Dear [adult swim],
Yesterday one of the office secretaries said that I was elitist. I mean, she didn't just walk up to me, slap me on the face, spit in my eye, and say, "You elitist bastard!" or anything. It was conversational. I made a joke about being elitist and she said something like, "That's so true," but the way she said it indicated she wasn't joking. So I said, "I'm not elitist!" and she stopped laughing. Then there was this long stupid silence and she said in a high, fake-ish voice, "Awkward." Then she said, "Oh come on. you don't even try to hide it. You're totally an elitist." Then I looked hurt so she said, "But it's in a cute way."
I don't need her condescension!
When I got home I told my wife about it and she said, "It sounds like the secretary has you pegged."
I'm better than both of them.
Michael
March __, 2007
Ps. You can't catch an STD from going to a prostitute in your dreams, can you? I mean, no matter how skanky she was, she was still just a dream, right? It just doesn't make any sense.
Pps. It was my friend who wanted to know about the STD thing.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Classy/Letter 20
Ok, I have to be the first to say that the following letter is probably the classiest one I have written to date.
Letter 20:
Dear [adult swim],
I sometimes wonder if women have the same work/poop hang ups as men. Cause, I mean, things are different for them, physiologically, and so, well, it's a bit more convenient. So do they touble over the question: to suffer or to crap? I know men do.
At some point in every man's life he's sitting on the toilet in the first grade bathroom, the ones that were actually in the classroom, minding his own business and concentrating on the task at hand, when he hears his name being called.
"Has anyone seen Michael?" the teacher would ask. "He was just here a second ago."
The class would rustle and a quite voice would mumble something that the poor pooper's ears could not strain to hear. Then the door would fly open and that jackass Paul Glass would be standing there. "Yep, told ya. He's taking a dump." And when he walked away he totally left the door open and half the class could look in. Then every couple of seconds a girl's head would appear in the doorway and giggle until finally the teacher appeared and said, "Hurry up, Michael, we have work to do."
Every man has a story like that. You could put any name in there.
And every man can remember a time in second grade where he went to the community restroom to go number two and the stall door wouldn't lock. Then in came a couple of fifth graders and they started opening the door and teasing him because he was pooping. And they'd punch him in the arm because the smell was aggravating them. Then finally the assistant principal came in and dragged the fifth graders off the the principal's office and made the boys apologize over the intercom for "Teasing Michael X while he was taking a dump!"
Every man remembers such trauma. But I wonder if women share in this bathroom anxiety. If you're already sitting is there a dilemma?
If you believe my wife then the answer is no. She says women don't poop. But I know that's not true. One time, when I was younger, this girl slept over at my house, and when I woke up there was a giant turd in my shoe. There was no other explanation.
Michael
March 14, 2007
Letter 20:
Dear [adult swim],
I sometimes wonder if women have the same work/poop hang ups as men. Cause, I mean, things are different for them, physiologically, and so, well, it's a bit more convenient. So do they touble over the question: to suffer or to crap? I know men do.
At some point in every man's life he's sitting on the toilet in the first grade bathroom, the ones that were actually in the classroom, minding his own business and concentrating on the task at hand, when he hears his name being called.
"Has anyone seen Michael?" the teacher would ask. "He was just here a second ago."
The class would rustle and a quite voice would mumble something that the poor pooper's ears could not strain to hear. Then the door would fly open and that jackass Paul Glass would be standing there. "Yep, told ya. He's taking a dump." And when he walked away he totally left the door open and half the class could look in. Then every couple of seconds a girl's head would appear in the doorway and giggle until finally the teacher appeared and said, "Hurry up, Michael, we have work to do."
Every man has a story like that. You could put any name in there.
And every man can remember a time in second grade where he went to the community restroom to go number two and the stall door wouldn't lock. Then in came a couple of fifth graders and they started opening the door and teasing him because he was pooping. And they'd punch him in the arm because the smell was aggravating them. Then finally the assistant principal came in and dragged the fifth graders off the the principal's office and made the boys apologize over the intercom for "Teasing Michael X while he was taking a dump!"
Every man remembers such trauma. But I wonder if women share in this bathroom anxiety. If you're already sitting is there a dilemma?
If you believe my wife then the answer is no. She says women don't poop. But I know that's not true. One time, when I was younger, this girl slept over at my house, and when I woke up there was a giant turd in my shoe. There was no other explanation.
Michael
March 14, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
A note/Letter 19
I think the above picture is one of my better ones. I'm not a character designer or an artist. On occasion I surprise myself with a decent picture, and I usually share it. I thought this one was funny.
Incidentally, I originally drew this pic to go with the last letter. Then I was doodling and drew the last pic and it totally didn't go with Letter 19 so I stuck it with Letter 18 and this pic with this letter. Oh well, I sent both letters on the same day anyway, so perhaps they all got read together and no one is the wiser.
Letter 19:
Dear [adult swim],
More on the subject of my mermaid.
She had a nose ring.
I don't really have a problem with body peircing, it's just that everything goes in cycles. And eventually time tells us what is really cool and will stick, like leather jackets, and what is not really cool, but in fact, ridiculous, like rat-tails. The nose ring is the rat-tail of the 2000s.
I dated a girl with a rat-tail in high school. A real winner (not really). I actually liked her rat-tail. They were still popular then. We had been dating about a day when she cut it off.
She eventually dumped me because we didn't "gel," which I guess was her way of saying, "I've slept with, like, 100 men, and I'm only 15."
But I digress. My mermaid, whose name was Lusca, did not have a rat-tail. She had a nose ring. And frosted hair. And a treasure map tattooed to her boobs.
It was for this reason she told me I was not allowed to see her boobs. She said the treasure belonged to her ex-husband Cthulhu, and if I were to see it I would know the location of his lair and he would rise in the night and kill me and all of civilization. At first I believed her, but later she told me the treasure map was tattooed to her ass, and then to... well, another place I might have a want to see. Later she started saying things like, "If you don't buy me a car with a pool inside it Cthulhu will kill you and all of civilization," and, "If you don't draw me a luke warm bath, and make it brackish Cthulhu will kill you and all of civilization," and, "If you don't get off your lazy ass and go to work today Cthulhu will kill you and all of civilization." I just stopped listening.
I eventually flushed her down the toilet with all her eggs. Thought I had seen the last of them. But apparently, and Aquaman tells me this is legit, my "fertilizing her brood," represents a marital contract. And it would seem that Atlantis Law has no problem with the fact that I'm already legally married. Aquaman couldn't even think of the names of all the men and women he was currently married to.
Michael
March 13, 2007
Ps. Aquaman said he was almost pretty certain Cthulhu didn't exist. So I shouldn't worry about it.
Glamour Mag
This month has Drew Berrymore on the cover.
Now, I know I am by no means the first person to point this kind of thing out, but it struck me as funny this morning as I was taking a leak and Drew was looking at me with her almost sentient eyes. The cover of this particular magazine reads:
Your Fantasy Issue:
How to get Flawless Skin,
Perfect Hair,
Washboard Abs,
And a man who likes you the way you are.
I can't even make jokes about this. It's no fun.
Now, I know I am by no means the first person to point this kind of thing out, but it struck me as funny this morning as I was taking a leak and Drew was looking at me with her almost sentient eyes. The cover of this particular magazine reads:
Your Fantasy Issue:
How to get Flawless Skin,
Perfect Hair,
Washboard Abs,
And a man who likes you the way you are.
I can't even make jokes about this. It's no fun.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
hair
My hair looks totally cool today.
Thought you'd want to know.
***UPDATE:
So I was walking through the office and one of the secretaries, not Andrea the cool one, but another one, said, "What's up with your hair today?"
"Nothing," said I.
"Is that product?" Andrea asked.
"No, just the oils of my scalp."
"Oh," said the other, who is unworthy of being named, "Cuz usually it looks decent."
nice
Thought you'd want to know.
***UPDATE:
So I was walking through the office and one of the secretaries, not Andrea the cool one, but another one, said, "What's up with your hair today?"
"Nothing," said I.
"Is that product?" Andrea asked.
"No, just the oils of my scalp."
"Oh," said the other, who is unworthy of being named, "Cuz usually it looks decent."
nice
Letter 18
Dear [adult swim],
It rained and rained.
Did I ever tell you about the time it rained so much that I thought my house was going to wash away? I wasn't where I am now. I was in a much smaller house, and the yard on all sides sloped slightly downhill to my house. So every time it rained my yard flooded.
Well, on time it rained and rained for a whole summer. The clouds never parted and the water never stopped flowing. I didn't know where it was coming from. It just kept coming; an unholy torrent of rivers and streams and tidal waves pouring into my yard. From May 1st to August 20th the rain poured down.
I never got to go outside that whole summer. I still had to go to work though. I can't exactly remember how I managed that, but I was always there.
After the rain stopped my yard remained flooded for a week. As it slowly drained I became aware of a thing or a fish swimming about in the shallow waters. By the fifth day there were no more deepish places to hide and the fish was in danger of beaching due to loss of water. Finally she had to reveal herself to me.
"Michael," she said, "Do not be afraid for I am a mermaid."
I was dumbfounded. You always expect that you will know what to say and how to act when you are confronted with the mythological, but you are totally wrong. You cannot prepare yourself.
"Does my beauty frighten you?" she asked.
"Oh, uh, sure. We'll go with that." I didn't know what to day. I had definitely grown up with some expectations of what a mermaid would look like. I saw Splash with Darryl Hannah. I expected a hot, voluptuous woman with a fin where her legs would be. And... I guess she was... most of that.
"During the summer's long rain I was washed into your yard. And now the waters recede, but I cannot get back to the ocean. If you will save my life I will be your love slave forever."
"Really?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "And to show my sincerity let us make lover here and now."
"Great!" I said, when suddenly the waters began to fill up with a brown lumpy muck. "Oh god," I said. "What is that? Are you defecating?"
"No. Those are my eggs. Now to complete the sexual union you must fertilize them."
"Holy crap. Are you kidding? How many eggs is that?"
"Usually around 2 or 3 hundred thousand."
"WHAT?" I shouted. "Who do I look like, Abraham?* I don't need all those children."
"You do not wish to make love to me?"
"Well... kind of. But can't you, like, dry off, clean the poop off, and turn into a woman?"
"No. If I dry off I will just die and the whole place will stink of fish. The only way for us to make love is for you to spread your seed into the brine."
Long story short - I've got some mouths to feed.
Flushing those eggs down the toilet, "by accident" did not get rid of all of them. Most survived. True, about one hundred fifty thousand were eaten by a blue whale, which, if anyone asks, I am deeply grieved by, and about sixty thousand do not appear to be sentient merfolk at all, but an odd fish-man hybrid of a totally unmagical nature, but that still leaves somewhere in the neighborhood of ninty thousand offspring that showed up on my doorstep this weekend.
And FYI - when they dry off their fins they do turn into fully functioning human legs. That merbitch lied to me.
Anyway, I could use a job.
Michael
March 12, 2007
* sorry for the religious allusion. I was only trying to remain true to the actual conversation.
sad update
Well, as always, I have heard nothing from [adult swim] regarding their intense desire to interview/hire me based on my letters. I'm a realist, I don't expect to hear anything. Still, I can dream.
Sunday night I had to take my wife to the emergency room for a migraine. In the waiting room someone had turned the TV to [adult swim]. I got to see about four shows while we waited. It was the most cable TV I'd seen in ages. Then the Tim and Eric Awesome Show started with a chick in a locker room in just underwear and one of the waiting room nurses decided that it wasn't appropriate so she changed the channel.
If she had only waited a few more moments she would have realized that it was a message about abstinence. That and the bum sitting across from me would have "finished" his "activity." Instead she left him wanting.
Sunday night I had to take my wife to the emergency room for a migraine. In the waiting room someone had turned the TV to [adult swim]. I got to see about four shows while we waited. It was the most cable TV I'd seen in ages. Then the Tim and Eric Awesome Show started with a chick in a locker room in just underwear and one of the waiting room nurses decided that it wasn't appropriate so she changed the channel.
If she had only waited a few more moments she would have realized that it was a message about abstinence. That and the bum sitting across from me would have "finished" his "activity." Instead she left him wanting.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Letter 17-haikus
This letter is probably one of my favorites. I took a different approach on this day and had a lot of fun. In the wake of my dizzy hang-over, which did happen, I kept having haikus pop into my head. One repeated itself to me over and again, and when I concentrated I came up with several more. I hope you enjoy these. I sure did.
Incidentally, when I let my (not mine, but the office's where I work) secretary read this she said, "I used to think that haikus were really difficult to pull off and make entertaining."
But the look on her face said, "And you've proven to me that I was right."
Enjoy:
Dear [adult swim],
I am the mac dew.
I refresh like cola, boo.
I should work for you.
We got way too drunk
And beat each other to death.
But I guess we lived.
I love chocolate.
Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum, yum, yum.
My yummy brown friend.
I have a red shirt.
I have blue, green & white too.
They look good on me.
The Hands of Fire
Put graffiti on my life.
I belong to them.
Pretty blue flowers.
I think of them and smile.
I think of boobs too.
My skilz be taco.
You love me cuz I'm hot sauce.
You should hire me.
I get spam a lot.
I don't think that it is fair.
Please don't touch me there.
I roll a hard five.
My D&D dwarf hero
Is not very smart.
I eat sashimi.
I get bad diarrhea.
Pleasant thoughts only.
Congealed alcohol,
I use it to clean my hands.
My hands are clean now.
I like to golf some.
I am not very good though.
And I don't tan well.
Pagan rituals
Do not always end with blood,
But perhaps they should.
Creativity,
It takes more space than you think.
I have plenty though.
In the haunted house
Everyone gets pretty scared
Of my bloody axe.
Michael
March 11, 2007
Ps.
In the dawn of war
My samurai underwear
Is on before yours.
Pps. trust in the haiku.
Incidentally, when I let my (not mine, but the office's where I work) secretary read this she said, "I used to think that haikus were really difficult to pull off and make entertaining."
But the look on her face said, "And you've proven to me that I was right."
Enjoy:
Dear [adult swim],
I am the mac dew.
I refresh like cola, boo.
I should work for you.
We got way too drunk
And beat each other to death.
But I guess we lived.
I love chocolate.
Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum, yum, yum.
My yummy brown friend.
I have a red shirt.
I have blue, green & white too.
They look good on me.
The Hands of Fire
Put graffiti on my life.
I belong to them.
Pretty blue flowers.
I think of them and smile.
I think of boobs too.
My skilz be taco.
You love me cuz I'm hot sauce.
You should hire me.
I get spam a lot.
I don't think that it is fair.
Please don't touch me there.
I roll a hard five.
My D&D dwarf hero
Is not very smart.
I eat sashimi.
I get bad diarrhea.
Pleasant thoughts only.
Congealed alcohol,
I use it to clean my hands.
My hands are clean now.
I like to golf some.
I am not very good though.
And I don't tan well.
Pagan rituals
Do not always end with blood,
But perhaps they should.
Creativity,
It takes more space than you think.
I have plenty though.
In the haunted house
Everyone gets pretty scared
Of my bloody axe.
Michael
March 11, 2007
Ps.
In the dawn of war
My samurai underwear
Is on before yours.
Pps. trust in the haiku.
500 Readers
The tiny counter shows that I have had 500 visitors. That seems like a lot to me.
Can I trust that counter? Or should I assume that most of those 500 visits come from me checking the blog each day?
Anyone out there know?
Can I trust that counter? Or should I assume that most of those 500 visits come from me checking the blog each day?
Anyone out there know?
Thursday, March 22, 2007
More pictures coming/Letter 16
Folks I promise I have some drawings that will be posted soon. I didn't realize I had gone quite so long without a pic. I think I've made up for it, however with the amount of pictures I've been sending of late. They aren't any good, mind you, but they are pictures. So there is something ugly to look at while you are reading my stupid stories.
Letter 16:
Dear [adult swim],
So my friend planned this whole day for us. I admit it was fun, but I'm not exactly sure why.
First we went shopping. He showed me some stores where I can get really good discounts on name brand clothes. Then he decided he wanted to get his hair done, so I said I would too. the lady who did myhair did a good job, I guess, but it wouldn't have killed her to smile. And she might have gotten a abetter tip. After that we went to the park and rode bikes until we were exhausted. I told Keith I felt fat and he told me about the Weight Watchers program he had been doing. Later, after a Weight Watchers dinner, which was surprisingly good, Keith's neighbor came over and told us about some great skin care products. Keith got mad at me because I only bought the cheapest cleanser and not the cucumber masque, but his neighbor didn't seem to mind.
Anyway, after that guy left we felt we needed a bit of masculinity in our day, so we got totally smashed and beat the ever-lovin' shit out of each other. If faded memory serves I hit him in the face with a coffee table book. But, in my defense, he wanted me to get rid of his hiccups - and I did... with the book.
Then we had a really good cry.
I don't know if it was the alcohol or the crying, but today I have a wicked hang-over. And I keep thinking of haikus.
Michael
March 10, 2007
Ps. trust in the haiku.
Letter 16:
Dear [adult swim],
So my friend planned this whole day for us. I admit it was fun, but I'm not exactly sure why.
First we went shopping. He showed me some stores where I can get really good discounts on name brand clothes. Then he decided he wanted to get his hair done, so I said I would too. the lady who did myhair did a good job, I guess, but it wouldn't have killed her to smile. And she might have gotten a abetter tip. After that we went to the park and rode bikes until we were exhausted. I told Keith I felt fat and he told me about the Weight Watchers program he had been doing. Later, after a Weight Watchers dinner, which was surprisingly good, Keith's neighbor came over and told us about some great skin care products. Keith got mad at me because I only bought the cheapest cleanser and not the cucumber masque, but his neighbor didn't seem to mind.
Anyway, after that guy left we felt we needed a bit of masculinity in our day, so we got totally smashed and beat the ever-lovin' shit out of each other. If faded memory serves I hit him in the face with a coffee table book. But, in my defense, he wanted me to get rid of his hiccups - and I did... with the book.
Then we had a really good cry.
I don't know if it was the alcohol or the crying, but today I have a wicked hang-over. And I keep thinking of haikus.
Michael
March 10, 2007
Ps. trust in the haiku.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Letter 15
Dear [adult swim],
I took today off to come up to Nashville and spend some time with my friend, Keith. So far the trip hasn't turned out exactly like I planned.
I left my house immediately after dinner on Thursday night because we wanted to wake up bright and early on Friday to start having fun. Well, Thursday was exhausting so when I finally got in the car I was ready to sleep. I was not ready to make a four hour trip. So I stopped at the nearest gas station, filled the car up, and bought a liter of Coke.
By Chattanooga I had finished the liter and by Monteagle it was knocking on the door to come out. I guess I could have stopped at a rest stop, but I was already running later than I wanted to be and I was worried that if I actually used the bathroom, which I needed to do so badly, I would be too relaxed and I would fall asleep at the wheel. So I held it in.
Murphreesboro passed and my eyes were sweating. Finally I admitted to myself that I had to go. But apparently I admitted that at the longest stretch of empty road on all of I-24. Maybe it was psychological, but I felt like I drove for hours with no sign of civilization. And the last thing I wanted to do was pull the car off on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Then I saw the empty Coke bottle.
Here is a little known fact:
A man can pee straight up into an inverted Coke bottle while sitting down and keeping one hand on the wheel... if he has a mind to.
Pretty obvious fact that only occurred to me too late:
A man cannot make the pee stay in the inverted Coke bottle. And he cannot control his car that was going 70 miles per hour and simultaneously turn the Coke bottle back over and keep pee from going absolutely everywhere.
When my car finally stopped spinning there wasn't much that was not doused in pee. When I had lost control I put both hands on the wheel, but I pretty much did nothing to stop my bladder. Did you ever play in your yard with those Wigglin' Water sprinklers? Yeah, but with pee.
I pretty much wore the same outfit all weekend because I didn't want to tell my friend I needed to use his washer and dryer.
Michael
March 9, 2007
I took today off to come up to Nashville and spend some time with my friend, Keith. So far the trip hasn't turned out exactly like I planned.
I left my house immediately after dinner on Thursday night because we wanted to wake up bright and early on Friday to start having fun. Well, Thursday was exhausting so when I finally got in the car I was ready to sleep. I was not ready to make a four hour trip. So I stopped at the nearest gas station, filled the car up, and bought a liter of Coke.
By Chattanooga I had finished the liter and by Monteagle it was knocking on the door to come out. I guess I could have stopped at a rest stop, but I was already running later than I wanted to be and I was worried that if I actually used the bathroom, which I needed to do so badly, I would be too relaxed and I would fall asleep at the wheel. So I held it in.
Murphreesboro passed and my eyes were sweating. Finally I admitted to myself that I had to go. But apparently I admitted that at the longest stretch of empty road on all of I-24. Maybe it was psychological, but I felt like I drove for hours with no sign of civilization. And the last thing I wanted to do was pull the car off on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Then I saw the empty Coke bottle.
Here is a little known fact:
A man can pee straight up into an inverted Coke bottle while sitting down and keeping one hand on the wheel... if he has a mind to.
Pretty obvious fact that only occurred to me too late:
A man cannot make the pee stay in the inverted Coke bottle. And he cannot control his car that was going 70 miles per hour and simultaneously turn the Coke bottle back over and keep pee from going absolutely everywhere.
When my car finally stopped spinning there wasn't much that was not doused in pee. When I had lost control I put both hands on the wheel, but I pretty much did nothing to stop my bladder. Did you ever play in your yard with those Wigglin' Water sprinklers? Yeah, but with pee.
I pretty much wore the same outfit all weekend because I didn't want to tell my friend I needed to use his washer and dryer.
Michael
March 9, 2007
Pic
This is one of the pics I have for a future letter. I will post it again with the other pics for that letter. I just wanted to show it now because I really like it.
The more I look at this the more I think my guy here is wearing a yarmulke. He's not. That is the sun shining through his head. It burned a hole straight through his head, see. I need to make it better. At first I really liked this pic, but now I keep thinking it's a skull cap or an egg.
dammit
Management
Ok, I've never really been a huge fan of management. I mean, not all managers are bad... yadda, yadda, yadda... and some of my best friends are managers... and I once dated a manager... and if my kid brought home a manager on a date I wouldn't run him out of the house or disown my daughter.
And there is a difference between this kind of manager over here, and this kind over here.
(becoming more stereotypical redneck)
See, this kind here werk hard and know thrr business and get things done. I got no beef with their kind. They do their thing and I do mine. Just as long as they keep to thumselves and don't try to micro manage me.
But this kind over here, they ain't good fer nuthin'. Takin' credit for other people's work. Gettin' paid outrageous for doin' less then me. I cain't stand it.
(Dixie moon sets and the werehick morphs back into regular old me)
At a meeting yesterday one of my least favorite managers showed her true colors. She's the kind of lady who's less concerned about being the boss and more concerned about bossing people around. I feel lucky that I no longer work under her.
Anyway, this was an actual conversation from a meeting we had. Here is a very limited background:
We (the IVR team) are upgrading out telephone Interactive Voice Response system. When we did the first phase a year ago we were plagued with delays because of unforseen issues. The IVR team is made up mostly of management level business personal, with a few people like me sprinkled in.
Project Manager: We have a plan about how we are going to proceed with this process... (and he gives a detailed explanation of the plan)... In July we will be inviting GTA and Bell South to do an on site walk through so that they can actually see what we are doing and where we are going. We don't want this to be a surprise to either of them. I have already explained our plans to my contacts at GTA (Georgia Technological Authority) and he says our plan sounds doable.
The Aforementioned Manager, Who is Not the Project Manager: (interrupting) I just want to be sure that GTA and Bell South are on the same page as us and to see that this is doable. You know.
The project manager looked at her like he didn't understand. And he probably didn't. He didn't understand how she could have actually appeared to be listening to him, but heard nothing!
He went on to assure her that this is what he was talking about and when he finished she said emphatically, as though she had won some battle, "Ok, now I think we're on the same page." And I know that she's going to go back and tell her boss that she saved the damn day.
Scarry Fact: Her boss is retiring and she may well take his place. Shudder.
And there is a difference between this kind of manager over here, and this kind over here.
(becoming more stereotypical redneck)
See, this kind here werk hard and know thrr business and get things done. I got no beef with their kind. They do their thing and I do mine. Just as long as they keep to thumselves and don't try to micro manage me.
But this kind over here, they ain't good fer nuthin'. Takin' credit for other people's work. Gettin' paid outrageous for doin' less then me. I cain't stand it.
(Dixie moon sets and the werehick morphs back into regular old me)
At a meeting yesterday one of my least favorite managers showed her true colors. She's the kind of lady who's less concerned about being the boss and more concerned about bossing people around. I feel lucky that I no longer work under her.
Anyway, this was an actual conversation from a meeting we had. Here is a very limited background:
We (the IVR team) are upgrading out telephone Interactive Voice Response system. When we did the first phase a year ago we were plagued with delays because of unforseen issues. The IVR team is made up mostly of management level business personal, with a few people like me sprinkled in.
Project Manager: We have a plan about how we are going to proceed with this process... (and he gives a detailed explanation of the plan)... In July we will be inviting GTA and Bell South to do an on site walk through so that they can actually see what we are doing and where we are going. We don't want this to be a surprise to either of them. I have already explained our plans to my contacts at GTA (Georgia Technological Authority) and he says our plan sounds doable.
The Aforementioned Manager, Who is Not the Project Manager: (interrupting) I just want to be sure that GTA and Bell South are on the same page as us and to see that this is doable. You know.
The project manager looked at her like he didn't understand. And he probably didn't. He didn't understand how she could have actually appeared to be listening to him, but heard nothing!
He went on to assure her that this is what he was talking about and when he finished she said emphatically, as though she had won some battle, "Ok, now I think we're on the same page." And I know that she's going to go back and tell her boss that she saved the damn day.
Scarry Fact: Her boss is retiring and she may well take his place. Shudder.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
troubles and Letter 14
I'm having some troubles with the show I'm working on. I have a single main character and she is pretty funny, though not overly developed. I have some side characters, but they are more shadows of the main than they are characters in their own right(s). I do have a couple of situational characters that I really like, but they seem very limitted in their longevity. I have no real developed characters and no nemesis. Basically I have nothing. I suck.
I wrote a single episode for the show and just about everyone I showed it to said, "Oh... it was good."
sigh
Maybe my understanding of TV is highly glorified, but unless your name is Aaron Spelling no respectable TV or Cable station is going to produce anything but GREAT SHOWS. In fact, they will choose a few from the scores of greats that they get. And those people need to have their every last shit together. And of the great shows that are chosen half of them will get cut to make way for one of Mr. Spelling's pieces of crap.
I've got a lot of work to do.
I do have some other ideas for shows. Some of them actually have a bit more development. But every time I turn around I find little pieces that remind me of some other show. I don't steal ideas. I can't stand that. But I admit that I am influenced. On top of that, if you have an idea, and you think it is original, but you sit on it for years, someone else is bound to think of something similar and you are going to look like the parrot. I have a story that I wrote about 6 years ago. It is a very small story that I never intended to be anything but a funny letter to a friend. But one day I was drawing a picture and it turned into something more. Long story short, I was watching my new Ventrue Bros. DVD last night and a sub character they have on the show reminded me a bit of one of the characters in my story. It's nothing really, but it bummed me out.
Anyway, Letter 14 (note, this letter is a bit... different):
Dear [adult swim],
I once knew a guy named Monkey Penis. Actually his name wasn't Monkey Penis. He was a monkey penis.
One of my ex-girlfriends kept it in her freezer. I asked her what it was one day and she said, "It's gonna be you if you don't mind your own f-ing business."
She was really hot and that made it all ok for a while. But the longer we dated the harder it was for me to get that monkey penis out of my head. Every time she opened the freezer door there it sat. It never moved. It just sat there.
One night after dinner I went to the freezer to get a Freezy Pop. She must have thought I was going for the monkey penis because she totally flipped out and tackled me at the door.
"What is it with you and that monkey penis?" I asked.
"Please," she cried. "Just leave the monkey penis alone."
"I don't understand why you have to have that stupid thing sitting in the freezer. It can't be sanitary. Just tell me what it's for."
"I can't," she said. "If you love me you will leave the monkey penis alone."
"Fine," I said and let it go. But that night, as she lay sleeping in bed, I crept down stairs to the kitchen. I turned the light on and slowly opened the freezer door. There, in the center of the freezer, sat the monkey penis. It seemed so harmless. I stared at it for several minutes. Finally, I gathered my courage up and grabbed it. At that moment my girlfriend let out a ghastly whail and something thumped to the floor.
I ran upstairs to see what was wrong and there on the bed lay my dead ex-girlfriend. Her head had fallen off the moment I removed the monkey penis. I was so overcome with emotion that I ran to the bed and wept beside her body. Grief stricken I beat the bed with the monkey member; flailing my back and face, and pounding the wall with it. At last I shook it in the air and yelled, "Why? Why couldn't I leave well enough and the monkey penis alone?"
Michael
March 8, 2007
Ps. So you know I actually disturbed myself with the ending to that story. So I wrote another one:
"I can't ," she said. "If you love me you will leave the monkey penis alone."
"Fine," I said and let it go. But that night, as she lay sleeping in bed, I crept downstairs to the kitchen. I turned the light on and slowly opened the freezer door. There, in the center of the freezer, sat the monkey penis. It seemed so harmless. I stared at it for several minutes. Finally, I gathered up my courage and grabbed it. At that moment a camera flashed. I spun around really quickly, member in hand, and it flashed agin and again.
So, if you have seen pictures on the Internet I was totally set up!
I wrote a single episode for the show and just about everyone I showed it to said, "Oh... it was good."
sigh
Maybe my understanding of TV is highly glorified, but unless your name is Aaron Spelling no respectable TV or Cable station is going to produce anything but GREAT SHOWS. In fact, they will choose a few from the scores of greats that they get. And those people need to have their every last shit together. And of the great shows that are chosen half of them will get cut to make way for one of Mr. Spelling's pieces of crap.
I've got a lot of work to do.
I do have some other ideas for shows. Some of them actually have a bit more development. But every time I turn around I find little pieces that remind me of some other show. I don't steal ideas. I can't stand that. But I admit that I am influenced. On top of that, if you have an idea, and you think it is original, but you sit on it for years, someone else is bound to think of something similar and you are going to look like the parrot. I have a story that I wrote about 6 years ago. It is a very small story that I never intended to be anything but a funny letter to a friend. But one day I was drawing a picture and it turned into something more. Long story short, I was watching my new Ventrue Bros. DVD last night and a sub character they have on the show reminded me a bit of one of the characters in my story. It's nothing really, but it bummed me out.
Anyway, Letter 14 (note, this letter is a bit... different):
Dear [adult swim],
I once knew a guy named Monkey Penis. Actually his name wasn't Monkey Penis. He was a monkey penis.
One of my ex-girlfriends kept it in her freezer. I asked her what it was one day and she said, "It's gonna be you if you don't mind your own f-ing business."
She was really hot and that made it all ok for a while. But the longer we dated the harder it was for me to get that monkey penis out of my head. Every time she opened the freezer door there it sat. It never moved. It just sat there.
One night after dinner I went to the freezer to get a Freezy Pop. She must have thought I was going for the monkey penis because she totally flipped out and tackled me at the door.
"What is it with you and that monkey penis?" I asked.
"Please," she cried. "Just leave the monkey penis alone."
"I don't understand why you have to have that stupid thing sitting in the freezer. It can't be sanitary. Just tell me what it's for."
"I can't," she said. "If you love me you will leave the monkey penis alone."
"Fine," I said and let it go. But that night, as she lay sleeping in bed, I crept down stairs to the kitchen. I turned the light on and slowly opened the freezer door. There, in the center of the freezer, sat the monkey penis. It seemed so harmless. I stared at it for several minutes. Finally, I gathered my courage up and grabbed it. At that moment my girlfriend let out a ghastly whail and something thumped to the floor.
I ran upstairs to see what was wrong and there on the bed lay my dead ex-girlfriend. Her head had fallen off the moment I removed the monkey penis. I was so overcome with emotion that I ran to the bed and wept beside her body. Grief stricken I beat the bed with the monkey member; flailing my back and face, and pounding the wall with it. At last I shook it in the air and yelled, "Why? Why couldn't I leave well enough and the monkey penis alone?"
Michael
March 8, 2007
Ps. So you know I actually disturbed myself with the ending to that story. So I wrote another one:
"I can't ," she said. "If you love me you will leave the monkey penis alone."
"Fine," I said and let it go. But that night, as she lay sleeping in bed, I crept downstairs to the kitchen. I turned the light on and slowly opened the freezer door. There, in the center of the freezer, sat the monkey penis. It seemed so harmless. I stared at it for several minutes. Finally, I gathered up my courage and grabbed it. At that moment a camera flashed. I spun around really quickly, member in hand, and it flashed agin and again.
So, if you have seen pictures on the Internet I was totally set up!
Monday, March 19, 2007
Letter 13
Dear [adult swim],
I was so tired when I got home last night that I fell right asleep on the couch as the kids were watching Scooby Doo. I don't know if they tried to wake me and failed, or if they thought I needed the sleep, or if they just didn't want to deal with me, but the whole family just let me sleep right through dinner, home work, prime time, bed time, and everything. I woke up starving at about 3 am to a peculiar sound coming from the garage.
I staggered into the kitchen and decided that my hunger outweighed my curiosity to see what was in the garage. I looked on the stove and saw a box of pizza. I was cold. I grabbed a slice and unceremoniously crammed it into my mouth. Then I heard anohter sound from the garage. So I tossed the crust on the stove, grabbed another slice and opened the door the garage.
Normally the garage is lit because some people in the house would rather complain about the electricity bill than actually turn lights off that no one can see. Last night, however, the light was off. Even still I could immediately see that the whole area had been cleaned. Rebecca had taken care of all the boxes and made room to park my car. But the more I looked at my car the more I realized it didn't look like my car. It was ever so slightly small. And there is no way Rebecca could have afforded a new car. Then it moved.
Startled, I ran to the light switch and turned it on. What sat before me was not my car at all, but a four door, three quarter ton cockroach. I was too amazed to be terrified. Actually, I was totally terrified.
"Gimme the pizza!" it said.
"But it's my pizza," I said.
"Gimme the pizza or I lay eggs inside your children."
That was a hard one because I really wanted the pizza. You know how sometimes you order pizza and it's just ok? But sometimes you order it and it's just so freakin' good? Well this pizza was totally good. And my kids cost more and more money every day. Not to mention the fact that they didn't wake me for dinner.
"Both my kids?" I asked.
"Both."
"Dammit." I looked at the pizza. You gotta understand... this stuff was good.
"Well?" It said.
"FINE!" I fussed and handed him the pizza.
"Yes!" It shouted. "This is the best pizza!" Then it tore a hole in my garage and flew away.
When I went upstairs to bed I passed the kids room. They were sleeping peacefully and quietly. There were still seven slices of pizza in the box, and they were all delicious, but sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision.
Michael
March 7, 2007
Ps. I probably did.
I was so tired when I got home last night that I fell right asleep on the couch as the kids were watching Scooby Doo. I don't know if they tried to wake me and failed, or if they thought I needed the sleep, or if they just didn't want to deal with me, but the whole family just let me sleep right through dinner, home work, prime time, bed time, and everything. I woke up starving at about 3 am to a peculiar sound coming from the garage.
I staggered into the kitchen and decided that my hunger outweighed my curiosity to see what was in the garage. I looked on the stove and saw a box of pizza. I was cold. I grabbed a slice and unceremoniously crammed it into my mouth. Then I heard anohter sound from the garage. So I tossed the crust on the stove, grabbed another slice and opened the door the garage.
Normally the garage is lit because some people in the house would rather complain about the electricity bill than actually turn lights off that no one can see. Last night, however, the light was off. Even still I could immediately see that the whole area had been cleaned. Rebecca had taken care of all the boxes and made room to park my car. But the more I looked at my car the more I realized it didn't look like my car. It was ever so slightly small. And there is no way Rebecca could have afforded a new car. Then it moved.
Startled, I ran to the light switch and turned it on. What sat before me was not my car at all, but a four door, three quarter ton cockroach. I was too amazed to be terrified. Actually, I was totally terrified.
"Gimme the pizza!" it said.
"But it's my pizza," I said.
"Gimme the pizza or I lay eggs inside your children."
That was a hard one because I really wanted the pizza. You know how sometimes you order pizza and it's just ok? But sometimes you order it and it's just so freakin' good? Well this pizza was totally good. And my kids cost more and more money every day. Not to mention the fact that they didn't wake me for dinner.
"Both my kids?" I asked.
"Both."
"Dammit." I looked at the pizza. You gotta understand... this stuff was good.
"Well?" It said.
"FINE!" I fussed and handed him the pizza.
"Yes!" It shouted. "This is the best pizza!" Then it tore a hole in my garage and flew away.
When I went upstairs to bed I passed the kids room. They were sleeping peacefully and quietly. There were still seven slices of pizza in the box, and they were all delicious, but sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision.
Michael
March 7, 2007
Ps. I probably did.
Venture Bros
I'm exhausted today. I got the Venture Brothers DVD over the weekend and I watched it until 1am last night. Of course it is good, but I was surprised at how many of them I'd already seen. The only one on the first disc I haven't seen is the first one.
That show is, perhaps, the best show that [adult swim] produces. I highly recommend it.
If I could develop a show like that then I'd be set. I have some ideas. We'll see how they turn out.
----
I'm so flippin' tired. My son is probably in the same state right now. Though he is 3 and does not have to worry about being alert or reporting to a boss or anything like that. His biggest challenge today will be riding a tricycle while sleep deprived. Those accidents can be kind of hairy and traumatic for 3 year olds. Still I think my day will suffer more. He gets a nap after all.
This weekend my parents took the kids to a hockey game. They loved it, but they were up until midnight and it screwed up their sleep habits. Last night at about 11 I heard the not too faint sound of "We will, we will rock you! rock you!" coming from my son's room.
That show is, perhaps, the best show that [adult swim] produces. I highly recommend it.
If I could develop a show like that then I'd be set. I have some ideas. We'll see how they turn out.
----
I'm so flippin' tired. My son is probably in the same state right now. Though he is 3 and does not have to worry about being alert or reporting to a boss or anything like that. His biggest challenge today will be riding a tricycle while sleep deprived. Those accidents can be kind of hairy and traumatic for 3 year olds. Still I think my day will suffer more. He gets a nap after all.
This weekend my parents took the kids to a hockey game. They loved it, but they were up until midnight and it screwed up their sleep habits. Last night at about 11 I heard the not too faint sound of "We will, we will rock you! rock you!" coming from my son's room.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Letter 12
Dear [adult swim],
Things I've learned.
* 1. It is not ok, according to my wife, to pee in the shower if the shower is not on.
2. It is also not ok to pee in the shower even if the shower is on, if you are not the one using the shower.
These are important rules I think. I pretty much disregard the first one if Rebecca is not home, and I have added a caveat to the second one: If the person in the shower is your wife's boyfriend then it is not only oi, but a familial responsibility to pee in a glass with ice and pour it over the top of the shower curtain, or to pee in the shampoo if you know ahead of time he is coming. Peeing directly on him will simply risk life and limb.
**I'm pretty sure this would be illegal now, but when I was in first grade my teacher taped me to my chair. It was just masking tape so I could easily get out of it. I pretended to be the Incredible Hulk as I tore through the pathetic bindings. Then Mrs. Chattam led me back to my seat by the ear and made me re-bind myself. She said I needed to learn the purpose of punishment.
I learned it. It's so nazi bitches can stamp out the creative joy in little boys.
*** When a woman says "I have a ham sandwich in the refrigerator," it is not a sexual innuendo. So ya know. And it is also not an invitation to eat her ham sandwich.
**** When you tell your friends that your absolute least favorite song in the history of the universe is Saturday in the Park, by Chicago, they will sing it to you as often as they can. This is because your friends are rotten bastards.
Michael
March 6, 2007
Ps. My hand is cramping.
Things I've learned.
* 1. It is not ok, according to my wife, to pee in the shower if the shower is not on.
2. It is also not ok to pee in the shower even if the shower is on, if you are not the one using the shower.
These are important rules I think. I pretty much disregard the first one if Rebecca is not home, and I have added a caveat to the second one: If the person in the shower is your wife's boyfriend then it is not only oi, but a familial responsibility to pee in a glass with ice and pour it over the top of the shower curtain, or to pee in the shampoo if you know ahead of time he is coming. Peeing directly on him will simply risk life and limb.
**I'm pretty sure this would be illegal now, but when I was in first grade my teacher taped me to my chair. It was just masking tape so I could easily get out of it. I pretended to be the Incredible Hulk as I tore through the pathetic bindings. Then Mrs. Chattam led me back to my seat by the ear and made me re-bind myself. She said I needed to learn the purpose of punishment.
I learned it. It's so nazi bitches can stamp out the creative joy in little boys.
*** When a woman says "I have a ham sandwich in the refrigerator," it is not a sexual innuendo. So ya know. And it is also not an invitation to eat her ham sandwich.
**** When you tell your friends that your absolute least favorite song in the history of the universe is Saturday in the Park, by Chicago, they will sing it to you as often as they can. This is because your friends are rotten bastards.
Michael
March 6, 2007
Ps. My hand is cramping.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Letter 11
I was on my way back to my office when I heard these two ladies behind me talking. They were discussing this and that about their kids, going on and on about the differences between girls and boys, and how they've learned over the years to be good mothers. Then one of the ladies said, "But my Jerry, he's graduating in a year," and the other lady said, "Are you kiddin' me? There ain't no way you're old enough to have a kid graduatin' from high school." "Not high school, baby," the first lady said, "Jerry is gettin' his bachelors." "Get outta here! You look so young. You look great! I'm jealous. What's your secret?"
The ladies were laying it on too thick and I couldn't resist. I had to get a look at his young mother behind me. So I chalantly turned around to look and just about jumped out of my skin. The woman was huge. She was bald on top with gray wispy hair on the sides. She had a mustache and more space between her teeth than she had teeth.
Then a very weird thing happened. The big lady's body continued talking to her friend but her spirit turned to me and said, "Would you like a scoop of ice cream, Hunny? I have two big scoops of chocolate if you wanna tuck away in the janitor's closet."
I stood perfectly still and smiled as my spirit puked all over the lobby floor.
"Ha ha ha," the huge ugly lady's spirit laughed. "I knew you could do it. My grandaddy called it Shining. My name's Carlie; Carlie La'Mont! We used to sit on grandaddy's porch for hours having long conversations without ever making a sound. It drove my mama crazy. Then grandaddy got hacked to pieces by some psycho in a rich man's resort one winter."
I could feel my real eyes and my spirit eyes bugg out. At that moment Jack Nocholson burst into the lobby with a fire axe in hand. "Here's Johnny!" he yelled and ran for Carlie La'Mont.
Luckily we have really good security and Fred the security guard popped a cap in his ass before he got within ten feet of her. "That's a shame," Fred shined. "I always liked his movies."
"They were ok," I shined while my spirit tapped his foot with my foot.
"I thought he was a jackass," Carlie La'Mont shined."
"I'm not dead," Jack's spirit shined wile his body lay unconscious. "He didn't hit any vital organs. I'll be fine... and I'll get you next year La'Mont!"
"My black ass you will," she shined and we all laughed.
Michael
March 5, 2007
Ps. I know "chalantly" is not a word, but I was afraid if I had said "non-nonchalantly" you would have thought I was a typical moron. And I am not your typical moron.
Pps. I suppose I could have said "indiscretely," but where is the humor in that?
The ladies were laying it on too thick and I couldn't resist. I had to get a look at his young mother behind me. So I chalantly turned around to look and just about jumped out of my skin. The woman was huge. She was bald on top with gray wispy hair on the sides. She had a mustache and more space between her teeth than she had teeth.
Then a very weird thing happened. The big lady's body continued talking to her friend but her spirit turned to me and said, "Would you like a scoop of ice cream, Hunny? I have two big scoops of chocolate if you wanna tuck away in the janitor's closet."
I stood perfectly still and smiled as my spirit puked all over the lobby floor.
"Ha ha ha," the huge ugly lady's spirit laughed. "I knew you could do it. My grandaddy called it Shining. My name's Carlie; Carlie La'Mont! We used to sit on grandaddy's porch for hours having long conversations without ever making a sound. It drove my mama crazy. Then grandaddy got hacked to pieces by some psycho in a rich man's resort one winter."
I could feel my real eyes and my spirit eyes bugg out. At that moment Jack Nocholson burst into the lobby with a fire axe in hand. "Here's Johnny!" he yelled and ran for Carlie La'Mont.
Luckily we have really good security and Fred the security guard popped a cap in his ass before he got within ten feet of her. "That's a shame," Fred shined. "I always liked his movies."
"They were ok," I shined while my spirit tapped his foot with my foot.
"I thought he was a jackass," Carlie La'Mont shined."
"I'm not dead," Jack's spirit shined wile his body lay unconscious. "He didn't hit any vital organs. I'll be fine... and I'll get you next year La'Mont!"
"My black ass you will," she shined and we all laughed.
Michael
March 5, 2007
Ps. I know "chalantly" is not a word, but I was afraid if I had said "non-nonchalantly" you would have thought I was a typical moron. And I am not your typical moron.
Pps. I suppose I could have said "indiscretely," but where is the humor in that?
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Confusion Letter 10/8
Ok, I'm not sure how I got all confused, but I skipped March 2. So that is the letter I will display today as Letter 10, even though it was technically supposed to be Letter 8. I'm sure you can handle it.
Dear [adult swim],
Ok, I didn't fart. I don't think it's at all fair that I got blamed.
I was in a meeting with some very important people. There was a system failure due to some batch programs that were running improperly and it was causing some major reporting issues. I'm not an I.T. person so I don't really know the details, but I do understand that it was serious. There were several assistant commissioners and poeple so much higher up than me.
Anyway, I was far and away the low man on the totem pole so I was relegated to the plastic, public school chair. I didn't mind. It was kinda cool to be part of this group; movers and shakers in the department solving real problems and getting things done.
So there I was trying to pay attention, which was really hard because after the thrill of being involved in a top echelon meeting wore off it was pretty much all numbers and verbal clutter as far as I could tell. Words like V-SAM and DB2 and SQL Server begin to sound to the uninformed a whole lot like Brahm's Lullaby. I had to shift in my seat to keep from falling asleep. And when I did that my chair squeaked. It was a cheap, plastic chair, sot that's totally not my fault. But I admit the squeak sounded everything like a fart. A juicy one.
Naturally everyone looked over at me. Even the cream of society will turn to see who farted. Mark my words.
"It wasn't me," I said. "It was the chair."
The problem here is that when I get really nervouse, and when I happen to have had Taco Bell the night before, I do tend to get a little gassy.
"Michael," one of the assistants to the admin assistant to the deputy commissioner's sister's friend said, "Why are you in this meeting?"
"I got an invitation. I don't know," I said, and the room went back to the meeting at hand.
My stomach churned. I tried to hold it in. But I couldn't stop it. It was totally silent, but it was quickly discovered.
"Oh God," a person who is so high up I wasn't allowed to look upon his countenance said, "That chair must have been eating Mexican."
Everyone laughed the laugh of people who don't really get jokes because their world isn't funny, but who understand that jokes exist and that it is appropriate to laugh at them, especially when their lips are pressed up to an ass.
"Michael," that same assistant to whatever said, "I don't know how you got invited to this meeting, but I don't think this is the appropriate place for you."
"Ok," I farted.
Michael
March 2, 2007
Ps. She's right; this isn't the appropriate place for me. I need to work at [adult swim].
Pps. I won't eat any more Taco Bell.
Dear [adult swim],
Ok, I didn't fart. I don't think it's at all fair that I got blamed.
I was in a meeting with some very important people. There was a system failure due to some batch programs that were running improperly and it was causing some major reporting issues. I'm not an I.T. person so I don't really know the details, but I do understand that it was serious. There were several assistant commissioners and poeple so much higher up than me.
Anyway, I was far and away the low man on the totem pole so I was relegated to the plastic, public school chair. I didn't mind. It was kinda cool to be part of this group; movers and shakers in the department solving real problems and getting things done.
So there I was trying to pay attention, which was really hard because after the thrill of being involved in a top echelon meeting wore off it was pretty much all numbers and verbal clutter as far as I could tell. Words like V-SAM and DB2 and SQL Server begin to sound to the uninformed a whole lot like Brahm's Lullaby. I had to shift in my seat to keep from falling asleep. And when I did that my chair squeaked. It was a cheap, plastic chair, sot that's totally not my fault. But I admit the squeak sounded everything like a fart. A juicy one.
Naturally everyone looked over at me. Even the cream of society will turn to see who farted. Mark my words.
"It wasn't me," I said. "It was the chair."
The problem here is that when I get really nervouse, and when I happen to have had Taco Bell the night before, I do tend to get a little gassy.
"Michael," one of the assistants to the admin assistant to the deputy commissioner's sister's friend said, "Why are you in this meeting?"
"I got an invitation. I don't know," I said, and the room went back to the meeting at hand.
My stomach churned. I tried to hold it in. But I couldn't stop it. It was totally silent, but it was quickly discovered.
"Oh God," a person who is so high up I wasn't allowed to look upon his countenance said, "That chair must have been eating Mexican."
Everyone laughed the laugh of people who don't really get jokes because their world isn't funny, but who understand that jokes exist and that it is appropriate to laugh at them, especially when their lips are pressed up to an ass.
"Michael," that same assistant to whatever said, "I don't know how you got invited to this meeting, but I don't think this is the appropriate place for you."
"Ok," I farted.
Michael
March 2, 2007
Ps. She's right; this isn't the appropriate place for me. I need to work at [adult swim].
Pps. I won't eat any more Taco Bell.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Letter 9
Dear [adult swim],
The following events are based on a true commercial:
Twin girls sit at a table recounting their mystical experience.
Twin 1: Last week me and a couple of friends were desperately hungry, so we into Karl's Chicken Nuggest Barn.
Twin 2: The one off Second Avenue and King.
Twin 1: And they have these new all white meat chicken nuggets.
Twin 2: Made from whole pieces of chicken; not processed.
Twin 1: So I ordered some with barbecue sauce.
Twin 2: Which is full of carbs and totally against our diet.
Twin 1: Anyway, I dipped a nugget in the sauce and boom...
Twin 2: All the way across town... I... tasted... the nugget!
Twin 1: Meanwhile, I got a mouthful of Jason Dooglesbee.
Twin 2: The chicken nuggets were way better.
Twin 1: (twirling hair) I don't know.
Twin 2: -gasp- Oh that's so funny.
Twin 1: We are so bonded.
Twin 2: Totally.
Michael
March 4, 2007
WARNING: The following apology contains the word BLOW JOB! If you or a friend is likely to be offended by the word BLOW JOB, then you should discontinue reading now.
Apology: Dear reader: I would like to apologize for the gratuitous use of the word blow job in the preceeding warning. It won't happen exactly the same way again.
The following events are based on a true commercial:
Twin girls sit at a table recounting their mystical experience.
Twin 1: Last week me and a couple of friends were desperately hungry, so we into Karl's Chicken Nuggest Barn.
Twin 2: The one off Second Avenue and King.
Twin 1: And they have these new all white meat chicken nuggets.
Twin 2: Made from whole pieces of chicken; not processed.
Twin 1: So I ordered some with barbecue sauce.
Twin 2: Which is full of carbs and totally against our diet.
Twin 1: Anyway, I dipped a nugget in the sauce and boom...
Twin 2: All the way across town... I... tasted... the nugget!
Twin 1: Meanwhile, I got a mouthful of Jason Dooglesbee.
Twin 2: The chicken nuggets were way better.
Twin 1: (twirling hair) I don't know.
Twin 2: -gasp- Oh that's so funny.
Twin 1: We are so bonded.
Twin 2: Totally.
Michael
March 4, 2007
WARNING: The following apology contains the word BLOW JOB! If you or a friend is likely to be offended by the word BLOW JOB, then you should discontinue reading now.
Apology: Dear reader: I would like to apologize for the gratuitous use of the word blow job in the preceeding warning. It won't happen exactly the same way again.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Vacation, Letter 8
Sorry guys, I went on a short vacation. I went to visit a friend in Nashville, so I wasn't able to post. I also didn't send any letters in that time, so I have some catching up to do. Yikes!
Here is Letter 8:
Dear [adult swim],
Last night, as I was trying to break into my back door, I looked into the sky and saw a star. Now, there wasn't anything special about this star, not in appearance anyway. It wasn't terribly large. I didn't hover around, or shine a beam of light on me, or flash, or anything like that. But it did seem to call out to me; like a deviation from a pattern attracts the eye.
When I compared it one by one to the stars around it, it really didn't seem different. But still I was certain it was. I was certain that this was my star; the star that contained my home planet. Thence came I.
I can now say with confidence that I am whatever-in-the-hell you call the people that came from whatever planet might circle that star. I did some research and I found that the star name is Beta Cheek 89, which is a shortened form of Beta Exponerum Asinus Chaecus 89, found on the back side of Orion. It is one of the stars of the lesser known constellation of Orion's Exposed Ass Cheek. Apparently when the hunter wanted to agitate his quarry he'd simply moon them.
I told my wife about my discovery that I was from Beta Cheek and she said that it seemed about right to her because she had known many aliens in her time and it would make sense that they weren't all good lovers. I'm a little afraid to work out the math behind that sentence.
"So," she said, "Is your real name Michael?"
"Yeah, why?" I asked.
"I don't know. It just doesn't seem like an alien name to me. An alien name would be a bit more unique; a bit more memorable."
"My name isn't memorable?"
"Not really. It's kinda boring."
I stared at her for a minute. "Is there anything you like about me?"
"Look," she said, "It's not your fault. You didn't pick your name. But if you're gonna be an alien..."
"I am an alien."
"Ok. Since you ARE an alien, shouldn't you have a name that stands out?"
"How about Jucie Newton?" I asked.
"You really are stupid, aren't you?"
"What? You said it needed to be memorable."
"I also said it needed to be unique."
"Ok," I said, "Aside from Juice Newton, who else do you know with that name?"
"Oh, well," she said, "You've got me on that one."
Juice Newton (formerly Michael)
March 3, 2007
Ps. Technically my name is still Michael. There are some legal barriers standing between me and my new name, and there's no telling how long it will take to overcome them. Ms. Newton said that I did not have permission to use her name, and when I pointed out that she was not using it she hung up on me. I also approached OJ Simpson and Nabiso's Fig Newtons to see if they would marry and then adopt me. OJ was all for the idea, but Nabisco is asking for some pretty extreme pre-nump terms like, "no murdering." Besides, Orange Juice Newtons just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Here is Letter 8:
Dear [adult swim],
Last night, as I was trying to break into my back door, I looked into the sky and saw a star. Now, there wasn't anything special about this star, not in appearance anyway. It wasn't terribly large. I didn't hover around, or shine a beam of light on me, or flash, or anything like that. But it did seem to call out to me; like a deviation from a pattern attracts the eye.
When I compared it one by one to the stars around it, it really didn't seem different. But still I was certain it was. I was certain that this was my star; the star that contained my home planet. Thence came I.
I can now say with confidence that I am whatever-in-the-hell you call the people that came from whatever planet might circle that star. I did some research and I found that the star name is Beta Cheek 89, which is a shortened form of Beta Exponerum Asinus Chaecus 89, found on the back side of Orion. It is one of the stars of the lesser known constellation of Orion's Exposed Ass Cheek. Apparently when the hunter wanted to agitate his quarry he'd simply moon them.
I told my wife about my discovery that I was from Beta Cheek and she said that it seemed about right to her because she had known many aliens in her time and it would make sense that they weren't all good lovers. I'm a little afraid to work out the math behind that sentence.
"So," she said, "Is your real name Michael?"
"Yeah, why?" I asked.
"I don't know. It just doesn't seem like an alien name to me. An alien name would be a bit more unique; a bit more memorable."
"My name isn't memorable?"
"Not really. It's kinda boring."
I stared at her for a minute. "Is there anything you like about me?"
"Look," she said, "It's not your fault. You didn't pick your name. But if you're gonna be an alien..."
"I am an alien."
"Ok. Since you ARE an alien, shouldn't you have a name that stands out?"
"How about Jucie Newton?" I asked.
"You really are stupid, aren't you?"
"What? You said it needed to be memorable."
"I also said it needed to be unique."
"Ok," I said, "Aside from Juice Newton, who else do you know with that name?"
"Oh, well," she said, "You've got me on that one."
Juice Newton (formerly Michael)
March 3, 2007
Ps. Technically my name is still Michael. There are some legal barriers standing between me and my new name, and there's no telling how long it will take to overcome them. Ms. Newton said that I did not have permission to use her name, and when I pointed out that she was not using it she hung up on me. I also approached OJ Simpson and Nabiso's Fig Newtons to see if they would marry and then adopt me. OJ was all for the idea, but Nabisco is asking for some pretty extreme pre-nump terms like, "no murdering." Besides, Orange Juice Newtons just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Letter 7
Dear [adult swim],
I'm starving. But the problem is it is only 10 am. Ugh, I'm so hungry. I keep thinking about my cheese sandwich. Sitting in the fridge. Two soft pieces of white bread with mustard on both slices. A dash of Tabasco. And cheese; two pieces.
BAM!
Emeril, eat your heart out! But you can compete with the cheese sandwich. Don't even try. And if you do, you know what else I got?
ANOTHER CHEESE SANDWICH BAM!
I am the King of cheese sandwiches. And I will share my yummy sandwiches if you desire. Do you have desire?
They are sitting in the fridge in a brown paper bag. And in the paper bag they are in a ziplock bag (which I reuse because I want to protect the environment). They are nestled together in the ziplock loving each other, and loving me. Because I AM the cheese sandwiches, and the cheese sandwiches will be me. But if I share the cheese sandwiches with you then I am not those cheese sandwiches. You will be the sandwich you eat, and I will be the sandwich I eat. But we won't be loving each other in the ziplock. We will be platonically laying next to each other in a non-experimental way. And I will not rub your boob if you have one. Or even two. And I will not rub your anything else if you have one of those.
I tell you what... next time I make cheese sandwiches I will put the sandwiches in separate bags, and if you choose to eat one then that one will be all you. And if you don't, then it will be me. And the other one will be me too, of course.
And I will tear into those sandwiches like a rabid caterpillar. And I will chew their cheesy, bready bones to goo, and the sandwiches will love every minutes of it, and hate it at the same time. Because sandwiches are conflicted by their fate. But they will know, in their heart of hearts, that it is for the best, and that they will become part of me and be mighty.
Michael
Feb-I mean March-ruary 1, 2007
I'm starving. But the problem is it is only 10 am. Ugh, I'm so hungry. I keep thinking about my cheese sandwich. Sitting in the fridge. Two soft pieces of white bread with mustard on both slices. A dash of Tabasco. And cheese; two pieces.
BAM!
Emeril, eat your heart out! But you can compete with the cheese sandwich. Don't even try. And if you do, you know what else I got?
ANOTHER CHEESE SANDWICH BAM!
I am the King of cheese sandwiches. And I will share my yummy sandwiches if you desire. Do you have desire?
They are sitting in the fridge in a brown paper bag. And in the paper bag they are in a ziplock bag (which I reuse because I want to protect the environment). They are nestled together in the ziplock loving each other, and loving me. Because I AM the cheese sandwiches, and the cheese sandwiches will be me. But if I share the cheese sandwiches with you then I am not those cheese sandwiches. You will be the sandwich you eat, and I will be the sandwich I eat. But we won't be loving each other in the ziplock. We will be platonically laying next to each other in a non-experimental way. And I will not rub your boob if you have one. Or even two. And I will not rub your anything else if you have one of those.
I tell you what... next time I make cheese sandwiches I will put the sandwiches in separate bags, and if you choose to eat one then that one will be all you. And if you don't, then it will be me. And the other one will be me too, of course.
And I will tear into those sandwiches like a rabid caterpillar. And I will chew their cheesy, bready bones to goo, and the sandwiches will love every minutes of it, and hate it at the same time. Because sandwiches are conflicted by their fate. But they will know, in their heart of hearts, that it is for the best, and that they will become part of me and be mighty.
Michael
Feb-I mean March-ruary 1, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Pic for Letter 6
This is the pic for Letter 6. I drew it pretty quickly. I hope you don't think less of me.
Actually, if you've read this whole blog and you don't think less of me yet, I doubt this picture 's gonna do it.
Letter 6
Dear [adult swim],
When I was 19 I heard the voice of the Lord. I was in the mall.
I have always been a people watcher. Not in a creepy way. I don't stare and mumble, or touch myself. I just watch. I watch how they walk, how they interact, how they cheat on girlfriends in public, and how they dump cheating boyfriends in public. It's fun.
Anyway, one day I was sitting on a beach at the mall and I noticed this pretty lady walking in my general direction. She was probably in her late twenties-early thirties, and she was not drop-dead gorgeous. She was pretty; not too tall, not too short. Her hair was dark blonde or light brown, I can't recall. And her skin was average.
She probably didn't know I was watching her, and in truth I was about to turn my gaze elsewhere, lest she think I was a letch. Then she dropped her keys. And when she bent over to pick up her keys I saw right down her shirt. And a beam of light burst forth from it and shown upon me. It was pure white with lightning on the sides and time stood still. All around me the world froze as golden rays bathed my face and the voice of the Lord spake.
"Michael," it said. And then it said some other stuff, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy looking at the cleavage.
If memory serves He said something about me getting a job at Cartoon Network's [adult swim] program, which didn't even exist at the time. He said it was important for the fate of mankind. Only I didn't hear how he told me to do it. I figure these letters are as good a way as any.
Anyway, if you catch me looking at cleavage it's not because I'm a freak. It's because I'm communing with a higher power.
Michael
February 28, 2007
When I was 19 I heard the voice of the Lord. I was in the mall.
I have always been a people watcher. Not in a creepy way. I don't stare and mumble, or touch myself. I just watch. I watch how they walk, how they interact, how they cheat on girlfriends in public, and how they dump cheating boyfriends in public. It's fun.
Anyway, one day I was sitting on a beach at the mall and I noticed this pretty lady walking in my general direction. She was probably in her late twenties-early thirties, and she was not drop-dead gorgeous. She was pretty; not too tall, not too short. Her hair was dark blonde or light brown, I can't recall. And her skin was average.
She probably didn't know I was watching her, and in truth I was about to turn my gaze elsewhere, lest she think I was a letch. Then she dropped her keys. And when she bent over to pick up her keys I saw right down her shirt. And a beam of light burst forth from it and shown upon me. It was pure white with lightning on the sides and time stood still. All around me the world froze as golden rays bathed my face and the voice of the Lord spake.
"Michael," it said. And then it said some other stuff, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy looking at the cleavage.
If memory serves He said something about me getting a job at Cartoon Network's [adult swim] program, which didn't even exist at the time. He said it was important for the fate of mankind. Only I didn't hear how he told me to do it. I figure these letters are as good a way as any.
Anyway, if you catch me looking at cleavage it's not because I'm a freak. It's because I'm communing with a higher power.
Michael
February 28, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Picture
This pic goes with Letter 1 of Campaign 4. The one I sent on Feb 23. I meant to add it to the blog days ago, but I forgot. Anyway, I sent this in with Letter 1.
My cartoon images of me always have way cooler hair than I have. But whenever I re-enter the Matrix my hair looks exactly like this. Except for with Uzis.
Letter 5
Dear [adult swim]
I learned to juggle in college. That's a skill I can bring to the job, if you're interested.
I don't remember why I decided to learn to juggle. I just wanted to. I didn't really think it would help me as a performer; I never really wanted to be a clown. And something told me it wouldn't work itself into a musical gig.
Still, I thought if I could learn to juggle I could do anything. And I did. So then I decided to raise a body from the dead. And I did that too. His name was Nathan.
Nathan hung around for about three years. At first I was all excited about being around him because it was totally cool to hang with the undead. We'd go to parties and he'd make jokes about being a stiffy, and all the drunk girls would laugh. But after the first semester the cool really started to wear off.
"Hey man, you wanno go get drunk?" he'd ask.
"No. I don't really feel like it."
"Well, do you wanna go on-line and get in a chat room, then pretend to be a woman and get some guy to jerk off?"
"Um... no... I gotta test to study for."
"I've got a porno."
"I really need to study."
"Come on, we can make fun of the acting. It's mostly men, but I didn't know that when I bought it."
"I'm going to the library."
By the second year things had really gotten weird. One day I walked in on Nathan lying fully clothed, side by side in bed with a guy named Bunjwa.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Nothing," Nathan said. "Nuh-sing," Bunjwa said.
"This is Bunjwa," Nathan said. "Bun-jwa!" Bunjwa shouted.
"Ok..." I said.
"He's a foreign exchange studen. We have a lot in common." ("Co-mon!")
"Ok..." I said.
"He's undead too." ("Bun-jwa!")
"That's great," I said trying to be supportive. "Is there something you want to tell me? About you and... other men?"
"Other men? What?" he stuttered and paused. "Dude I totally slept with that chick you like last night. Kimberly. I did her all kinds a ways and sideways. She said she likes you but she couldn't help but do me. I made her cry. I hope that's cool?"
"Who?" I asked. "You mean Kim? I don't like her. She's an idiot and I think she has Hepatitis."
"Oh. Well, who do you like now?"
"Bun-jwa! Dick-weet! Loo-sir!" Bunjwa shouted.
Michael
February 27, 2007
I learned to juggle in college. That's a skill I can bring to the job, if you're interested.
I don't remember why I decided to learn to juggle. I just wanted to. I didn't really think it would help me as a performer; I never really wanted to be a clown. And something told me it wouldn't work itself into a musical gig.
Still, I thought if I could learn to juggle I could do anything. And I did. So then I decided to raise a body from the dead. And I did that too. His name was Nathan.
Nathan hung around for about three years. At first I was all excited about being around him because it was totally cool to hang with the undead. We'd go to parties and he'd make jokes about being a stiffy, and all the drunk girls would laugh. But after the first semester the cool really started to wear off.
"Hey man, you wanno go get drunk?" he'd ask.
"No. I don't really feel like it."
"Well, do you wanna go on-line and get in a chat room, then pretend to be a woman and get some guy to jerk off?"
"Um... no... I gotta test to study for."
"I've got a porno."
"I really need to study."
"Come on, we can make fun of the acting. It's mostly men, but I didn't know that when I bought it."
"I'm going to the library."
By the second year things had really gotten weird. One day I walked in on Nathan lying fully clothed, side by side in bed with a guy named Bunjwa.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Nothing," Nathan said. "Nuh-sing," Bunjwa said.
"This is Bunjwa," Nathan said. "Bun-jwa!" Bunjwa shouted.
"Ok..." I said.
"He's a foreign exchange studen. We have a lot in common." ("Co-mon!")
"Ok..." I said.
"He's undead too." ("Bun-jwa!")
"That's great," I said trying to be supportive. "Is there something you want to tell me? About you and... other men?"
"Other men? What?" he stuttered and paused. "Dude I totally slept with that chick you like last night. Kimberly. I did her all kinds a ways and sideways. She said she likes you but she couldn't help but do me. I made her cry. I hope that's cool?"
"Who?" I asked. "You mean Kim? I don't like her. She's an idiot and I think she has Hepatitis."
"Oh. Well, who do you like now?"
"Bun-jwa! Dick-weet! Loo-sir!" Bunjwa shouted.
Michael
February 27, 2007
Monday, March 05, 2007
Sense of Humor
It is fun to watch children develop mentally and emotionally. This year my daughter learned to read and she is just taking off intellectually. Right now, however, her sense of humor is still really focused on all things silly. She can read about a silly situation and laugh spontaneously, but jokes are a bit beyond her. She understands what a joke is and, to a degree, how they are constructed. But the concept is still just beyond her grasp. It is sweet.
Anyway, here is the joke she told me last night as we drove home on Interstate 85, going about 75 miles per hour, with transfer trucks all around. I nearly drove off the road from laughing.
"Daddy, I have a joke. What do you call an animal that is brown and black and white... no, sorry, brown or black and brown? That eats grass?"
"Um," I said. "I don't know, what?"
"A pony."
Anyway, here is the joke she told me last night as we drove home on Interstate 85, going about 75 miles per hour, with transfer trucks all around. I nearly drove off the road from laughing.
"Daddy, I have a joke. What do you call an animal that is brown and black and white... no, sorry, brown or black and brown? That eats grass?"
"Um," I said. "I don't know, what?"
"A pony."
Letter 4
Dear [adult swim],
I'm in a meeting right now. I don't normally write in meetings but this one is particularly boring. And so my mind started to wander and naturally I thought of the day that you offer me a job. I imagine that you will be dressed moderately casually, but there will probably be someone there from HR, and s/he will be in a suit. And s/he won't smile.
HR people aren't allowed to smile because if they do people will start to wonder what they know, like, did they finally follow through on those threats to run a background check? And if so, did they just check Georgia or did they look at Florida also? Because some of those things happened before the age of 18, and they are supposed to be expunged, dammit! And a little bit of pot never killed anyone, even if I had done it, which I haven't. And then you start to wonder, if they know all of your history, then how much longer will you have a job? And if they're gonna fire you, well then, they're not gonna need these paper clips at all. But I will because I'm gonna be unemployed. And I'm gonna need this paper for my resumes. And I'm gonna need this chair... I'm definitely gonna need this soft swivel chair to sit in and be depressed and wonder why I can't hold down a job.
Well, that's what other people would think if anyone from HR smiled. I'm not afraid of HR. I fight on the side of good. And the light side is stronger than the dark side. HR will fall! I can do the Jedi Mind Trick and Pilates!
And I'll be smooth and karate chop. And you will laugh at my humor and be in awe at my skill. And you will hire me beyond reason. And HR will shake their head till it explodes. And it will be messy with hair. And we will laugh and our eyes will meet. And you will fall in love with me., but I won't be into you in "that way." Then I'll come around and be into you, but you will be into someone in accounting. And then you will be into me and I'll be into you also, but it will be forbidden. And we will decide that it is for the best, and we will become friends. And I'll win a Grammy. And I'll dedicate it to you. Well, not just you. I'll dedicate it to God, and to my wife, and to my kids. I'll mention my parents and my brothers and sisters. Well, one brother and one sister, but tons of in-laws. And I'll have to mention my nieces and nephews because they'd be offended if I didn't. Then perhaps some grandparents, some really close cousins and a best friend or two. Then I'll say, "And I've forgotten someone... really sorry." That's you. And you'll be so glad you hired me.
Michael
February 26, 2007
I'm in a meeting right now. I don't normally write in meetings but this one is particularly boring. And so my mind started to wander and naturally I thought of the day that you offer me a job. I imagine that you will be dressed moderately casually, but there will probably be someone there from HR, and s/he will be in a suit. And s/he won't smile.
HR people aren't allowed to smile because if they do people will start to wonder what they know, like, did they finally follow through on those threats to run a background check? And if so, did they just check Georgia or did they look at Florida also? Because some of those things happened before the age of 18, and they are supposed to be expunged, dammit! And a little bit of pot never killed anyone, even if I had done it, which I haven't. And then you start to wonder, if they know all of your history, then how much longer will you have a job? And if they're gonna fire you, well then, they're not gonna need these paper clips at all. But I will because I'm gonna be unemployed. And I'm gonna need this paper for my resumes. And I'm gonna need this chair... I'm definitely gonna need this soft swivel chair to sit in and be depressed and wonder why I can't hold down a job.
Well, that's what other people would think if anyone from HR smiled. I'm not afraid of HR. I fight on the side of good. And the light side is stronger than the dark side. HR will fall! I can do the Jedi Mind Trick and Pilates!
And I'll be smooth and karate chop. And you will laugh at my humor and be in awe at my skill. And you will hire me beyond reason. And HR will shake their head till it explodes. And it will be messy with hair. And we will laugh and our eyes will meet. And you will fall in love with me., but I won't be into you in "that way." Then I'll come around and be into you, but you will be into someone in accounting. And then you will be into me and I'll be into you also, but it will be forbidden. And we will decide that it is for the best, and we will become friends. And I'll win a Grammy. And I'll dedicate it to you. Well, not just you. I'll dedicate it to God, and to my wife, and to my kids. I'll mention my parents and my brothers and sisters. Well, one brother and one sister, but tons of in-laws. And I'll have to mention my nieces and nephews because they'd be offended if I didn't. Then perhaps some grandparents, some really close cousins and a best friend or two. Then I'll say, "And I've forgotten someone... really sorry." That's you. And you'll be so glad you hired me.
Michael
February 26, 2007
Friday, March 02, 2007
Letter 3
Dear [adult swim]
I picked up the phone to call for a pizza last night and I over heard the last of a phone conversation.
"Did you get the oils and lotions I sent?" a man's voice asked.
-sigh- "Yes, I got them," a voice strangely reminiscent of my wife's said.
"Why haven't you used them?"
"How do you know I haven't?"
"Because," he said, "These lotions are special."
I looked over at the kitchen table and saw the basket of lotions. They looked fairly unspectacular to me.
"Oh really?" she asked. "How are they special?"
"Well, I got them from an old gypsy woman and she did this hocus pocus nonsense on them. And, if she wasn't lying to me, then when you rub the oil on your skill I'll know it."
"Is that so?" she said coyly.
"That's what the gypsy said. She said as you rub your body I'll be able to taste you."
I looked over at the oils on the table. Then it occurred to me that I had a free hand.
I probably shouldn't detail the rest of the conversation, but I will share these three phrases:
1. Hey baby, where exactly are you rubbing that?
2. Oh God! That's not the front.
3. I can't stop tasting it.
Michael
February 25, 2007
Ps. There's still plenty of oil if you want some.
I picked up the phone to call for a pizza last night and I over heard the last of a phone conversation.
"Did you get the oils and lotions I sent?" a man's voice asked.
-sigh- "Yes, I got them," a voice strangely reminiscent of my wife's said.
"Why haven't you used them?"
"How do you know I haven't?"
"Because," he said, "These lotions are special."
I looked over at the kitchen table and saw the basket of lotions. They looked fairly unspectacular to me.
"Oh really?" she asked. "How are they special?"
"Well, I got them from an old gypsy woman and she did this hocus pocus nonsense on them. And, if she wasn't lying to me, then when you rub the oil on your skill I'll know it."
"Is that so?" she said coyly.
"That's what the gypsy said. She said as you rub your body I'll be able to taste you."
I looked over at the oils on the table. Then it occurred to me that I had a free hand.
I probably shouldn't detail the rest of the conversation, but I will share these three phrases:
1. Hey baby, where exactly are you rubbing that?
2. Oh God! That's not the front.
3. I can't stop tasting it.
Michael
February 25, 2007
Ps. There's still plenty of oil if you want some.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Letter 2
Dear [adult swim]
Something horrible is happening to me. I'm not metamorphing into a cockroach or turning into a werewolf or becoming gay or anything. Those would at least be interesting; worthy of an intriguing conversation.
What's happening to me is so mundane it's terrifying. My eyebrows are growing longer. For over 20 years (give or take) my eyebrows have had no problem knowing the proper length to be. They'd grow that length then stop and I would be gorgeous.
But several years ago I noticed an errant eyebrow hair getting cocky and growing far longer than he had a right to do. So I dutifully plucked him. Well, apparently I martyred that hair and it took several years for his religious sect to catch on. But now it seems every time I look in the mirror my eyebrows are going Mad Scientist on me.
And it would seem some eyebrow hairs have made a trip or two to my ears to convert the natives.
I asked my doctor if there was a problem; like some kind of hormone imbalance, and she said, "No. It's just that time of your life."
"What time is that?" I asked. "Because I knew about puberty before it came. I was warned appropriately. But no one said anything about this."
"It's called your 30s."
"Well that's weak," I said.
"Yes. It is weak indeed," she said, and she chuckled.
"You're laughing at me."
"No, no," she said quite seriously. "That's God laughing at you."
This was the most honest thing anyone has ever said to me about religion.
Michael
February 24, 2007
Ps. Really I'm not in my 30s. I'm like 21... like.
Something horrible is happening to me. I'm not metamorphing into a cockroach or turning into a werewolf or becoming gay or anything. Those would at least be interesting; worthy of an intriguing conversation.
What's happening to me is so mundane it's terrifying. My eyebrows are growing longer. For over 20 years (give or take) my eyebrows have had no problem knowing the proper length to be. They'd grow that length then stop and I would be gorgeous.
But several years ago I noticed an errant eyebrow hair getting cocky and growing far longer than he had a right to do. So I dutifully plucked him. Well, apparently I martyred that hair and it took several years for his religious sect to catch on. But now it seems every time I look in the mirror my eyebrows are going Mad Scientist on me.
And it would seem some eyebrow hairs have made a trip or two to my ears to convert the natives.
I asked my doctor if there was a problem; like some kind of hormone imbalance, and she said, "No. It's just that time of your life."
"What time is that?" I asked. "Because I knew about puberty before it came. I was warned appropriately. But no one said anything about this."
"It's called your 30s."
"Well that's weak," I said.
"Yes. It is weak indeed," she said, and she chuckled.
"You're laughing at me."
"No, no," she said quite seriously. "That's God laughing at you."
This was the most honest thing anyone has ever said to me about religion.
Michael
February 24, 2007
Ps. Really I'm not in my 30s. I'm like 21... like.
coffee
I woke up this morning and my hair was awesome.
I don't generally care a lot about how my hair looks. Ever since it started falling out we haven't been speaking; my hair and I. I mean, I wash it and comb it and generally go through the motions, but the love is gone. But even in a stale, loveless relationship a partner can do something unexpected and cool. Today my hair surprised me.
When I woke up this morning my hair was totally standing up. It wasn't frizzy or messy or full of cow licks or anything. It was all standing perfectly straight on my head. And it divided at the part with one side leaning ever so slightly to the right and the other to the left. It looked like it had been styled. Even the sides were flat. Just the top stood up. I didn't even have to use a comb. It was awesome and punk-ish.
I work in an environment that is kind of professional and businessy. I don't ever see clients, so I really don't have anyone to impress. Nevertheless, I am expected to wear a shirt and tie and all of that. Still, my hair looked so cool I was determined to wear it the way it was. I couldn't have made it look so cool if I had tried.
And of course it rained.
Now I'm at work with hair that looks like it's been rained on drinking a cup of coffee that tastes like artificially sweet shoe.
I don't generally care a lot about how my hair looks. Ever since it started falling out we haven't been speaking; my hair and I. I mean, I wash it and comb it and generally go through the motions, but the love is gone. But even in a stale, loveless relationship a partner can do something unexpected and cool. Today my hair surprised me.
When I woke up this morning my hair was totally standing up. It wasn't frizzy or messy or full of cow licks or anything. It was all standing perfectly straight on my head. And it divided at the part with one side leaning ever so slightly to the right and the other to the left. It looked like it had been styled. Even the sides were flat. Just the top stood up. I didn't even have to use a comb. It was awesome and punk-ish.
I work in an environment that is kind of professional and businessy. I don't ever see clients, so I really don't have anyone to impress. Nevertheless, I am expected to wear a shirt and tie and all of that. Still, my hair looked so cool I was determined to wear it the way it was. I couldn't have made it look so cool if I had tried.
And of course it rained.
Now I'm at work with hair that looks like it's been rained on drinking a cup of coffee that tastes like artificially sweet shoe.
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