PriorBlog

‘The history of mankind is reflected in the history of cloaca’  –Victor Hugo

This morning, furious and angry that I have $5.85 to my name, I was searching through the drawers of my desk for spare change, but all I was finding were plastic newspaper bags that I collect for when I have to pick up dog shit. 

Here’s how I acquire them. 

Wendell Pfennigfuchser, one of the owners of the company I spend the day dicking around at, will come in around 9:30am and pick up his copy of the Wall Street Journal at Denise the receptionist’s desk.  While removing the plastic casing from the Journal, he will ask the receptionist which of the cubists showed up late.  As she responds, he tosses the plastic casing, the sleeve, the bag, whatever onto her desk.  Before it finishes its gentle descent, Wendell is off to his office.  Then Denise will pop over the edge of my cubicle, say something along the lines of, ‘I know you need these for your dogs,’ and trickling down into my cube, as if dropped by the golden hand itself comes my reward.

A few months ago, when I was real low on dog bags, to the point where I was only allowing the dogs a certain allotment of crap a day, what Shanie jokingly referred to as a ‘turd diem,’ it became necessary for me to write requests to various organizations and so forth for their old plastic bags.  Fast forward to now, when I have literally hundreds, maybe over a thousand, bags at home, so the dogs can crap to their small intestine’s content.  This also is part of the reason why there are in the drawers of my desk at work, literally tens of Wall Street Journal prophylactics (the other reason being extreme sloth), which I found myself wading through looking for that elusive quarter I semi-remembered saving way back when.

As if my financial situation were not dire enough, I had just been informed that my company had the nerve to count up all the days I’d decided to not work and dock me two days pay.  It’s a long story, which I won’t get into because I am completely and unequivocally guilty, although if you want, I won’t stop you from thinking they are cheap bastards.

Anyhow, sifting through Wall Street Journal jackets and what do I find printed on the side of one but this little list of comma-phobic rah rah rich guyisms.

Don’t you feel inspired now?  I know I do.  I think I might call Smith Barney and “hitch my wagon to a star” or “live the life I’ve imagined” or “stick some Smith Barney suppositories up my ass and crap gold plated turds for Christmas.”

Haha.
“”

One more thing since I am in a bad mood.  The “fruitstand” that I go to lunch at insists on blaring one of the “local” “soft rock” stations.  In between “another hour of continuous soft rock” they played this xenophobic Perdue chicken ad in which a guy named “Raul” with a greatly exaggerated Indian accent waxes on and on about his “Mongolian” restaurant, while a white voice clues him into to virtues of some new Perdue chicken product.  I guess feigning confusion over ethnic origin protects you from any charges of racism, but the worst thing about the ad is how monumentally funny it thinks it is, and how monumentally unfunny it really is.  You can almost see these morons as they wrote the thing tumbling over with tears of laughter in their eyes.  “He’s a m-m-m-Mongolian!  That’s hilarious!” 

Obviously any attempt to be funny is intentional, but certain failed attempts reveal their author’s sense that beyond mere intention, what they have said will certainly bring the house down.

 A prime example of this was that series of ads run during the World Series in which a guy (a dude to be more specific) attempts to live in his car.  What a hilarious concept, because a car is not a house.  The dude then goes on to have a series of adventures thinly masquerading the fact that what he’s really doing is what every car commercial does, have a road test and brag about gas mileage.  Since he exhibits a nihilistic obnoxiousness in doing so (think Tom Green dressed as a stoner-surfer-dude) it’s supposed to be uproarious.  It’s not.  Even though this year’s World Series was the dullest since 1990, [Aside from games one and three in 1988, every World Series Tony LaRussa has been involved with has been a total snorefest.  That’s why I am not voting him into the Hall of Fame.] I attribute the lousy teevee ratings to that dude’s car commercials. 

You’re probably wondering what I was doing buying lunch at the “fruitstand” when I should be brownbagging it because of being so low on flow.  Very true, but it’s not like I had enough to buy a hoagie.  I made due with a bag of Darrel Lea licorice, then made my way back to work where there were a bunch of holiday freebie chocolates from big clients.  That and a few cans of Coke are enough to keep this drone going.  I’ve been ingesting so many sugary treats lately my dandruff probably tastes great on French Toast.