It usually starts something like it did tonight. I was making Spaghetti and my brain decided to throw my hands under the bus. As always. The conversation basically went like this.
Brain: Hey, a little bit is sticking out of the pot. Go ahead, use your fingers and just push them under the water real fast.
Hand: Whoa, wait, what was that? That water is boiling. That's boiling water, don't stick your fingers in there.
Brain: Come on, just do it. It'll be quick. Be a man for once in your life and just shove the fucking spaghetti in there
Hand: Dude, the forks are right behind you. The drawer is almost hitting your ass. You don't even have to move your feet, just twist your waist and grab a god damned fork.
Brain: Oh sure, just grab a fork. It sounds so easy. Of course, then you have to wash the fork. Who wants to wash a fork. You know what that turns you into? Some sort of fork washer. Then you're not just a pussy you're a fork-washing pussy. No one likes a fork-washing pussy, you'll never get laid again. This will be the end of everything for you.
Hand: What? Ok, fine, whatever. Look, you might never get laid again anyway, that's why you need me in good health, we know it's not your brain you're going to be relying on then.
Me: Hey!
Anyway, it dissolved into vulgar lies by my hand after that so I won't force any of you to see that. Either way, it's nice to feel like a man. A man with a pair of throbbing, burned fingers.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Brian is Pissed
I don't see how you can defend those alternative energy monstrosities. Sure, it was fine when it was just the odd old little windmills dotting the countryside, but we're talking about a fucking INVASION now. My dad supported us when I was little by turning a crank at a steady rate for 19 hours a day, you fucker. Guess who gets all the crank-turning jobs now? Yeah.
They take our JOBS, they feed off of our TAX DOLLARS . . . they even take our women. My wife of two years left me for a windmill because it got promoted to shift manager at the crank-turning yard. SHIFT MANAGER. And he doesn't even speak proper English! He speaks that crazy windmill language that's all WOOSH WOOSH WOOSH with the blades cutting through the air
The minigolf course by Fuddruckers was restricted to good, honest folk in my dad's time, and now this FUCKING WINDMILL stands in the middle of the eighth hole and keeps kicking my ball away from the hole, LAUGHING AT ME, and when I shouted at him SECURITY ESCORTED ME OUT. I WAS A PAYING CUSTOMER. FUCK. FUCK YOU.
They take our JOBS, they feed off of our TAX DOLLARS . . . they even take our women. My wife of two years left me for a windmill because it got promoted to shift manager at the crank-turning yard. SHIFT MANAGER. And he doesn't even speak proper English! He speaks that crazy windmill language that's all WOOSH WOOSH WOOSH with the blades cutting through the air
The minigolf course by Fuddruckers was restricted to good, honest folk in my dad's time, and now this FUCKING WINDMILL stands in the middle of the eighth hole and keeps kicking my ball away from the hole, LAUGHING AT ME, and when I shouted at him SECURITY ESCORTED ME OUT. I WAS A PAYING CUSTOMER. FUCK. FUCK YOU.
Work can be so great !
“ Keep mess’n with tha atmosphere … go’n send rockets here n there …. Places we don’t need even need to know about! This'll be what y'all reap!”- Ronnie Martin after talking about the recent Tornado in Iowa that blasted through a boy scout camp
I hope if a disaster happens around here that the local news interviews him so he can provide his opinion on anything!
I hope if a disaster happens around here that the local news interviews him so he can provide his opinion on anything!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
A Salesman's Breakfast by: Brian Miller
A salesman's breakfast consists of a cup of coffee, usually black, and a cigarette. There are some variations on this but typically this is a salesman's breakfast. This stems not from poverty or any wish for bad health but from boredom. Boredom used to dominate our lives and by the end I was usually drinking about 15-18 cups a day. I didn't smoke you see so I drank the coffee twice as fast while standing outside waiting for fresh ups.
It of course wasn't the only thing we did to relieve boredom. We had games. Our favorite game was called hit on the greeter. We had three greeters who welcomed customers and directed them to the salesmen. Two were named Christine and one was not. The one that was not was old and unattractive and as such any details of her life were unimportant then and certainly are not remembered now. The two Christines though, they were certainly worth our time. Especially the first one. She was in her mid 30's, stunningly beautiful in that slender classic way. She was a single mother working a second job to support her family and so clearly better than the lot of us that it was laughable. Yet every night when she was there 1 by 1 we would try out luck. Striking up conversations with her, trying different ploy after different ploy to... well I don't know what really. It never got that far. Certainly we didn't want anything real. A trip to the back of a Volvo on a satellite lot? Hardly seemed likely but we tried and we failed time and time again.
The second Christine was younger, a student working her way through school. Unlike her older counter part she was shorter, more accurately described as cute and pretty than as beautiful. Not that it stopped any of us from plying out trade. She was more receptive, after all scum bags and liars are typically more attractive to a wide eyed 19 year old than they are to world weary 34 year olds. Of course, the girls we picked up in bars were typically a little better looking and frankly we wouldn't have to see them the next day, so most of us just practiced and moved on, claiming a need to make calls and follow ups. She was pretty though and far more interesting. She had just returned from a semester in Paris, she was an art major, and when Add It Up came on the radio one day we sang the entire song together. She even had a story about being a 14 year old Courtney Love, calling herself Polly for a year and arriving at a school dance in a baby doll, bleached blond hair and a tiara. I of course immediately stood no shot once I began to actually think I had a chance with her. No, she had a rotating crush on Rob and then Larry and then Ruzello and then Kevin and then Artie. See, nature understood what a bad idea the mix of a salesman and a greeter actually would be. So eventually I got bored with the game.
We would torture Larry. We would steal things from the desks of the guys in the Honda Dealership next door. We'd sneak naps in the nap room which was really the boiler room with a shitty orange recliner. We'd listen to Mr. Burns disturbing stories of anonymous, gay mens room sex. I'd put on a long coat and do my stoner impression. We threw tennis balls at a VW logo before one day it came crashing down, we all agreed we'd been working and it had just fallen. And every now and then Steve Campo would come out screaming at us to get to work. Oh how we hated that son of a bitch. He knew we had nothing to do but anytime he was in a bad mood he would tear into us. And he was god damned good at it. It was a real testament to his ability as a salesman that even though we all hated him we all kind of liked him, too. He was one of those truly rotten sons of bitches everyone liked. Of course, he was 4 times divorced so the honeymoon clearly ended at some point.
But we hated that son of a bitch. I'll never forget the day we saw him put some dealer tags on the Z3 we had sitting in the used lot and then ushered the older Christine into it. He smirked at us as he let her in and sped off on the middle of the evening. Artie took a long drag of his cigarette and said to no one in particular though I was the only one there, “I really hate that cock sucker.” I sipped my coffee and nodded.
It of course wasn't the only thing we did to relieve boredom. We had games. Our favorite game was called hit on the greeter. We had three greeters who welcomed customers and directed them to the salesmen. Two were named Christine and one was not. The one that was not was old and unattractive and as such any details of her life were unimportant then and certainly are not remembered now. The two Christines though, they were certainly worth our time. Especially the first one. She was in her mid 30's, stunningly beautiful in that slender classic way. She was a single mother working a second job to support her family and so clearly better than the lot of us that it was laughable. Yet every night when she was there 1 by 1 we would try out luck. Striking up conversations with her, trying different ploy after different ploy to... well I don't know what really. It never got that far. Certainly we didn't want anything real. A trip to the back of a Volvo on a satellite lot? Hardly seemed likely but we tried and we failed time and time again.
The second Christine was younger, a student working her way through school. Unlike her older counter part she was shorter, more accurately described as cute and pretty than as beautiful. Not that it stopped any of us from plying out trade. She was more receptive, after all scum bags and liars are typically more attractive to a wide eyed 19 year old than they are to world weary 34 year olds. Of course, the girls we picked up in bars were typically a little better looking and frankly we wouldn't have to see them the next day, so most of us just practiced and moved on, claiming a need to make calls and follow ups. She was pretty though and far more interesting. She had just returned from a semester in Paris, she was an art major, and when Add It Up came on the radio one day we sang the entire song together. She even had a story about being a 14 year old Courtney Love, calling herself Polly for a year and arriving at a school dance in a baby doll, bleached blond hair and a tiara. I of course immediately stood no shot once I began to actually think I had a chance with her. No, she had a rotating crush on Rob and then Larry and then Ruzello and then Kevin and then Artie. See, nature understood what a bad idea the mix of a salesman and a greeter actually would be. So eventually I got bored with the game.
We would torture Larry. We would steal things from the desks of the guys in the Honda Dealership next door. We'd sneak naps in the nap room which was really the boiler room with a shitty orange recliner. We'd listen to Mr. Burns disturbing stories of anonymous, gay mens room sex. I'd put on a long coat and do my stoner impression. We threw tennis balls at a VW logo before one day it came crashing down, we all agreed we'd been working and it had just fallen. And every now and then Steve Campo would come out screaming at us to get to work. Oh how we hated that son of a bitch. He knew we had nothing to do but anytime he was in a bad mood he would tear into us. And he was god damned good at it. It was a real testament to his ability as a salesman that even though we all hated him we all kind of liked him, too. He was one of those truly rotten sons of bitches everyone liked. Of course, he was 4 times divorced so the honeymoon clearly ended at some point.
But we hated that son of a bitch. I'll never forget the day we saw him put some dealer tags on the Z3 we had sitting in the used lot and then ushered the older Christine into it. He smirked at us as he let her in and sped off on the middle of the evening. Artie took a long drag of his cigarette and said to no one in particular though I was the only one there, “I really hate that cock sucker.” I sipped my coffee and nodded.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Sad face
i am sad that all of my tim and eric video examples have been removed :(
so enjoy that picture of a spider-man party
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