This was me at one hot point in my life

I was a fireman at one hot point in my life.  It wasn’t the worst gig I’ve ever had, but it was no day at the beach.  During my rookie year, I got hosed for always sleeping in.  The other guys used to haze me by lighting matches and putting them out in my ears.  I don’t care what you say, ear wax isn’t for candles.  My fire chief would get all steamed about my work ethic.  He always said that I shouldn’t try and be a hero because I’d probably accidentally kill someone.   Little did he know, I only accidentally killed an old lady’s cat and an old lady.  To my defense, the cat was already on fire.  After that incident, the chief (who I suspect knew nothing of it) put me on paperwork detail.  To get funding for our department, he made me write these back drafts.  The only thing I really liked about the job is that we went out to Buffalo Wild Wings a couple times after work and got their hottest wings: Blazin’.  Besides that, I wasn’t very good at putting out fires.  Fire fighting just wasn’t for me.  Luckily, a job at the meat packing plant opened after one of their oldest employees didn’t show up.  I was rescued.  Good riddens.

 

Ty and Aaron get a little serious and then get less serious and then break it down hard core. They talk about 5280, Denver’s popular new attraction, otherwise known as Restaurant. Ty plays basketball and then talks about it and then Aaron tears his game apart.  The cats get to fighting.  The sound quality is exquisite.  They take a trip to planet Goof.  Pigeons.  And then they run out of stuff to talk about. It’s really funny.

 

I’ve been applying to jobs here and now just to appease some of my friends at the corporate office.  My attitude has been that I’ve got so much on my plate there’s no real reason to be looking for a job in any serious regard.  That all changed yesterday when I had an epiphany of sorts.  I don’t need to work, I want to work!  Although dickin’ around on the Interwebs is phenomenally entertaining and fun and keeps me busy most of the day, it just doesn’t pay a whole lot.  Yeah, blogging and jerking off at the computer is work for me, but it’s not enough.

Sheen, tucker

Money Talks and also sucks

Money talks and walks and I was at a baseball game once and I saw the pitcher, a crisp five-dollar bill right up from the minors  miff a pitch; apparently money also balks.  Money isn’t the only reason I want to work but it doesn’t hurt.  Recently, I attended a Jefferson County workforce-center seminar that introduced me to the idea that working for a living isn’t all that bad.  ”It’s not?” I distastefully murmured.  It’s what the Communists call Utopia.  It’s what I call sweet salad dressing.  The delicious aftertaste to an otherwise bland heap of roughage.

Life is work.  It’s just that and if the work doesn’t pay, you need to move on.  So that’s what I’m proposing here.  I am moving on.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still be blogging my face off and pursuing my dreams of successful dreaming.  I will just be adding a paycheck to it…somehow.  I hear Craigslist is popular.

If you’ve got any ideas or know a guy who is looking for my type of talent (you know?  The 6’2″, handsome and well-groomed type of talent), then drop me a line.  I’ll see you on the other side.

 

About three months ago, I decided that quitting my sh*tty job would be a good idea.  Even though the action temporarily halted my night terrors and self-mutilation, it has led to a host of other problems.  I have since been diagnosed and treated for depression and a disease simply known as the gay.  These ailments have caused me a host of other problems that I could not have predicted.  Tension is mounting between my wife and me as I sit at home all day.  Despite my reluctance, there seems to be only one solution; I should get to f*cking work.  Here, then, are 10 reasons that I should get a job:

10. A job provides an opportunity to have money, to give back to society, have a bigger purpose in life, meet new people and be mad at something other than my wife and the house cat

Ive been workforce ready since my conception

"I've been workforce ready since my conception"

9. There are no more dishes to clean and the floors are as swept as they’ll ever be

8. The fern I planted to provide me with a sense of fruitfulness and hope has died

7. Water cooler talk about Seinfeld reruns is turning me into a schizophrenic

6. I’ve been taking public buses just to see where their routes end

5. Investing money in my home business of cashing in on the Internet has amounted to numerous porn site subscriptions and dozens of pills that combat erectile dysfunction

4. My home office consists of a barcalounger, a box of colored pencils and a guitar I plan on learning

3. Anticipation of checking the mail keeps me up all night

2. Getting drinks “after work” starts at nine in the morning

-and, finally-

1. I spend more money than my wife makes

 

Two weeks have come and gone since my fall from grace.  I quit my job, I started working out, and I’m drinking again.  The cosmos have been set into motion and my universe has been chaotically shredded by the lawn-mower blades of fate.  The baby step I took to reclaim my life turned into a stumble that left the virtual pages of WordPress blank.  Aside from myself, the biggest losers in this mess have been all of those who look to these posts for motivation and an excuse to mock me.  I apologize to all four of you.  As for me, however, I made a mistake.  While I’ll never regret getting out of that soul-stealing, slave mill I called a job, I regret my preparation for the next step in my life.  My goals of becoming a comic/writer/chauvinist have fallen flat, but not for long.  I made another step.

I ventured out.  Money has been tight since I quit.  In an attempt to save on automobile gas, I journeyed by foot to the stable to see my sweet ponies, Success and Virtue.  Due to extremely long stretches of immobility indoors, my muscles and lungs had weakened and my tan had all but disappeared leaving my newly acquired bed sores exposed to the elements.  Regardless, I found motivation and made my way to the street.  I stepped out of my home only to feel my pasty skin bake from the torturous blazes of the autumn sun.  My heart rate surged creating a gentle sweat which, while cooling my skin from the sun’s intensity, stung my open bed sores.  The sunshine glistened off of my sweaty skin directly into my eyes.  As a result of the glare, temporary blindness caused me to see eye-worms; glowing dots in my retinas creating stabbing pain and tears.  The eye-worms took the form of Success and Virtue, the fore mentioned ponies I had started out to visit.  In all but five minutes in the real world, I had no choice but to second guess my actions.  I went back into my home.

Summoning the courage to leave my apartment after the solemn events I conjured, proved to be a difficult task.  The heavy burden of  taking on a new adventure was scary.  Attempting to find my own Success and Virtue caused blinding pain from hot flashes and sweat.  The real world’s sun is brutal.  Its warming light shines down allowing us to forge a path toward our goals.  However, the light can be intense and if a person is not prepared, his journey will be riddled with burn and eye-worms.  Ironically, the only way to prepare him is to set him on his journey in the sun’s blazes encouraging each small step forward.

My journey has just begun and there are many steps to be taken.  Although the latest action may have been a misstep, it wasn’t all bad.  My tan is back and my muscles and lungs are strong again.  The sores on my skin have healed (sans my genitalia…that’s right…Herpes).  Unfortunately, in the time it took me to build up my tolerance of the real world, my ponies died.  Oh well.  Success and Virtue don’t always take the form you first expected.  At least there will be enough meat to last through winter, thus saving money on grocery meats.  Now, I just have to go out there and retrieve it.  Ah, sh*t.

 

Evening folks. Yeah, I had a mental breakdown at work today. I didn’t yell or hurt anybody, but I decided I couldn’t work in that hack shop one more minute. Being the sensible person I am, I called JDubs for advice: answer this question lover – do I stay at work and have a coniption fit or do I quit? She said if I can’t stand it, just get out now (and she works in HR). “No two weeks?” I asked. She said, “You had a similar break down two weeks ago and two weeks before that. I don’t think I can listen to this song and dance in another two weeks from now. Just quit.”
I said, “What about money and evrything else?”
“We’ll figure it out later. Just get out,” she said. And she hung up. I sat there for a moment thinking of all the reasons not to quit and then remembered the reasons I should. My happiness is important. My sanity is important. I deserve better. That’s true. Without haste I went to my boss and told her this is it, “this job is killing me.” No notice. Just ‘poof’. I’m gone. Hardest decision I’ve had to make in a long time. Best choice I’ve ever made. Hooray me! I now have the opportunity to be what I want to be, a sex toy salesman/ventriliquist. Now the work worth doing begins and I couldn’t be more frightened.

 
Trust me.  It takes a lot less condoms than this to make a baby.

Trust me. It takes a lot less condoms than this to make a baby.

JDubs dropped a heavy simile on me the other day. She said, “A life of work is like going to school.”  She explained that when you’re first starting off, it’s like kindergarten and you learn and grow.  As time moves on, you advance and you mature and you grow hair in places that you didn’t know you could. She said that one day, each person becomes the Dean of Students in the college of his specific field.

I’m trying to apply her example to my life.  I am currently employed behind the scenes of an abortion mill.  I work in a warehouse where, among other things, I ensure that death centers are well stocked with coat hangers, lubricant and trash bags.  Additionally, there is such a huge collection of condoms that I can take a swim through like Scrooge McDuck used to in his coin vault (Either that or I’ll try them all on).  It’s not as fun as you’d think as I do this ad nauseum and I am very unsatisfied (murdering fetuses is great and all, but…it’s kind of boring).

When I reflect back on JDubs statement, I get a sense that “Work is like school” does not apply to the folks that aren’t in the right school.  I feel that I’m not even enrolled.  I’m like a twelve-year-old in preschool masturbating not-so-covertly in my greenish overalls while everyone else is awkwardly moving away.  In this strange land, I look like one of those ADHD kids that can’t be trusted to roam freely. I’m tied to a tree with a leash and harness that closely resemble a monkeys tail (kind of like this…Philip from SNL).   Not only am I not a growin’ and a learnin’, I’m actually getting dumber and less anxious to go to class. What’s worse is that I tied myself to the tree and only I have the ability to escape.  But I won’t.  My spirit has been diminished.  You might as well ask a Senior to buy me a carton of smokes and leave me to die; unfulfilled, miserable, and retarded.

I have learned from this example that I alone hold the key.  I can register in any school that I want.  I am well qualified to start at the bottom anywhere.  Even idiots get to succeed at work (just look at my boss Mrs. Stransard).   So I know what I am going to do.  I am going to break free.  I’m ambitious and I know more about what I want to do than ever before.  Look out School of Tap Dance For the Blind, Deaf, & Dumb; Here I Come!  I’d better bring some of those condoms;)

 

I am as liberal as Adolf Hitler was gay…flamingly.  You want abortions, take two.  You want affordable heath care, have some.  Taxes?  I love taxes.  I’ll pay yours.  That’s how frickin’ left I am.  You might be reading this thinking, “this assh*le is a borscht loving, Stalin sucking, rabbit eating Communist!”  Thank you for thinking that, but no.  It’s simply outrageous!  Truthfully, I’m only borderline Communist.  And actually, I’m moving away from that.  I’m growing up.  I’m becoming a small, bearded man.  You see, my understanding of true communism is that, as a member of the party, each person works as he pleases and is compensated according to his needs.  It’s like skirting through life doing your hobbies.  “Hey kid!  You’re really good at video games and rippin bingers from your bonger.  Here have a boiled goat’s head and a bag of KGB Branded Funyuns.  And kid…keep up the good work!”  Truly amazing.  The thing is, though, it’s not that amazing you crazy dreamer.  You might be saying to yourself, “That would be pretty cool.  But, gee whiz.  Something that awesome couldn’t ever happen in my America.”  Bullsh*t.  That stuff happens everyday in your America.  And that’s why I’m not Communist.  Not only could I sit around playing video games while dabbling in my other “hobbies”, in America, I can get paid to do it.  Paid to do what you love?  America, f*ck yeah!  America is a land of opportunity.  Golden, plentiful, tig ol’ bitty opportunity!  Yeah, you may have to work hard and play politics and beat out competition to reach your pie in the sky, boiled goat’s head dreams.  But you can do it.  And with an understanding of marketing and merchandising, you could be living big just by doing what you love.  Just remember to pay your taxes when you start making your buko bucks  and maybe, just maybe, pick up one of those BOGO abortions for yourself.  After all, you earned it.

 

I used to work for a property management company.  I leased apartments to suckers.  It was a sales job and I effen hated it.  I used to run home in tears from the monotony of pushing some serious units.  Now usually, I’m not a quitter (Read: I am a quitter with a huge, meaty vagina), but in this case, I wanted out.  However, I was afraid to quit, and I didn’t know how to tell the management I needed something else.  Fortunately for me and my lady parts (see about engorged vag above), the company decided to sell the property.  I felt it was the best time to get out without giving a two week notice or telling anyone that I was unhappy, thus saving myself the trouble of embarrassment.  It was through this experience that I learned something about sales that I would like to share with you today.  Through leasing these sh*tty apartments, I learned that for the most part, two things are true: 1.) Sales are apart of every job, and 2.) Unless you sell something that you really love, you are going to loathe it.  To combat this you need to love yourself and sell a product that everyone wants: you. 

Take a moment and consider every job you can think of.  Time!  What d’ya come up with?  At some point in all of those positions, you are going to be selling either a product, an idea, or yourself.  Businessmen sell ideas and products to investors and clients.  Teachers sell drugs to kids.  Hookers sell their bodies to businessmen for drugs.  And even if a job doesn’t directly entail some salesmanship, when you apply for that job, you are still selling your skill set to the employer.  You are a product of a material world.  Luckily it pays cash.  Cold, hard cash.  You have to be a provider, right?  If you don’t provide for yourself, you’re going to die sooner rather than later.  Remember all of those trinkets/candy bars/books/carpet samples you sold as a kid?  The system was priming you for the dog eat dog arena known as life.  Now rather than fight this reality (something I tried and it made me really angry; remember my tears?), you’ll need to embrace it.

Once you accept that you have to participate in a competitive world (which is something you have little choice over), then your survival depends on selling something you love.  For some folks, it’s the love selling sh*tty apartments.  For some, it’s selling their bodies.  For everyone, it’s selling yourself.  This is a task that takes a great amount of energy and self love.  (I have to point out it’s not the kind of self love that 5 minutes alone at the computer in an empty house with a bottle of Jergen’s and box of Kleenex can provide.)  You have to really like yourself.  If you don’t love what you’re selling, you’re going to hate the job.  If you hate what you’re selling and you are the product, you are going to hate yourself.  When you hate yourself or your image or your skill set, your buyers are going to recognize that and reject you.  If you are rejected by someone else, you’ll feel even worse about yourself.   The truth is, no matter how much you love yourself, you’re going to be rejected…a lot.  With the aide of self love, however, coming back from rejection is easier to do.

The cruel reality of this is that the world you live in is unjust and unfair.  Somewhere down the road, the key to your chance at personal success is held by another person.  Did you read that?  Your success is controlled by someone else!  That sucks big, old, hairy gorilla balls!  To be happy you can do and act and say whatever you want but you cannot control what other people think of you or how they react to you.  You do have the ability to control your attitude, however.  Your ability to sell yourself as a confident and hungry person is paramount to your personal success and happiness.  If other people aren’t buying it, they can eat a bag of d*cks.  There are many opportunities out there because people are always buying and it’s not hard to find them.  Buyers will buy you because they like you for who you are so long as you like you for who you are.

Sales is a brutal business and is impossible to escape.  If you’re not selling the filth you are absolutely passionate about, you are SOL my friend.  Your happiness and self satisfaction depends on it.  Your ability to sell yourself is one based out of the love that you have for yourself.  You’re ego is going to be beaten and bruised along the way, but remembering what is really important to you will keep you on your horse.  If you can’t manage to do that, you might as well pull the trigger now and save yourself the trouble.

 

A lot of people ask me what I do for a living.  It has been suggested that I should have an “elevator speech” prepared for just such occasions. Something that titillates and informs in the time that it takes to travel on an elevator.  So here it goes.  This is what I would tell you if you asked me what I do for a living:

“Hi, how’s it going?  (Pause for response, very important).  Good, me too.  Oh, what do I do?  I work in the health care field.  I am what’s know as a materials handling specialist.  (pause for courtesy chuckle).  I do some dicing and cutting, but for the most part I work the scrape and suck apparatus.  But don’t let the name fool you.  There’s no real scraping going on.   It’s more like a scramble using a plain ol’ garden-variety clothes hanger (sterile, of course) in a vigorous whisking motion.  There’s no real sucking either, come to think of it.  I just use the end of the hanger like a hook and extract that way.  It can be pretty messy work.  That’s why I wear latex gloves and a rubber smock.  I really hate staining my scrubs.  They say you must not have a soul to do this job, but that is so misguided.  Dozens of little souls are harvested every day.  I figure when I die, I can just rope them together and ride the “stairway to heaven” in a chariot behind those little angels.”

Were you titillated? If you guessed correctly, you may have said that I work as an omelet chef in a hospital brunch buffet (it’s a nice hospital).  If you guessed incorrectly, you’re sick.

 

Mrs. Stransard is my boss at work.  Since I started working with her, our working relationship has really slipped.  At first she seemed quirky and fun but now I feel threatened.  I want to express my frustration with her but doing so would probably get me fired.  I need this job.  Here is a letter that I’ve written to her (somewhat annonymously, she doesn’t “get” technology):

Dear Mrs. Stransard,

Since my employment began nearly a year ago, I have noticed that our work relationship has gradually become uneasy and tense.  I know that your mandatory attendance at corporate “meetings” is merely an excuse to frequent the head shop across the street.  I didn’t realize that pipe shops were also typical hang outs for dead beat sex addicts.  I have seen you go in there and come out with multiple men.  The lack of communication in the office is probably due to all of the cocks shoved in your mouth throughout the day.  What’s worse is that your time out of the office is the most productive time of my day. 

In addition to being very distracting, I feel that your personal choices during working hours are having detrimental effects on morale in the office.  Your attempts at correcting morale problems are often shot when you parade around the office half naked and drunk.  Two times is way too many.  The last thing I want to see at work is a 63 year old set of sagging breasts and ass cheeks painted up in clown make up.  No matter what clever and colorful artistry you apply, your nipples and cesarean scars will always show how sad you really are.

I find it exceedingly difficult to complete work when you insist on playing your made up game “Stinkin’ Kitty Cat” where you lower your pants/lift your skirt, spread your bare ass, and sit on my computer mouse.  Your game is spoiled more (as if it were possible) when you stand up and walk away with the mouse cord still attached to you and my computer.  The suction sound that the mouse makes when it reaches the end of its tether as it pops out is one of the most unsettling noises I’ve ever heard; especially when you did it that day you were particularly sweaty.

It frightens me when you make balloon animals out of the condoms you find outside.  The glue inside of them is not there to preserve the inflation…that’s clearly ejaculate.  I know you know.  It angers me because you don’t trust my judgment.  As well you shouldn’t.  I have made a poor choice by continuing to further my career here.  Aside from your lack of respect for other people, I like this company and have tried to notify HR of your behavior several times.  I don’t know what kind of fur you’re pulling over their eyes but they have denied any wrong doing in every instance.  Unfortunately, my requests to transfer have been denied.  Upon this news, I would like for you to comply with several requests otherwise I will have you arrested for indecency:

Don’t touch me EVER

Do not call me EVER

Please do not ask me to smell your cell phone or work phone

Please do not invite me to lunch at any motels

Do not leave your pubic hair clippings on the toilet in the men’s bathroom (I know their yours because you sent out a memo)

Do not sneak up behind me and rest your breasts on my head when I am at my work station

Do not put your hand on my chair thumb up when I sit down next to you

Wear deodorant

Leave me alone

You have announced several times that you are an excellent boss, but the fact is you’re not.  You are a terrible manager and an even worse person.  Please leave me alone and we might get along just fine. 

Thank you in advance,

 

Wolsamnoraa

 
Tigers are known to be insanely intense passing the ball.  Look at all that sweat!

This tiger is an insanely intense ball handler (in his mouth). Look at all that sweat!

What’s your story?  Actually, don’t tell me.  I have something better to waste time with.  I’m a basketball player.  Why, though, huh?  I put the ball in the hole.  People want me on the team so they can pass me the rock.  I post up in the paint.  I’m a big  huge monstrously gigantic dude and I’m all athletic like an agile freak.  In the weight room, I can bench and squat press over 400 times.  When I get out on the ball court, it feels unnatural as hell.  That’s why I excel.  People always ask, “Why are you sweating so much around your nipple area, are you lactating?”  No, not really.  That’s grossly inaccurate and sick.  Here’s a little factoid: nipple sweat is sourced from pure adrenaline.  Try this: Put a tiger on an airplane.  He’s going to get nervous and then maul a pilot and then land the plane and then save everyone else on board and then they’ll all make their connecting flights, probably.  It’s unnatural, but heroic.  He’s excelling, he’s nervous.  You didn’t know this until right now but tiger’s nipples sweat big time.  When tiger nipples are sweating hard, I’m competing hard.  I’m heroic-ish.  Pounding the boards, inbounding the stone, eating an apple.  That’s what I do.  That’s why I play shooty hoops.

 
Its bad when the TP is wet before you use it.

It's bad when the TP is wetter before you use it.

10. There’s no cell phone reception at desk

9. Free lunches are taxed income

8. I am literally a pawn in a game of chess and my legs hurt from standing

7. Boss is a radio-active polar bear with a temper, no college education, and valid work visa

6. Toilet paper in the bathroom is wet

5. Paychecks are post dated

4. Desk job is actually a sexual position I’ll be presenting for the 3 o’clock meeting

3. Desperate times call for disparaged Labor Ready drunks

2. Babies are allowed at work with their parents for the first 216 months

and finally….

1. Making nooses all day really makes me consider ducking out early

 
Take it from a half ass, life is good here

Take it from a half ass, life is good here

In the before time, when I was young, I’d envisioned a rough set of guidelines that made the most out of life by doing the least amount of work.  Half-assing it, as it is known tends to be the straightest path between the points of most and least.  Half-assery allows a person to weasel out of life’s chores and move through them quickly to the things he’d rather be doing; his goal(s).  Even though I’ve given a lot of thought to these guidelines and have had enlightening experiences that have blossomed into great half-assed lessons, I’ve never put anything down on paper.   What I’ve learned so far is that life is a series of ad hoc, inconsistent, undefined, and wishy-washy events.  It’s to your advantage to learn how to manage the unexpected by getting it out of the way quickly.   When half-assing is performed correctly (or rather, a fast as possible), a person can reach his goals and occupy as much of his time as possible with the things that best suit his fancy.

What is half-ass?  When taken literally, a half ass is either a single rosy cheek amid a bunched up pair of undies or the ugly side of a mule (take your pick).  Literal does no good.  Literal leads to stagnation and boredom.  Half-assing is all about getting down and dirty, even if it’s with your cousin’s sister.  Loosely defined, half-assing is a set of fluid principles that make the most from the least.    By keeping an open mind to sloppiness and managing to have an always changing game plan, you will almost certainly guarantee your life is a slew of TV and sleep.

Half-assing is a lifestyle that you subscribe to like an interesting magazine or marriage in that once the dues are paid, the masturbation is endless.   With that being said, half-assery is not meant to be a limbo state where you just float around aimlessly with nothing to do (unless that’s what you want, of course).  The reason for half-assing is to accomplish a more meaningful goal or activity that you’d rather be doing.  We all have obligations and chores that coincide with activities that we yearn to be doing instead. For me, it’s needing to take out a bag of smelly trash while wanting to not to take out the trash.  For you, it might be the need to pay your phone bill while simultaneously wanting to keep your money.  A life lived half-assedly is the perfect way to get the best of two worlds; what you need to do and what you want to do.  Whatever the reason for leading a half-assed life, your reward will be time filled with the pleasures you desire.  Finally, there’s a way to have your cake and eat it, too (for free, if possible).

Adding to the last point, it’s absolutely ok lead a Hippocratic lifestyle.  You might feel obligated to attack task with great effort and vigor making sure that it’s done correctly the first time.  Your attention to detail and poignancy for work are fine attributes to boast but it’s not necessary to use them at all times.  In a half-assed life, your activities become two fold.  On the one hand, you want to rush through the boring stuff.  On the other hand, you have a passion for another activity that you want to care for and nurture.  If, for example, you love to work on cars but your wife wants you to mow your neighbor’s lawn because he’s incontinent and his kids are losers, it’s ok to just mow some of his front yard sort of enabling you to get back to your labor of love quickly.  Screw that douche bag, he should have been a better father or whatever; not your problem.  He can bag his own clippings.  Feel free to tell your wife so that you’re all on the same page.  The beauty of half-assing is that it’s a part time job.  It’s a tool that you use when you need to make things go away just like a hand gun and a shovel.  Keep in mind that consistency is overrated.

If saving time and killing multiple birds with one or less stones are idioms that you live by, then half-assing is certainly up your alley.  It may not be easy to determine what you want, but it is definitely easy to say what you don’t want.  When you’re faced with the tedious and down right difficult tasks of everyday living, just half-ass it.  You’ll find what you’re looking for faster than you ever thought possible.  Half-assing your way through life is one of the best ways to get it all in without getting stuck in the muck.  So, follow along, and for the next while, we’ll take a journey together down the road of passion and satisfaction, joy and love, success and fulfillment….when I get around to it.

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