technobang

who is browsing my website, who are you? Tell me?

Look, I’ll say it over and over – my job is fucking weird. Not to say that I’m complaining – I love my job. In fact, that’s why you nearly never see me talk about it on this desecration of the written word… I’m usually quit contented with what I do on a daily basis.

As I said in an offhand manner about a year or so ago, I bought the company that I used to work for. In my mind it was always working to that point; when I was presented with the opportunity to actually take over, well, to say I was pleased would’ve been a vast understatement.

It’s been hard. Very hard, in fact. I’ve lost a lot of sleep and I’ve made a lot of sacrifices in order to keep a roof above my head and keep my bills paid, not to mention keeping my customer-base of over 1,000 happy. In the end, though, I can certainly say it was all worth it.

Still fucking weird though.

I fix computers in people’s homes. It’s the part of the job I absolutely refuse to give up because sitting in an office staring out the window makes me go stir crazy and forces me to do something horrendous like take my pants off and crabwalk around my office while thrusting upward and claiming I’m a mentally defective Duff Man.

Sorry, sorry, I had to get one horrible image into my writing. It’s the unspoken rule.

Fixing things in someone’s home, especially their computer, offers an almost uncomfortably intimate look into people’s personal lives – one I would almost prefer to avoid. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t snoop – more often than not ridiculously personal information is right there on top.

Oh, good, you’re cheating on your wife/husband with the plumber/nanny/guy down the street with an annoying fucking dog? Neat.

Cancer, huh? Keeping it a secret? Wonderful.

Erectile dysfunction? Getting it up IS a lot of hard work.

I was a lot prouder of that last pun than I should have been.

I know sexual preferences, fetishes, what color shoes they prefer, whether or not they like the Blacks/Jews/Mexicans and what political party they really are affiliated with but their awful naggy wife won’t shut up about Obama so they smile and nod so they can get at least a half-enthusiastic fuck at the end of the night.

Most of this, by the way, is gleamed from the first email that opens up when one opens Outlook up. It’s usually a response to something that was said. Otherwise it’s a cursory glance at AutoComplete/web history/bookmarks/things on the desktop. Or sometimes it’s Word documents left open that I don’t mean to look at but while closing and hitting no I get a jist of what was said and quietly cringe.

The key, however, is discretion. I’ll never name names and I’ll always pretend that I don’t know what I know simply because it’s none of my business – these are things that I, and by extension no one, should ever know.

Anyway. Next time I feel motivated I have quite a few stories from work that I feel the need to tell. Many of which I haven’t actually shared with the class, so if you happen to be reading this and are around me enough to know most of my stupid stories, get ready for some sexy new action that’ll knock various bits of clothing off… etc… far too lazy to finish this.

Whatever.

I’ll get back to you later.

Maybe later today after I’ve mellowed out.

Maybe.

STOP HITTING F5 YOU CREEP

I’m a fucking creep.

No, really, I am. I don’t know why people tolerate me. I mean, other than the inexhaustible wit and dashing good looks, there’s a very good chance I’m picturing the number of ways a few well-hung black men could shame you as you walk down the street in your stupidly tiny dress, giant sunglasses, and dopey smile down 63rd street as if you owned the place.

It struck me today that I haven’t had sex since the calendar read “2008″ on it and I had an annoying Brit whining about her life as I’m haphazardly jamming my dick in her. I realize this is a horrendously graphic statement and I’m quite positive no one wanted to know this about me; however you’re going to read it and enjoy it as if I were pumping you full of mescaline and threatening to tickle you.

I half considered finding a hooker one lonely night while browsing through Craigslist’s almost laughable “adult services” section. I believe however that I’m far too ADD for such a course of action. Knowing me and my dumb ADD-riddled ass I’d likely get tired of it after a few times. I shudder to think when I hit the point where I’m in the middle of a paid blowjob unable to shoot your load unless you think about someone else you’ve paid to blow you who did a better job of blowing you. Blimey, that’s lonely.

I’ve realized that in many of my other self-loathing rants I use the term “fat nobody” a lot. In fact I have a draft titled “I REALLY A FAT FUCKING NOBODY.” It goes on to detail the many ways in which I am a collosal failure followed by 12 dick jokes and several references to taking a dump on someone’s chest. I don’t know how the latter got in there but I realized the writing was becoming very unoriginal very quickly when I realize I’m fantasizing about dropping a steamer on a portly maid named “Brenda” in a hotel bathroom somewhere.

Turning those creep-waves up a bit I’d dare say.

I have weird fucking vibes. That’s my super-mature way of saying that I carry weird thoughts around in my head at any given time. I wasn’t kidding about that negro-rape thing either, when someone has that fucking dopeysmug look on their face as if they’d won the lottery and wanted to know if you’d take it up the shitter for $10,000.

Safe to say I get a little frustrated with people who look like total cocksuckers.

I also have a tendency to wonder if I could successfully rub the outside of your left ear with my pinky if I were able to position myself behind you unnoticed. This is of course followed by another long series of fat jokes directed toward myself.

Look, I’m not negative, I don’t have a negative self-image or anything – but to deny that I’m nothing short of a small asteroid is not only ignorant but shows that you have extremely poor eyesight and I should laugh at you for not having some kind of optical care.

I realize it’s very difficult to make this position when the last few paragraphs I’ve written were inspired by the fact that I called myself a fat nobody.

Fact: we’re all nobodies in this dopey society unless you’re a celebrity, divorcing a celebrity, spilling millions of gallons of oil into the ocean or being one of the many people who are incapable of fixing it.

Fuck it, whatever. I’m keeping my phrase, eat a dick.

I’ve been trying to write more lately. Or write something. I’m even trying to start a novel which I actually interrupted myself from writing to squeeze this literary disaster out. The problem is that I’m far too impatient for writing. Try as I might, when I start writing about a “cool” subject one day, the next time I look at it will send me into a sobbing shame spiral that makes me want to hang myself from a running ceiling fan with no pants on.

The nice thing about being semi-funny in person is that you get the immediate laugh. In writing, you actually have to construct your wit and get it all on paper then hope someone feigns enough interest to read this far down and then take the time to construct a response that details whether it made him or her chuckle or covered their computer with a thick layer of vomit that resembles Cheetohs and Golden Grahams with a liberal amount of tomato soup mixed in.

It’s very similar to what happens when I like a girl. Instead of saying something bright and manly like “hey good lookin’, what’s cookin’?” and winking like the two-bit fruit I am, I instead wonder if we would be good together, how would we get to know eachother, what would sex together be like. Right around the part where I question whether or not she likes her nipples teased lightly or crushed with a pair of needlenosed pliers until she cries and screams “Uncle!” in a suspiciously manly voice that I find I’m staring at her and angrily masturbating under the table.

Wait, wait, somehow I got off topic here. Also that’s a Jim Norton bit, but I’ll be damned if I remember when he said it or if I’m paraphrasing it right. This, by the way, is why I’m not a goddamned comedian. My humor is recycled like waste water – someone else’s shit is harvested and turned into… okay, nevermind. I’m off the shit bit.

But I really am trying to make this happen, though. I’ve wanted to write a novel for longer than I can remember – which at any given day can be between the ages of 21-23 and 8-15.

Yeah, my memory’s more fucked up than my ability to express it in numbers.

The last things I successfully wrote was a series of love letters that I never actually intend to send. It was more an exercise to see if I could push a romantic notion so far that it becomes borderline stalker/rapist and gets me shot in the back by some angry man. Like I said before, I’m a fucking creep. Don’t look so weirded out right now, you’re the one reading my website, stupid.

I think I’ve managed to figure out some kind of formula to get my writing process started. I mean look, this is the longest, most constructed post I’ve had on here in the longest time. I might actually get something done…

What a thought.

UPDATE: Apparently annoying Brits don’t like it when you make fun of them. Which is funny because anyone else I jab at on this website is totally okay with it. Bawwing follows:

Her: 3:51:28 PM: Kay, I know that you’re at work..most likely.
Her: 3:52:27 PM: And I don’t want to distract you or talk to you for that matter. Since I like to see from time to time that you’re alive and well, I read your stupid blog. ” had annoying Brit whining about her life as I’m haphazardly jamming my dick in her.”
Her: 3:52:51 PM: Don’t appreciate that statement.
Me: 3:52:54 PM: it was comedy writing, cry me a river.
Her: 3:52:57 PM: Humor, or no humor.
Me: 3:53:07 PM: and yes I am at work
Her: 3:53:08 PM: I don’t give a shit what your intention was, it isn’t a very nice thing to say.
Her: 3:53:12 PM: So thanks a lot.
Me: 3:53:19 PM: k
Her: 3:53:58 PM: If you even had an ounce of respect for me, you’d edit that out, but I guess you don’t.
Me: 3:54:12 PM: No, actually, most people lol at the jabbing I give them.
Me: 3:54:17 PM: Most of them aren’t whiny and Q_Qing me a river.
Me: 3:54:30 PM: and considering most of that was directed toward myself, may I say bawwww.
Her: 3:54:48 PM: Ah. Okay. So I’m supposed to laugh at what you said?
Her: 3:54:50 PM: Really?
Her: 3:54:52 PM: My mistake.
Me: 3:55:21 PM: I don’t really care one way or the other. In fact, I’m going to add this conversation on the bottom of the update.
Me: 3:55:25 PM: ^___^
Her: 3:55:38 PM: Yep because you are and always will be an asshole. ^_^
Her: 3:55:45 PM: Forget I even said anything, ugh.

Interestingly, her pasting that pointed out a grammatical error on my part that I’ve now corrected. Thanks, toots.