here. You don’t have to worry about nothing, you’re welcome here. Okay?”
“Sure. Thanks. We like this bar.”
“Good. I just didn’t want you thinking there was any hard feelings or nothing. Y’all are welcome here any time. We’d love it if you came back, okay? Don’t worry about anything anybody says.”
“Okay. We’ll come back. Bye.” We said through our masks of confusion. On our way to the door, every eye watched us go.
We climbed into the truck and headed back through the field towards home.
I had to go to Charleston, West-By-God-Virginia the other day for work. I had a couple of good meetings, and a nice dinner at Laury’s, an old train station that is now a five star restaurant. On the way home, my boss decided to stop at a little bar he likes in the hills of Ripley, West Virginia.
This place was great. It is an old barn/garage that has been converted into a bar, complete with pool-tables, a dance-floor, and flat screen television. Getting there was a bit of a trick, though. You have to drive down a back road until you come across a hole in a fence. You turn through the hole in the fence and into a field. After you go around the barn, you come over a ridge and find yourself looking at a parking lot with at least two-dozen cars in it. There is no road, no sign, no evidence at all that this place is a bar. You use the single halogen light to find your way from your car to the windowless door.
Once we were inside, everyone in the place turned to look at the two suits that just walked in. Every single eye was on us as we approached the bar and ordered a couple of scotches.
“We’re out of scotch.” Said the bartender.
“No Problem,” we said.
“Hey guys” spoke up a drunk at the bar, “I’ll buy your first round, and before you finish it I’ll be back with a bottle of Dewars, okay?”
“That’s really not necessary, we’ll drink something else.”
“No, I want to go get you a bottle of Dewars.”
“We’ll drink gin, or rum, or anything else you have.”
“Okay, let me at least buy your first drink for you.”
This is decidedly odd. Taking our cocktails that had been purchased by the man next to us, we surveyed the room.
“Hey!” said the mouth-breather to my left, “you guys lawyers or something?”
“No” I said, “We run a trucking company.”
“Yeah, right! You some kind of fucking narc or cop or something?”
“No, we run a trucking company.”
“Sure. What do you haul? Fucking cocaine or heroin?”
“No, just gravel, coal, that sort of thing.”
“Yeah right. Are you reporters doing a story on the bar? Are they in trouble?”
“No, we just wanted a drink.”
“Whatever, man” he said as he walked away.
I was beginning to feel that maybe we were not welcome in this place, being sharp-dressed city slickers from a bustling metropolis of 15,000. I guess I can understand their awe-filled terror. But, to make matters worse, we had brought our big-city gadgets. The boss pulled out his cell-phone, and the bartender suddenly said, “Hey, put that away.”
“What?”
“That’s one of them camera phones! We don’t want no pictures in here. I mean, just supposin’ a feller was in here with an old lady that ain’t exactly his old lady. He ain’t gonna be wantin’ no pictures tooked of him. I’m sure you can understand. I gotta look out for my customers and I’m sure some of them don’t want what they do in a picture.”
“Right. Just another drink then.”
It became time to go. We finished our drinks and settled our tab. Before we left, the bartender spoke again. “I just want to let you know that you guy’s are alright. I mean, you’re welcome here. You don’t have to worry about nothing, you’re welcome here. Okay?”
“Sure. Thanks. We like this bar.”
“Good. I just didn’t want you thinking there was any hard feelings or nothing. Y’all are welcome here any time. We’d love it if you came back, okay? Don’t worry about anything anybody says.”
“Okay. We’ll come back. Bye.” We said through our masks of confusion. On our way to the door, every eye watched us go.
We climbed into the truck and headed back through the field towards home.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Some People Get All The Breaks
I came home yesterday, and there was a strange truck parked in my driveway. This wouldn't be a big deal, except that there is only room for one vehicle in my driveway, and this truck was taking it. I decided that, instead of parking on the street, I would block in the offending four-wheeler. That way, when s/he wanted to get out, s/he would have to come and ask me to move my car.
Not 15 minutes went by.
Very shortly, my neighbor Frank came over. Frank was slightly bloody, and wearing a cast and sling on his right arm.
"What the fuck happened to you?" I asked.
"I ran myself over" Frank replied.
"Of course." I said.
I turns out that Frank had been working on his transmission. It had not been quite right, so he parked it half in my driveway and half in his so that he could get under it and work on it easier. Of course, when he started fooling with the linkage, it knocked the transmission out of gear and the truck rolled down the hill, over his neck, collar bone, and arm, then came to rest on top of him. Luckily, he had his cell phone with him and was able to call the hospital to come and remove the offending vehicle. They parked said truck in my spot while they carted his sorry ass off to the ER.
I'm going to have him fix the transmission on my steam-roller.
I came home yesterday, and there was a strange truck parked in my driveway. This wouldn't be a big deal, except that there is only room for one vehicle in my driveway, and this truck was taking it. I decided that, instead of parking on the street, I would block in the offending four-wheeler. That way, when s/he wanted to get out, s/he would have to come and ask me to move my car.
Not 15 minutes went by.
Very shortly, my neighbor Frank came over. Frank was slightly bloody, and wearing a cast and sling on his right arm.
"What the fuck happened to you?" I asked.
"I ran myself over" Frank replied.
"Of course." I said.
I turns out that Frank had been working on his transmission. It had not been quite right, so he parked it half in my driveway and half in his so that he could get under it and work on it easier. Of course, when he started fooling with the linkage, it knocked the transmission out of gear and the truck rolled down the hill, over his neck, collar bone, and arm, then came to rest on top of him. Luckily, he had his cell phone with him and was able to call the hospital to come and remove the offending vehicle. They parked said truck in my spot while they carted his sorry ass off to the ER.
I'm going to have him fix the transmission on my steam-roller.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Experiment
I never really got into these rambling weblog entries that are so popular with the kids these days. You know, the ones where they write about the cute thing their fucking dog did last night, then follow that up with a pseudo-witty comment about the size of their floppy or something, and end with an acronym like LOL or ROFLMAO or maybe GBFFOAFITCOD.
So I thought I’d try it. Here’s my life for the last month:
Phoenix Cat
I have two cats. The elder of the two is The Right Honourable Sir Charles L. Rampant, Esquire (Charlie). The Kitten is Bunbury Wilde (Bunny). Charlie recently started spraying and had to be neutered, but that is not funny to anyone but Bunny, so we’ll not talk about it anymore. Bunny, however, is hilarious, mostly because I’ve never owned a retarded cat. Some of the things that attest to his retardation are that he breaths through his mouth, not his nose, he has serious inner ear problems so that he is constantly falling off of things or over stuff, and I have personally seen him run full-boor into objects like doors, walls, and other cats. Additionally, he likes to climb into the bathtub with Red and play with the bubbles (he has also fallen into the toilet and had to be pulled out and washed several times). But the thing that really cinches the deal is his uncanny ability to light himself on fire.
On numerous occasions, I’ve watched as a streak of orange flame barreled around the apartment. Each time, he has managed to put himself out without sustaining or causing any serious damage, but each time it happens I think that perhaps he has learned to not rub up against lit candles, and each time I am proved wrong.
Bankruptcy, Inc.
It seems like in order to be a customer of the company I work for, you have to file for bankruptcy protection at some point and cost us a shitload of money. Of course, we carefully screen all of our customers before we begin work for them, so I am not sure how this happens. I suspect that the screening process goes something like this:
US: I just need to ask you a few questions about your company, sir.
THEM: Okay, just let me finish burying my ex-wife and her lover.
US: Take your time….So, you like killing people, huh?
THEM: Almost as much as I like not paying people for work they’ve done.
US: Good, good.
THEM: Ready.
US: Okay. Tell me about your financial situation.
THEM: Well, once I sell this watch I took off the dead guy, I’ll have $100.
US: Good. So, we’ll put you down for $1,000,000 of credit, okay? Now, could I have the names of some other businesses you’ve worked with?
THEM: I did a deal with a guy named Beelzebub last week. Or was it Lucifer?
US: Doesn’t matter, we never actually call them anyway. Now then, would you be willing to accept 30 day payment terms?
THEM: No.
US: Sixty then?
THEM: I was thinking more like “Ragnorak” or “Just after the last trump.”
US: I’ll write down “A Cold Day In Hell” for payment terms, okay?
THEM: Fine by me.
US: Well, I have to admit that I’m not sure if this will work out.
THEM: If you take me as a customer, then I’ll send a hooters calendar every Christmas.
US: Deal.
Needless to say, we’ve written off several million in bad debt over the last few years.
The House
Moving Day is upon us. The Rats are crawling out from beneath the rosebush with their winches and pulleys, and Dom Deloise is flapping about, tangled in yarn, shouting something about a “shiny.” Soon I will be leaving my squalid apartment forever and entering my nice new house. Here are my reasons for leaving:
Current apartment has no insulation, heating bills are atrocious.
Downstairs neighbors like doing construction projects at 1:00am.
Landlord lets himself in whenever he wants to fix things I don’t want fixed.
Landlord never got around to installing little things like fire escapes.
Landlord scares me.
Absolutely no storage-space in the entire apartment.
No washer and dryer.
Rent is so expensive that I am moving out of an apartment into a three bedroom house and saving money.
Red wants to.
Well, that about sums up my major life changes for now. I’ll try to keep you posted on my goings-on from here on out, but it might be kind of sparse. After I get laid off today I have to go to my new house and put out my cat. GBFFOAFITCOD.
I never really got into these rambling weblog entries that are so popular with the kids these days. You know, the ones where they write about the cute thing their fucking dog did last night, then follow that up with a pseudo-witty comment about the size of their floppy or something, and end with an acronym like LOL or ROFLMAO or maybe GBFFOAFITCOD.
So I thought I’d try it. Here’s my life for the last month:
Phoenix Cat
I have two cats. The elder of the two is The Right Honourable Sir Charles L. Rampant, Esquire (Charlie). The Kitten is Bunbury Wilde (Bunny). Charlie recently started spraying and had to be neutered, but that is not funny to anyone but Bunny, so we’ll not talk about it anymore. Bunny, however, is hilarious, mostly because I’ve never owned a retarded cat. Some of the things that attest to his retardation are that he breaths through his mouth, not his nose, he has serious inner ear problems so that he is constantly falling off of things or over stuff, and I have personally seen him run full-boor into objects like doors, walls, and other cats. Additionally, he likes to climb into the bathtub with Red and play with the bubbles (he has also fallen into the toilet and had to be pulled out and washed several times). But the thing that really cinches the deal is his uncanny ability to light himself on fire.
On numerous occasions, I’ve watched as a streak of orange flame barreled around the apartment. Each time, he has managed to put himself out without sustaining or causing any serious damage, but each time it happens I think that perhaps he has learned to not rub up against lit candles, and each time I am proved wrong.
Bankruptcy, Inc.
It seems like in order to be a customer of the company I work for, you have to file for bankruptcy protection at some point and cost us a shitload of money. Of course, we carefully screen all of our customers before we begin work for them, so I am not sure how this happens. I suspect that the screening process goes something like this:
US: I just need to ask you a few questions about your company, sir.
THEM: Okay, just let me finish burying my ex-wife and her lover.
US: Take your time….So, you like killing people, huh?
THEM: Almost as much as I like not paying people for work they’ve done.
US: Good, good.
THEM: Ready.
US: Okay. Tell me about your financial situation.
THEM: Well, once I sell this watch I took off the dead guy, I’ll have $100.
US: Good. So, we’ll put you down for $1,000,000 of credit, okay? Now, could I have the names of some other businesses you’ve worked with?
THEM: I did a deal with a guy named Beelzebub last week. Or was it Lucifer?
US: Doesn’t matter, we never actually call them anyway. Now then, would you be willing to accept 30 day payment terms?
THEM: No.
US: Sixty then?
THEM: I was thinking more like “Ragnorak” or “Just after the last trump.”
US: I’ll write down “A Cold Day In Hell” for payment terms, okay?
THEM: Fine by me.
US: Well, I have to admit that I’m not sure if this will work out.
THEM: If you take me as a customer, then I’ll send a hooters calendar every Christmas.
US: Deal.
Needless to say, we’ve written off several million in bad debt over the last few years.
The House
Moving Day is upon us. The Rats are crawling out from beneath the rosebush with their winches and pulleys, and Dom Deloise is flapping about, tangled in yarn, shouting something about a “shiny.” Soon I will be leaving my squalid apartment forever and entering my nice new house. Here are my reasons for leaving:
Current apartment has no insulation, heating bills are atrocious.
Downstairs neighbors like doing construction projects at 1:00am.
Landlord lets himself in whenever he wants to fix things I don’t want fixed.
Landlord never got around to installing little things like fire escapes.
Landlord scares me.
Absolutely no storage-space in the entire apartment.
No washer and dryer.
Rent is so expensive that I am moving out of an apartment into a three bedroom house and saving money.
Red wants to.
Well, that about sums up my major life changes for now. I’ll try to keep you posted on my goings-on from here on out, but it might be kind of sparse. After I get laid off today I have to go to my new house and put out my cat. GBFFOAFITCOD.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
These Things Have To Start Somewhere
The other day I was in a conversation with some people. The conversation turned to matters of recreational pharmaceuticals, and before I knew what I was saying, I had referred to marijuana as "Mexican Catnip."
I personally had never hear this phrase before, and neither had anyone else that I was talking to, but I think that it is pretty good. So here's the deal: if you have heard it before, let me know. If you haven't, then start using it as much as you can in conversation.
Just remember that you heard it here first.
The other day I was in a conversation with some people. The conversation turned to matters of recreational pharmaceuticals, and before I knew what I was saying, I had referred to marijuana as "Mexican Catnip."
I personally had never hear this phrase before, and neither had anyone else that I was talking to, but I think that it is pretty good. So here's the deal: if you have heard it before, let me know. If you haven't, then start using it as much as you can in conversation.
Just remember that you heard it here first.
Monday, January 12, 2004
Professional
My landlord, God bless his kooky little soul, has decided to start a newsletter which he will send to all of his tenants whenever an issue comes up that he feels the need to mention. This would be fine, if it weren't for the fact that he's...well...just read this excerpt, complete with all the grammatical errors and typos:
If you don't have a dog this isn't for you. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not doing a DNA test on the "poo", but the piles of poo surrounding the building is becoming astronomical. There is more poo than grass, and for the 2nd time I stepped in poo that was on the parking lot. Now if it's not you great, if it's a neighbor please tell them to call me, or beat the person to a pulp yourself for stress relief. If it is you, I don't care, I don't live there. I don't mow the grass, but if the city, a cop, sees you then they will fine you. I'm sure you have seen those ugly signs, "pet defecation is prohibited by city ordinance #3876846378423.234289723987234.234. My personal request/suggestion is to go across the street in the park the hospital created with the mountain of dirt if you don't want to pick it up. This will keep my shoes clean.
I don't know. Maybe I'm being too critical, but if I were to write this, I would probably proof-read it. And I'd try to sound a little bit more professional. And I wouldn't publicly distribute something where I instruct people on how to break the law.
Unless you count that article I wrote on how to dispose of dead hookers.
My landlord, God bless his kooky little soul, has decided to start a newsletter which he will send to all of his tenants whenever an issue comes up that he feels the need to mention. This would be fine, if it weren't for the fact that he's...well...just read this excerpt, complete with all the grammatical errors and typos:
If you don't have a dog this isn't for you. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not doing a DNA test on the "poo", but the piles of poo surrounding the building is becoming astronomical. There is more poo than grass, and for the 2nd time I stepped in poo that was on the parking lot. Now if it's not you great, if it's a neighbor please tell them to call me, or beat the person to a pulp yourself for stress relief. If it is you, I don't care, I don't live there. I don't mow the grass, but if the city, a cop, sees you then they will fine you. I'm sure you have seen those ugly signs, "pet defecation is prohibited by city ordinance #3876846378423.234289723987234.234. My personal request/suggestion is to go across the street in the park the hospital created with the mountain of dirt if you don't want to pick it up. This will keep my shoes clean.
I don't know. Maybe I'm being too critical, but if I were to write this, I would probably proof-read it. And I'd try to sound a little bit more professional. And I wouldn't publicly distribute something where I instruct people on how to break the law.
Unless you count that article I wrote on how to dispose of dead hookers.
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