Archive | January, 2012

Can I get ya anything? Coffee? Tea? Me?

I’m having a Working Girl kinda day, my friends! (Not to be confused with a working girl kinda day.) I feel Staten Island ferry, Carly Simon lettin’ that river run, epic. Yeah, epic.

Perhaps a new kind of Disney day has been born … a philosophical phoenix with heroine hymn and cityscape? For not even a truant Trainer (lunchbox lover) can allay my allegory.

I feel strong and proud, as if I’ve just shunned John Mayer at an industry event. Or like Martin Luther King in his heroic headway day. (Maybe I should’ve led with that?)

And so, I hereby herald this dolce dawn – Martin Luther King Day!

Just fuckin’ with ya. Plagiarism is but phlegm on the pulmonary of past pioneers. And so, I now indubitably designate this Parfait Day! Upon which I shall mislay my dismay and be gay (less Sean Haye’, more Doris Day), and bath my breezeway on life’s bidet. Freakin’ a.

As to the cause of my jump up, jump up and get down?

First. I have been making bouncy-bouncy love with many an online fashion site (cue video of woman dry humping a monitor, face pixelated to protect privacy) and the offspring of our illicit union arrived today. The stork (aka courier in ‘chalance ‘n’ chinos) brought my bouncing babes before noon and now I own an abundance of fantabulous fucken fashion.

Can I get a whoop whoop?

Whoop. Whoop. (To be said like Steven Wright.)

And in other glorium: yesterday I ran into a former victim of the Beast’s villainy (the very one to inadvertently impel ‘er my way, as it ‘appens). And upon casting the question of catapulting said caustic cat, she radioactively replied: hell to the yeah.

In fact, she conjured a canvas of such calamity ‘n’ carnage that it gave me courage to call my boss then and almost there. And to cut a long story moderately less lengthy, I laid that puppy out (like Steven Seagal in a veterinary clinic) and told him straight: hell to the no. The call lasted 46 seconds and ended in goopy, golden, gelatinous relief.

Let the river run. Let all the dreamers wake the nation, motherfuckers. I’m free! Free like the boobs of Winona Ryder in doily disguise (à la Reality Bites). Swinging free with glee!

Blessed be mankind. And Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Baseball bats and boogeymen. Beautiful.

So. I’ve been reading the books of Ellen and Portia, simultaneously.

And where Seriously…’ is a joke flavoured confit with smooth self-help scent, Unbearable Lightness resides deep down the rabbit hole, quenching and insight full. One expanding, the other contracting, together they somehow mirror the rhythm of breathing. Curious.

Then, after feasting on such philosophy, I watched A Night At The Roxbury.

‘Cause that’s how I roll.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch: The Beast made her first appearance yester. Like T-Rex straining into my quiet cave on the sniff of a hunt, she swiped the shadows where I stood, my back glued to a rueful rock wall. Then, before I could counter, she fired coercion ‘n’ calumny at me in quick succession, the last of which lodged itself in my perplex.

Ordinarily I reserve hatred for such halloumi as M.Night Shyamalan and Smith (à la Kevin), but. With the uncanny ability to leave me tangled long after torpedo, Beast makes the cut.

Still. Rather than stew in soliloquy, I contemplate. Maybe I should ask my boss to find another boob to bestow Le Bête upon? Sure, my primary instinct is to bend over and take it up the tailpipe, but it aint in my job description (it’s merely inferred). So why not catapult the caustic cat into the lap of a credulous counterpart before she soils my see-sawing psyche?

It’s so crazy, it just. might. work.

Or, asking my boss thus is a catastrophic CLM (career limiting move) and I’ll end dressed in traits of the tiresome and entitled for causing ripples in once calm waters …

“Would you care for a bag of mixed metaphors, Ma’am?”
“I’ll just take the conflict, with a side of confusion, thanks.”

Who you tryin’ to get crazy with, esé?

Insomnia. What a golden gift of goob. Like a world without Stellan Skarsgård, it may seem a candy concept of poetic pathos and manumit minutes. In truth, it’s a little more like this.

With only two hours sleep, I now resemble the Swedish Chef (replete with muppet mullet).

Hurdy gurdy, flip the birdy.

In other news, I think I just crapped my career shorts (and not in a good way, people). My boss just dropped the bomb: in addition to working for him, I must now report to THE BEAST. This devil of diarrhea is news to you because, my work being a veritable vineyard of villains stretching beyond the pen’s decree, I distilled my disillusionment for thee. In chivalry.

But this crop o’crap just grew ripe enough to harvest.

Word on the street: Le Bête has slept with many a management man, the last of which befell blackmail by booby trap. (Ipso presto. Promotion!) What I know for sure: lying in her wake are my corporate counterparts who resigned rather than remain in her employ. That, and whenever we’ve crossed path or proverbial, she’s left me with wind-tunnel whiplash.

Yah! She could use a little passive in her aggressive (to be said like Miss Piggy).

On the manic-depressive upside, my boss is a pretty nice guy! I’ve grown relatively fond of the fucker. Even though, like a pound puppy grown wary of new owners, he makes me nervous. And whenever I speak, he eyes me like I’m Baxter about to poop in the refrigerator.

“Heck, I’m not even mad. That’s amazing!”

The rest of the time he’s Reese to my Ricky Bobby: an absentee father who only shows up for birthdays (performance reviews), bat mitzvahs (Beast behest) or Christmas (Christmas).

So there’s that.

My teen-angst bullshit has a body count.

I’ve reached new levels of suckage, this I know. The elastic gave out in my blogging undies and they’ve been languishing around my ankles for some time now.

There’s a toasty visual for you.

In my defence: work sucks dog’s balls.

Big. Hairy. Dead dog’s balls. And has sucked so since Fey Prince did his magic act, disappearing with my watch and notional next life.

Strictly from a binary point of view, I miss the flirting. That furling, fleeting, flirting … where a laugh, look or lark could last me the long day through (like an everlasting Gobstopper).

He was but a mutable mirage sent to tweak my thirst and leave sand in my proverbial; yet in (not so) kindsight, when separating the many colours he weaved, I’ve discovered I don’t miss him so much as the shield he once did wield. Against boredom. My inner cynic. And the prolific politics which stick in my craw daily.

But when one bitch-slap closes, somewhere a wedgie opens a window.
(All the better to drop you from, my dear.)

Yep. There’s a new villain in town. The mongrel offspring of Nurse Diesel and John Wayne (ergo Jugs Wayne), this fucker surpasses the gunslingers in one coup de swoop. With many a moniker made for such a mongrel, it’s difficult to aptly describe her brand of evil.

At best, she’s the sincerest of butt-holes. At worst, she’s a screamer.

And by screamer, I mean an automated set of rotating blades which lock onto your heat signature and attack from beneath (as depicted in the ’95 film starring Peter Weller) (to be sci-fi specific). The first model (the gunslinger) were rudimentary tools of torture. Detectable and easy to evade. But deep underground Sirius 6B, the screamer evolved and learned to look human. Indiscernible from a benevolent, bleeding biped – the Sidewinder was born.

We bonded my first week in the new gig. She was canny, captivating and outwardly human. Of course, it wasn’t long before flags of red spoke of dread. Brunch with the gunslingers. Golf with the miscreants of marketing (the likes of which even Gal Gun fears).

Oh yeah, and she’s one angry motherfucker (to be said Chris Rock).

Michael Richards, angry.
Angry Birds, angry.
Falling Down, angry.

Turns out, bonding at a conference is like forming friends in a hostage situation. Mostly you have desperation and proximity in common.

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