23 May 2006

Bears Eat Monkeys!

Well, of course they do.

I mean, who hasn't?

The Dicks of Centre County


Just the good ol' boys,
Never meanin' no harm,
Beats all you've ever saw,
been in trouble with the law since the day they was born.

Straight'nin' the curve,
Flat'nin' the hills.
Someday the moutain might get 'em, but the law never will.

Makin' their way,
The only way they know how,
That's just a little bit more than the law will allow.

YEEEEEEEEEE HAW!



Fuckwidgets.

These morons honk their horn every time they drive by my house, even at 4 in the morning.

I suppose I’m partially to blame. They have one of those Chinese knock-off horns that almost plays the first three bars of “Dixie”; the last two notes are flat.

Seeing that I was drinking beer when I first heard their new truck accessory, I let out a hearty rebel yell and called them idiots. Apparently, they didn’t catch the last bit and now think that I approve of their Confederate Chinese noise maker. (“The South shall lise again!”) They play it for me every time they drive by my house.

I wouldn’t mind it if their thickness was due to genetics, blunt force trauma, lead paint or fetal alcohol exposure, but these gits have nothing medically wrong with them. They are stupid by choice.

I am not alone in this opinion. Their Uncle, at whose feed store they “worked”, could only trust them with the simplest and menial of tasks. He had them moving pallets of manure from one end of the yard to the other in a never ending chicken poo ballet.

This, he hoped, would minimize their exposure to his customers. Sadly, it only resulted in a senseless accident involving a forklift, an elderly lady’s occupied Buick and an impressive quantity of pungent chicken byproduct.

Since the legal settlement, he has expressed his earnest desire that God call them home before they get a change to procreate or cause another horrific accident like accidentally voting.

The boys, on the other hand, took it all in stride and used their severance package to buy some new truck accessories; spurning much needed body putty and new muffler for a Chinese novelty horn.

Like I said: Fuckwidgets.

17 May 2006

Back to Newark

Our IT guy quit today, leaving me the added responsibility.

I'd like to set things up tomorrow, but for the next two days, I'll be back in Newark for more consultant interaction. YAY! Our network, in the mean time, is screwed.

On the bright side, Irish Bob will also be in Newark, as will a small group (no more than twenty or so) from our New Corporate Overlords™.

I shall endeavor to punk the lot of them.

More to follow as I can post.

16 May 2006

“By the savagely pointed breasts of Madonna! What do these people want from us?”

Asked Irish Bob, with wildly rolling eyes. “Chill young padwan” I replied.

Oh yes, I need to pay him back, but this needs to be at a time when I can record it on video.

A little background: The CEO of our New Corporate Overlords™(LLC), is a kindly old chap who looks like Grandpa Walton, or perhaps that fat, old, oatmeal/diabetes supplies fart, Wilford Brimely.

”We shall no inundate you with our personnel.” He says. “We know how small and busy you are. We shall send only four (4) people.”

Fine. Four (4) people, we can make accommodations for. There are 10 of us here. We have room for four (4) more.

We do not have accommodations for the twelve (12) that show up. This is more people than we have in our company. I am forced to ask Bob to talk to one of the sub-groups for the day.

I would ask
Wilford Brimley to explain himself, but apparently, he is out of the office, busy shaking down his bitches on MLK boulevard and can not come to the phone.

I highly respect our new CEO.

However, this leaves me only one course of action. English is the visitors' second language, so I must explain our technology to them in Physicsese.



They are not physicists.



Nor are they are engineers.



They are accountants



Who now have migraines.








Life is good!

“We LOVE the way you respond quickly to opportunities!”

Gushed our new corporate Overlords. “And we don't want to change a thing, or do anything that would interrupt your business efforts!”

One week later, our corporate overlords have completed their hideous Michael Jackson-like transformation and have delivered a dump truck load of “procedures” and personnel from their other business units on us.


My personal favorite was their change in our medical plan, which only covers treatment in a hospital that is 30 miles away. A hospital, I might add, that has been closed for several years. This makes a lot of sense from a costs point-of-view, but it doesn't install a lot of confidence in MegaCorp's corporate motto “Our People are our Greatest Asset!”, unless they are planning to harvest our organs in an abandoned hospital.

If so, the joke's on them. Our livers are shot!

12 May 2006

Open mouth, insert foot.

Alright, so I was driving like a crank addict with his pants ablaze, but I was ensconced within a group of like-minded drivers as I tooled by the police officer at a mere 35MPH over the speed limit.

Being in the middle of the pack, I had little fear, but he pulled in behind me and flicked on his lights.


Well, he couldn’t want me since I am a good quasi law abiding citizen. I ignored him.

He flipped on his siren.

I pulled to the side and wave him on, but he settled in behind me.

Poo.

I covered any incriminating evidence with my usual truck detritus and look as innocent as I can.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” He asked.

“Well yeah, but I was just keeping up with traffic to avoid being rear ended. Everyone else was going the same rate.” I responded in my best Jethro Clampett. Honesty and dimwittedness are the best policies.

“Do you ever go fishing?” He snapped.

“Sure…” I’d no clue where he was going.

“Do you ever catch all the fish?”

“Well of course!” I answer. “The trick is using more than one stick of dynamite. You see… Aw shit. That’s illegal too, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

11 May 2006

Ivan responds:

“Well, fiiiiiinally! Congratulations on coming out at last. I
mean, it's not as if we hadn't all guessed, but we're proud that you feel strong enough and secure enough with yourself to admit it...Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go have some proper sex.


With a lady.”
Ivan the terrible, 09MAY2006


As everyone at work has now seen Bob’s video and some are wearing the tee shirts he had made up (my God! I look like Joe Cocker without hair) I’m getting a lot of half-witty comments along this line. My new nickname seems to be “Not-so Tiny Tim”.

But, I’ll have you know that with the exception of a couple of mandatory prison flings, (Bubba, the 28 stone Harley Biker sex offender insisted) I much prefer proper sex (with a lady), as would the manageress of the karaoke bar.

And I don’t have a problem with that. Oh, I find the whole man-man thing difficult to understand as it provides no biological advantage, other than ease of storage; what with them being stackable when lost in passionate ardor. However, I don’t buy this as a biological imperative, since Mother Nature never struck me as a neatness freak, as she’s always dropping twigs and leaving dead wombats and stoned hippies lying about.

But the women-women thing doesn’t seem too bad to me, nor does it to most men that I’ve polled on this issue. This illustrates a fundamental difference between the sexes: Men have no problem dispassionately watching lesbian love scenes (in the interest of furthering science) whereas women simply wonder why they married us, other than the fact that we can unjam the garbage disposal.

And the minute some berk lets out the secret that all one needs to do that is a 3/16 inch Allen wrench and a length of half inch pipe, the human race will go extinct.

09 May 2006

In retrospect, I shouldn't have drunk the entire bottle of liquid dumb.

...but there I was in a hotel room in a strange city (Newark) with naught to do, and it tasted good.

Oh, I've been known to do this before. When I was younger and had more brain and liver cells, I would, upon occasion, wake up pants-less on the bathroom floor after a party. The details of precisely when I achieved this efficiently ventilated rumpal state would generally escape me, but as no pictures have shown up on the Internet, it must have been after the last witness, er, guest, left the place.

However, now that I am a responsible adult, I rarely exhibit such a lapse of judgment and when I do it's pretty much always Irish Bob's fault. This time is no exception.

“You know what'd be a lark?” He says: “Karaoke!”

Well, I've got a voice that would get the Hounds of Hell baying, which you lot would find painful but These Damn Kids Today™ would probably pay big bucks to listen to if the sounds were emanating from one of their "bands" and not the pie hole of a balding, yet otherwise hirsute, middle-aged rotundity .

“No way!” my brains says, which somehow comes out of my mouth as “Uh, okay....” and off we stagger to the Karaoke bar.

Now, being a little thick, I agree with Bob that we'll choose each other's songs, for maximum embarrassment value. He chooses Tiny Tim's “Livin' in the Sunlight, Lovin' in the moonlight” for me, and I am to be true to the artist's vision.

Fine. Paybacks being a female dog and all that.

My performance garners unreasonable applause, and afterwards the manager, an earnest young lady with severly short hair, wearing an organically dyed linen hippie dress and Birkenstocks, comes on to the stage.

“Thanks for coming out, here” She says wiping a tear from her eye “It's very courageous at your age!”

Well, for goodness sakes, this isn't exactly Afghanistan, you know. Newark's not as bad as Compton for example...

I look around at the smiling, wildly applauding couples, (mostly male) and the penny drops.

She didn't say “Thanks for coming out here”, she said “Thanks for coming out comma here”

I've been set up!

By the time I make it back to the table, a sniggering Irish Bob has run off to post the video on our server, whilst stiffing me with the drinks tab.



Bastard's gonna pay!

08 May 2006

A new chapter in the ongoing soap opera

Every night it’s a different city; a different hotel. Yet they could all be stamped from the same cookie cutter. Taipei, Osaka, Tel Aviv, Crolles, Durham (the Geordie one). Last night, Manhattan.

You get into the city before dawn, enjoy a twelve hour session of corporate chicken shit and general turd-pollishing, eat a “working lunch” (salmonella sandwiches), sign the papers and dash back to the hotel to grab a few hours of kip before the next flight.

Our sales guys live for this sort of thing, but it makes me grumpy. I just want to be home, or failing that, I’d like to be on an interesting bar stool (Hotel bars suck).

Despite this pain, I’ve learned a lot.

It’s almost impossible to bet a good bacon buttie in Israel.

Likewise, in Japan. In fact, their concept of western food, in particular Italian, is, erm, interesting.

If everyone picks up a bottle at duty free, the resulting whiskey ration can be made to last almost a day. I suspect our entire sales department has drinking problems. Next time I shall keep the liquor, but only because I’m concerned about their health.

Durham has a charming castle that was built during the late Chav dynasty. It is one of the few castles in Europe that has survived both the Spanish-American war and the onslaught of English football hooligans.

While it is a scurrilous myth that French people smell, I certainly do after 27 hours of travel.

Travel broadens the mind.

Apparently, I must have my head up my arse.


And that's the way I likes it.