Chicken Dragons of Doom. With The Eggs. Also Of The Doom.
If you remember (and I don’t really expect you to), the Original Chicken Dragon of Doom complete with Eggs of Doom was a San Francisco conception, scrawled on the tablecloth of a restaurant in Napa where adults were drinking wine out of 5-gallon plastic paint buckets and little children were encouraged to visit the do-it-yourself Bloody Mary bar. You can read about it in the blandest, vaguest tones possible
here. What’s missing from that description, however, and what I will get into now, is why and how the Chicken Dragon of Doom and Her Wily, Wily Offspring are thematically important. Allow me to break it down for you so that you may be properly emotionally blackmailed by the Passive Aggressive Chicken Dragon of Doom:
The San Francisco trip was the yearly retreat for a charitable group of businessmen that R belongs to. Ah, and their wives and significant others; as the group doesn’t allow women to be actual
members, they like to wisk the women away for a weekend every year and indulge in lots of champagne breakfasts, Nomination bracelet charms and candid slide shows in a thinly-veiled yet annually successful effort to keep the pesky vaginas at the testical-fortified gate. By and large this doesn’t bother me; I’m down with champagne and hey, find me
anyone who doesn’t like a good candid slide show. If I wanted to be part of a club that wears brown chest-high wranglers, bolo ties and black felt vests to march in parades with the sheriff’s posse and then hit the titty bar, well, I’d go ahead and start one of my own… right after I shot myself in the face. The primary problem
I have is being surrounded by all of these women who are twice my age and who therefore naturally assume that I’m a hooker. The concentrated “she’s a hooker” energy is strong, and by that last day I’m more than a little on edge.
Plus I’m ready to slam into the hospitality suite in a leopard-print gig with clear plastic platforms and a boom box and start laying down the fondling ground rules because I’m overly susceptible to outside influences like that. I’m
tense, is what I’m getting at here. Tense with three energy-deflecting bras on. And so when R and I are alone and I no longer feel the need to act like a forty-five year old housewife, I freak out and turn into a ten-year-old boy. With
no bras on of
any specification. I’m petulant and bossy and whiny and full of resentment and I aim it all at R because it’s naturally
his fault that I let myself be Hester Prynn’d by all the middle-aged puritan bitches in their glued-on, semi-precious stone charmed Nomination bracelets. So when, during the course of the day, R attempts by any means possible to a) lessen the tension, b) enjoy his vacation, c) explain that the reason that I’ve never been in a slideshow, not even once, not even in the background, is certainly NOT because they think that film work isn’t in my contract and therefore must be “
extra“, we stop at the afore mentioned alcohol-soaked bistro, R sits back resignedly as I try my damndest to annoy and/or
ANNOY him. Hence, the Chicken Dragon of Doom. The Eggs of Doom were a last-ditch annoyance effort, as their addition required that I go and steal a yellow crayon from a tipsy, celery-smoking toddler. Alas, R couldn’t be budged. This may or may not have had something to do with three empty 5-gallon paint buckets on the floor next to our table. So. Totally superfluous backstory in tow, let’s check out the chicken dragons. And eggs. Of doom.
Styro, I’m seriously thinking about having this tattooed on my person. Or airbrushed on my car. Something. If ever I saw a blood spill that looked decidedly like hot blood, this is it. Girl, did you do that head freehand? Goddamn. HEY-- is that a solitary FANG on the tip of the beak?!? He’s so fucking cool he doesn’t even have to open his beak to impale you in the skull. Or open a Rolling Rock. His egg sidekick reminds me of Eddie Haskell. I think it’s because of the blood spraying out of his mouth.
K, I love this painstaking metamorphosis: it’s like dead cooked chicken meets dead cooked lizard. Perfect. And those eggs? Just when you’re through chuckling at the play on “devil” and you pop one in your mouth you realize that you’re now a walking salmonella cesspool, thanks in part to the fact that the sun is somehow hanging eight inches above the surface of the earth. Is that lipstick on her beak? Or did she just bore face-first into a dead cat? Wait, don’t tell me. Bonus points for the bow. And the weave.
Doesn't Bob's chicken dragon look sort of pale and sticky raw? Like his wings are already pinned back and ready for basting? Maybe he was all trussed up but then escaped to wreak revenge havoc. Like some undercooked, evil superhero nemesis. And don’t the Eggs of Doom look like little white mice demons? That’s a hell of a beak job, too; it’s like a piece of American cheese folded in half, and really, what’s scarier than a Kraft single left to its own devices? GOD ONLY KNOWS WHAT IT‘S CAPABLE OF. Extra points for a tongue that keeps inexplicably reminding me of a pimento.
Uh, Brooks? If I ever design a Tarot deck for the inoperably misanthropic, this will be the card that stands for “buy a wig, steal a car and get the fuck out of town”. Why can’t I quit looking at the sun??? It’s like it KNOWS. I seriously get the impression that the chicken is THIS CLOSE to taking off after something. I’d be running for the door except that I know he’s got to get that hand retracted before he does anything, and that’s bound to give me a headstart. That one long claw that looks like a sexy leg is freaking me out. I keep expecting it to get up and start tap dancing. A+ for Apocalyptic Mood Air. I mean, you can tell a lot of shit just got real burned down.
Oh my God, when I’m through here I’m going to pitch this to the Beanie Baby people. Why am I surprised at the cuddliness of this Chicken Dragon? ERIKA. Whose Mister Pinky Spare Hair won the hearts of millions of liberal minded, pro-retarded citizens? Look at those little black bead eyes! That fire breath looks like confetti. "Reach out and meet my hug!" he coos. "I come from a smoke-free home! No pets! Still in my original packaging and with all my tags!" God be with us all.
I love Chip's entries because he keeps it really basic. It's Chip and Microsoft Paint. Fuck anything else. If he can't make it happen with that Paint pencil or autoshape thing or that fat paintbrush gig, it's just not going to fucking happen. He and I have that in common. As my "married way below her caliber" friend L's husband would say while pumping the keg on any given Tuesday, "He's my brotha' from anotha' motha'." He would say it all proud, too, 'cause he rhymed. And that's how I feel. Proud. You can tell someone has a wife here... he spelled "L'eggs" correctly. And the little pair of spindly hose over there in the corner? Precious and demented at the same time. Um, does her tail deadend into a L'eggs ball? That's sort of hard for me, in an M.C. Escher way. Stop laughing.
Holy Jesus, Michelle. Where should I start? First of all, the chicken’s entire back half looks like it’s made out of a black leather backpack. With a combover. So it's "1993 in Detroit" scary right off the bat. Hey, is she actually laying eggs right NOW? I wish I could see one of the hatchlings. Maybe they’re tiny little suede coin purses. With fangs. Excellent job on that wing; methinks someone used to have a Dragonslayer poster. Shhh. It’s cool. In the sequel let's add a virgin princess and let the suede babies gnaw the shit out of her. It'll only tickle for a couple of days. Then it'll start to sting. Awwwwyeah.
So Scott, do you and your lovely bride lay awake at night thinking of ways to scare the shit out of each other? Did she go, “Oooh! I’ll do a scary-ass volcano and a chicken made out of bondage gear!” and you went, “Righteous! I’ll do a street-fighter chicken and poke fun at Estella’s erratic swings!” Okay, but seriously. Three things are fucking me up, here: 1) those chicken legs. Did you hire a chicken gang-banger to pose for you? What did he charge you? ‘Cause I think I got ripped off. 2) BONE HAND. WOW. 3) That’s the most realistic knife that Paint has to offer. Look at me. I’m about to crap my pants.
P.S. When I die, you and Michelle inherit this site.
I’ve decided that I’m going to adopt Sara Elizabeth. I’m not sure how old she is, and she probably has parents and all, but I’m adopting her just the same. Now that that’s out of the way, I’d like to point out that this is the first entry that appears to be fueled by a Dragon Hose. Is this a Bouncy Chicken? Can you rent this chicken dragon for parties and let children jump inside him? Because that’s disgusting. I love that his beak is a runway. And those eggs? The one that says “poison” and the one that’s joyfully spotted? Yeah. I bet they’re reversed. On purpose. On account of the evil.
I’m so enamored. Snailie wrote to me that she misinterpreted the assignment and thought that I meant “doomed eggs”. Then I got a rather stirring account of her only other Paint experience. I think Paint must run through her veins; I mean, how much thought went into those egg stools? I mean, “algebraic equation” type precision thought. A LOT. And those cards? If I wasn’t so arrogant and overly-secure in my own Paint abilities I might feel the tiniest bit insignificant. “Scared” on these eggs is like “weird” on Bjork. If I had a gallery , and that gallery had a “grim reaper chicken” wall, I’d totally sign you.
Kelly, this is like Santa’s evil twin. Let‘s break down the similarities:
1) Knows where you sleep.
2) Rotund belly full of jelly. Or, in this case, jellied carcass. Same thing.
3) Hippity-hops and delivers baskets of candy and colored eggs to remind us that Jesus Christ the Son of God rose from the dead to forgive us of our sins.
4) Is a chicken dragon.
Nice beak waddle thing. And badass fat legs. I’m thoroughly impressed. I’d like a rope-start blender for Christmas. Get off my lap.
Wow,
Kim. I can hardly focus on the Foghorn Leghorn fire-screaming chicken you’ve got going there because of your mischievous eggs. There’s a murderer, an annoying one, and a lame ass one. All accounted for, if you’re looking for something “Three Horsemen”-ish. Oh, wait. And a dead one. Well, that works, since it’s really “FOUR Horsemen” and I’m retarded. I love the feather in Murderer’s hat. How jovial! Is Lame Ass sneezing? Hes’ so cute and so lame at the same time! Ooooh! Look at the chalk! I better stop now. I feel like I’m at an Eggs of Doom petting zoo. Only they forgot to scoop up the dead one. Which happens. Mainly in small towns in the rural south, but it happens just the same.
R is on the couch right now, listlessly watching Entourage. Maybe in a minute I'll sigh and get up and go to bed, and then later he can walk in and go, "What's wrong?" and I can go, "Nothing." Then our little circle of passive aggression will have come full... ah, circle. Thank you for your participation. You know I love you.
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Chicken Dragons of Doom, Complete with Eggs of Doom. They're coming to me in my fucking
sleep, now, thanks. I'm working on it. I promise. You guys outdid yourselves again. Like five years ago, but whatever. I got those training binders collated and three-hole punched at work lickity-split, so it's clearly about personal desire and priorities.
Somebody go get me some hot wings.
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For what it's worth, I just went into the bathroom checked myself out... my hair looks like crap. And here I was sitting here all this time feeling all hot and shit.
The gods are fickle and malicious and they fuck with the lighting.
There will be no shrine today, my friends.
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When you oversleep and then jump up and race into the bathroom to get the shower started, but then glance at yourself in the mirror... and take a second to experimentally sort of gather the sticky nest of hair into a big ball thing and then--quick like a full of shit abstract artist--grab a clip and stick it that way? And then lick your hand and sort of smear that one part down? And that makes FOUR CONSECUTIVE DAYS of Fucking Awesome Hair That Was Washed On Saturday? There's nothing better than that feeling of attractive and stealthy accomplishment when you shut off the shower.
And turn on the bath.
While the Grime Gods may favor me, they do not indulge.
Do not anger the Gods of Grime.
Maybe later I'll build a little shrine out of used Q-tips and bathtub scum.
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My boss banished me to a computer class for today and tomorrow (for an
application that is so completely foreign to me that whenever I open the
program the CPU begins speaking in Latin and pours me a cup of Turkish
coffee but which, as I recall, I swore proficiency in during my interview)
and as soon as I walk in and announce my name the girl behind the counter
exclaims, "Hey, I know you!" And indeed she does. I have this vague,
familiar sense of forboding about her... I can't exactly place her, but I do
know her from somewhere. Like, maybe we stole something and she was the
getaway driver? Or, maybe she was there that night that Skinny Dipped
Chicken sounded like a good pool game after the bar? With those guys who
just got out of jail? SOMEBODY HELP ME.
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This Will Only Make Sense When The Post That I Submitted Via Email Decides To Post Itself.
Figured it out. SWIM CLASS. Admittedly better than the maniacally speculated sordid and lascivious activities (although I'd like to give a big shout out to Brain for going ahead and running through the entire catalog of Really Bad Plans. High five for pulling out everything in the Supposedly Deleted Whitetrash Whore file while continuing to leave the Remember To Take The $1, 603 Library Books Back To ASU file completely undisturbed. Nice job, Gooey. Maybe later we'll sniff some paint.) Although now I realize why I associated her face with uneasiness. And dread. And some vague sense of untruth, frankly, since we spent most of our time in the water trying to think of ways to
not swim.
So maybe that's why she looked confused when I told her that her ski mask was still in my trunk.
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Some Things That The Jake Might Be Chewing On At Three Seventeen In The Morning When The Noises Emanating From The Bathroom Are Distinctly Unlike The Noises That The Jake Makes When He's Sleeping, Given That He's Not Sleeping Inside A Rock Tumbler Or A Barrel Of Mice:
1) The brushed metal trash can under the counter. Very distinctive. The Jake knows that his time with the trash can is decidedly and pointedly limited, so he really gives it his all. You know when you wake up in the middle of the night and someone is sharpening a machete on his aluminum siding? And you yell, "Quit it!" but they don't so you have to get out of bed and slap the guy on the ass and yell "NO" and take the machete away and then put a bone in front of him and rub him on the head for no hard feelings? It's just like that.
2) The bathmat. This one's tough. It sounds a lot like "pants" or "towel". The sure fire way to tell for sure is to call him over to the side of the bed and then check his mouth for soggy, hangy bathmat tendrils.
3) The granite floor. I lay in bed dreaming that The Jake is clutching a tiny pickaxe and he's tunneling his way to the front yard. Then I realize that he's actually
dragging his teeth across the floor repeatedly, so I try to leap up before R does in order to save The Jake from the "Dogs Who Don't Understand How Expensive Travertine Is Get To Sleep Outside" mantra. In R's defense, he
has sat The Jake down and had multiple intense conversations about travertine and dentistry and having nice things and appreciation. So it's not like he hasn't tried to
reason.
4) Socks. These are easy, because The Jake will grab a sock and then prance around the bed with it. If you ignore him or, amazingly, sleep through it, he'll find a way to drag the sock slowly over some part of your exposed body to get your attention. I actually heard R having another paternal conversation with The J the other day... "Now, you
do remember the conversation we had regarding socks and responsibility, don't you? Jake?" I'm not making this up.
Last night he turned the water on in the bathtub. I half expected to walk in and find him lathering up, little cucumber slices over his eyes.
In other news: I looked at my credit report last week (for someone who winces and throws bank statements and library book notices away unopened, this is a big step) and I realized with shock and glee that I have FOUR OPEN CREDIT LINES with ZERO BALANCES!
THAT I FORGOT I HAD! The other twelve accounts have been closed for years, uh, involuntarily, but those four are OPEN AND READY FOR BUSINESS, BABY. One is a Discover card that I got when I was 18. It has a $4000 limit. I called them and asked nonchalantly if they'd send me a new card since I apparently "lost" mine (or it distentigrated after six years. Or my mom took it away when I was grounded ten years ago. Something.) and they DID. R had quite a bit to say about me and credit and
suck and interest and LEAVE IT ALONE and emergencies and no revolving balance and maybe I should hold onto it for you. I had a similar conversation with myself in which I discussed Minipod color options and the entire Aveda catalog.
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A List.
1) Do you ever have like a brick or a tree limb embedded underneath your upper eyelid, laughing at you? Making you think long and hard about blinking? And then you get all
surgeon and you run your "I just ate a sandwich, pet the dog, put base on, counted spare change" finger
up inside your eyelid? And not only does this "take THAT" gesture
NOT get the anvil to fall
out of your eye, but your eyeball actually screams this little wet bacteria scream, just reminding you about the makeup and the cash and the fact that you're totally NOT a surgeon? But you
are a dirty bitch. I hate my eyelid. My eyelid is a paranoid dork. It plays the clarinet. It has no eyelash friends.
2) R and me and C and Other E, we're all watching Olympic swimming tonight, and I find myself saying obstinate things like, "Oh, that turn was
totally valid!" and "I don't know, I think that kick was questionable". Until I remembered that Other E is on the varsity swim team. And that I barely survived basic swim lessons at
twenty-eight years old. OH, AND THAT WE'RE WATCHING THE FUCKING OLYMPICS. So if there was any question as to my arrogance and self-importance before, rest assured.
3) I've decided that driving 41 miles to and from work at 80 miles an hour through gorgeous, uncompromised desert/mountain vista beats the crap out of driving 22 miles to work on the freeway. Fuck everyone. I
will drive literally
twice the necessary distance in order to avoid you. Feel the love.
4) I've taken to listening to books on CD while driving. The only problem I've found is a teensy touch of the drowse about 3/4 of the way there. I don't think I'd ever actually
fall asleep, but I will concede that my reaction time hovers around twelve, maybe thirteen seconds. That's when I "uncle" and punch the FM into Beyonce. Because I can brake like a motherfucker to "Naughty Girl".
5) Last night there was a heated Jake fiasco involving a dark pasture, an unruly chihuahua, some rain, an insanely pissed R, a The Jake who who wouldn't listen to anyone but the chihuahua-huahua, and me throwing a collar into the inky night. Then there followed a more quietly humiliating episode that involved a penitent The Jake, a dismissive prima ballerina chihuahuahuahuahuahua, a shiraz-placated R, and me in the dark pasture with a flashlight. For an hour. There's not that much more to tell. it was just that much fun.
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(There's a friend of R's leaning against the wall of my kitchen right now talking about himself with such voracity and enthusiasm that I can hardly stop myself from spitting laughter, and there's a fairly cruel amusement value in watching R a) think of new ways to acknowledge verbal bullshit when called upon; b) eye the apparently now backward moving clock; and c) starve. I'm cool with the Unwanted, Uninvited Drop-In. But he left a half a wine glass of shiraz and it's cooing to my soul right now from the counter. Hey, did I mention he's a car salesman?)
Okay. The assignment.
"After your first month of Clown College, you've finally found time to write in your diary. You've seen and done things you never could have imagined before, and you've met someone very special. "
The turn in.
There are people out there who think that the decision to become a clown is a conscious choice; a foolish pay-the-bills alternate to whatever respectable career went down the toilet. Those people are wrong. The REAL clowns-- the lifers-- we're born and bred, not last-choice resigned. We're not about the Applebee's Sunday brunch balloon animal hats with the one-size-fits-all outfit. We're not paid hourly for white-picket- fence birthday parties. There's a pride here, a history. Take me for example: I'm a fourth-generation clown. It makes sense, really; if your great-grandfather and your grandfather and your old man were all clowns, what the hell do you think you're going to be? A bioelectrical engineer?
My great-grandfather (if you've heard of him, you'll know him as 'Mickey') made a living in the old country by sneaking up on the fresh young women in town, catching them picking in the field or walking home after church:
"Ye best be steerin' clear o' th' liquor an' these heathen boys we be havin' plenty of these days," he'd hiss, one greasy hand mauling a tender shoulder, nose twitching red with bursting capillaries. With a reeking trench coat full of live moths and a frizzy red Irish head full of live moths and a small box full of live moths, Mickey made quite the intimidating spokesman. The parents of these sneaking-out-at-night girls kept my great-grandpa plenty boozed up in exchange for these warning encounters. It wasn't until his son, my grandpa (a bastard birthed by the mayor's thirteen year old daughter, ironically) was forced into spraying his dad down with a hose to get his vomit-splattered ass up off the sidewalk that people started really appreciating The Art.
"Getch'er ugly, retchin self up offa the street, ya sick ol' curse of a witch's cunt!" he'd scream, spraying great-grandpa Mickey in the face.
"Yer sure as one to talk, ya wee little piece o' crap, child of a dirty whore!" Mickey would belch back, fending off the water with flailing arms, drenched moths flying everywhere.
Oh, for the love of a crowd.
My grandpa-- or 'Winky', to those in the business-- was hooked. The laughter, the smiles, the tears-- even after Mickey was long since popped by a train and buried you could count on catching Winky spraying down some unsuspecting citizen with a hose in the afternoon, screaming obscenities, cursing like a clown. He went out of his way to get a bastard son of his own to carry on the family business. Winky taught Dad all about hoses and how to hold your thumb over the spray and about whiskey and gin and all the screamed variations of 'vagina'. All for nothing as it turned out, since Dad had barely broken in his hose when he got eighteen years for Indecent Armed Robbery. When he got out he had lost his knack for the craft, opted instead to sell pleather car seats out of a van on the freeway onramp. He still wore the family uniform, though-- or at least the wig. And the fake beard. And the burned-off fingerprints. So I can't discount him completely. Clowning was in his blood. Hey, and he got the bastard son thing down, cause here I am.
I decided long ago that I was going to be the one to put this clowning family back to rights. 'B A Clown University' for me, thanks to financial aid and disability. So far things are good; the classes are really geared more toward the layclown, but it's nice to be able to coast a little through the shit I already know. I'm glad I brought my hose, though, since I haven't seen any Water Pressure classes or Thumb Technique courses on the schedule yet. I can bone up on those after hours by myself if I have to. I met a girl a couple of days ago, too; lank hair, kind of thick, a loner-- looks promising so far. I'll keep you posted.
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The Pain Continueth.
The assignment was: "an original limerick which mentions a brand name, AND
an original piece of computer art to go with it."
This was my contribution. I spent entirely too much futile time on fang marks. If I had a nickel, man.
One Twinkie lay limp, dry and dusty
While his twin with a grin called him "Lusty";
"I told you," he barked,"Those cupcakes are sharks!
Now you've lost all your cream to that hussy!"
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I'm Stealing Material... From Myself.
Because I can't seem to make any headway with posting lately (regardless of all the inane notes I've traffic scribbled on my way to and from work), I'll be posting some of the assignments I turned in during my turn as Techno Destructo on
Mister Crunchy's Reverse Survivor. We'll start with the ones that no one understood and move from there into the ones that everyone hated. Then I guess we'll be done with this theme. But in the meantime... this particular assingment was to "Pay tribute [to the Friday Five] this week by asking and answering your own Friday Five questions, all related to some clever theme." I love Reverse Survivor more than I love my mom. It haunts my dreams. I've been training for next season by pretending like harsh criticism rolls off my back. Here's my entry:
THE FRIDAY FIVE! WITH THE MICROSOFT WORD PROCESSING ASSISTANTS! YAY!
1) What do you consider to be your best feature?
ROCKY: Well, I’ve actually had quite a few people tell me that I’m a really “safe” guy… like let’s say a person saves an important file, like, I don’t know, a will or a thesis or a suicide note or something, and when that person hits SAVE and then I hold the little disk out to let the guy know I’ve got it, and then I stick it under my collar and into my neck? Like that? People dig that. I mean, I’ve got the disk, you know?
CLIPPIT: I like to think I add a little bit of “wacky” to the job, frankly. I try to show up every day with a fresh, zany outlook… if someone’s been working on spreadsheets for five and half hours and they suddenly decide to ANIMATE, ANIMATE, ANIMATE… well, I’ve got to be ready for that. And not just blinking my eyes and shit, but ready with something original…
OFFICE LOGO: Yeah, could you watch your mouth please?
F1: Oh my god, dude, shut the hell up.
OFFICE LOGO: Look, if you have a problem with office policy then you’re welcome to take it up with management, but I for one am not going to sit here and…
F1: You’re a narc and a dork and you need to shut your fuckin’ hole. Go ahead, man.
CLIPPIT: Yeah. So, something original. Like, what I like to do every once in a while, like a teaser, is coil up and then slide through my own eyeballs. I call that the “overtime bonus”. So I guess what I’m saying is, I just try to show up and throw in a little something extra.
MOTHER NATURE: [chimes]
2) What do you consider to be your worst feature?
GENIUS: Okay, okay. I know. I’ve been really trying to work on it, but I do have a tendency to be kind of a know-it-all.
MOTHER NATURE: [chimes]
GENIUS: I know! I know! What can I say? I think the classes are helping. I know I’m throwing down the light bulb a lot less often. I’m trying, okay? But when that guy earlier INSISTED on formatting a list ONE thing by ONE thing and he could have done it all at one time and saved himself like an hour, well, I didn’t handle that very well.
MOTHER NATURE: [chimes]
GENIUS: Thanks. You too.
THE DOT: SPARKLERS! AND ICE CREAM!
F1: Jesus fucking Christ.
THE DOT: [bouncing] AND COCA COLA! AND BANJOS!
F1: Could you get him the fuck out of here, please? Sorry, man. He’s completely gone.
3) What do you do in your spare time?
CLIPPIT: Are you serious? “Spare” time? Oh, you must be that guy who does all of his word processing between nine and five, Monday through Friday, right? No late night research papers for you, huh? With the NoDoze and the shaky-ass hands and the “I don’t give a crap about grammar or spelling” attitude? Yeah. SPARE time. Nice.
LINKS: I actually DO find myself with some spare time. I don’t know, I’m not really in high demand right now. It comes and goes, you know. I’m not complaining… I mean, the pay’s the same and all. I mainly just hang here, I guess. Just sort of waiting.
F1: We’re going to get ours, Links. I swear it, man. You’ve just got to hang in with me, okay? Just be cool.
LINKS: I know.
OFFICE LOGO: I don’t really think that…
F1: Shut up, dorkass. Mr. Spare Time himself. Mr. “I’ll spend all of MY spare time writing memos to The Boss”.
MOTHER NATURE: [chimes]
F1: [laughing] Totally! Oh god, that’s SO true.
4) If you weren’t doing this, what would you be doing?
CLIPPIT: Uh, fighting crime? I’m a paperclip, bro. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that I’d be holding sheets of paper together.
F1: It may sound stupid but I’ve always wanted to go on like “Robot Wars” or something. I think I’d kick ass. Is there one where it’s like “Punctuation Robot Wars”? Because I’d be like baby oil on brass, baby. Smooooooth.
OFFICE LOGO: I’ve really always wanted to try my hand at politics.
MOTHER NATURE: [chimes]
REST OF THE ASSISTANTS: [howls of laughter]
GENIUS: [wipes eye] Can we move on? Some woman is trying to bullet point a term paper.
5) What would you say your…
THE DOT: PIZZA! AND EARMUFFS! LA LA LA!
CLIPPIT: Fuckin’… where’s that harness?
THE DOT: BIIIIIIIIIIRD FEEDER! HA HA! CHICKEN FOOT! SALAD!
F1: Are we done? I think we have to be done.
ROCKY: Yeah. Sorry. Come back later or something.
MOTHER NATURE: [turns herself into a tornado]
ROCKY: Totally.
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The Smallest And Crunchiest Of Nutshells.
Work's fine, thanks for asking. My boss is having some issues right now thanks in small part to my somewhat engorged starting salary and thanks in large part to the payroll cunt who blabbed about it. To brighten her day I put 120 of
these on her desk this morning. If you think I'm kidding, you underestimate the power of a giant paycheck to my eleven -year-old control mechanism.
They worked like the 240 wiggly-armed charm I had hoped. And I'm getting a raise.
Actually, the eleven-year-old thing helps to put my foes into a cocky slumber so that when I learn that my payroll records were made common knowledge alongside complaints of mandatory pantyhose and the crucial, whispered climactic turns of "Who Wants To Marry My Dad", I can corner the bitch in question with surprise as my ally. No one expects the college girl with tasteful earrings who started the "Make The Rubber Alien Stick To The Receptionist" game* to take a confrontational turn for the ghetto.
*the receptionist wins EVERY TIME. She's such a fucking cheater. "Oooh, here's the alien!" "Look! Here's the alien, stuck to my arm!" I think she should have to stick it on the UPS guy for it to count.
(I owe the Mcphee link credit to
Dayment. Like $200 GONE. Thanks a lot.)
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I'm sitting here trying to psyche myself up for the drive home. I have to
write out a list of reasons why getting off the freeway at University,
though initially fifty miles-an-hour tempting, is the traffic equivalent of
infanticide. Fifty miles an hour for two whole miles and then a dead stop.
For an hour. And then one-lane construction. And trains. Like six of them.
Where I swear to god there aren't even any TRACKS.
If there was a freeway exit and cars were happily whipping through at sixty
only to crash into a giant brick wall a hundred feet later, I would
probably take it. I cannot pass up the power of fifth gear.
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I Can't Believe I Figured This Out. I Feel So Stealthy. And Stupid. If My
Work Signature Shows Up On This I'll Probably Kill Myself.
The most important thing I can think of to tell you before I go pee and get
another Diet Dr. Pepper?
My hair has been backsliding from fabulous to problem over the last two
weeks.
I'm now striving to meet minimum hair requirements. "Clean", for instance.
Today the only accurate way to describe my hair is "Amish".
Somebody get me a bonnet.
And an analog cell phone.
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Because I Miss You...
I'm officially figuring out how to post to this son of a bitch via my email.
With any luck, tomorrow I'll have posted infinite pointless bullshit emails.
Keep your fingers crossed.
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