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Archive for the 'Whatever' Category
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.
Sometime back in 2006 was the last time I publicly acknowledged that I, Dan, am a year older. It’s honestly not out of some weird sense of self-preservation, it’s mostly that I’m a lazy sack and when my birthday rolls around I lose all interest in writing about it.
Also I have a tendency to spend it working and then sleeping. They tell me this is lame; I come back with “if it were a weekend, I’d spend it eating and sleeping – what’s your point?”
inb4 fat jokes
I was inspired to actually make a note of the day of my birth this year simply because a friend of mine, who happens to be an aspiring young artist (and yes, I really hate that phrase but it works really well here) drew me something that made me burst into laughter.
I’m wishing death upon him…
It’s essentially me glaring at this kid I’ve sort of taken under my wing. He’s a dipshit who needs guidance because apparently there’s no male figure in his life so I more or less have taken that job. It’s quite probably the funniest thing I’ve seen because it captures my utter contempt toward him perfectly.
MAN I SAY YOU HE DEAD
You can see Roc in the background quietly grabbing a victory beer in the fridge to celebrate me finally snapping and stabbing the poor kid in a fit of rage.
Anyway, the reason I bring this to attention today is that I intend to use every means possible to get this kid’s work exposed to as many people as I can. I honestly and truly think that her subtle humor works extremely well in her art; I also get the sense it’ll be wildly popular so I’d be stupid not to jump in now.
Gotta ride those coattails, as they say.
Sarah’s also hilarious followup made me lol
I’m watching a Klingon hit on Riker and his name is Worf and he is growling at him.
After Riker calms him down, Worf looks at him suggestively and says “COMING, COMMANDER?”
It could have been construed as a sexy moment if they were of the female persuasion however I’m not sure that a black man growling at me should be classified as sexy and instead will be referred to as horrifying.
Then I would start crying and beat women even though that’s probably not funny. It isn’t, stop laughing, you’re not supposed to laugh.
The Star Trek: The Subsequent Generation themesong is echoing in my head. Well maybe less echoing and more playing because it happens to be on my television right now. My television, I may add, that is almost as old as the show I’m watching. However it’s one of those “awesome” (it is but the quotes are for dramatic effect) projection TV’s that look relatively sharp given the awful signal it is blowing up.
They’re investigating a hole. It’s making me giggle with glee. They then said “let’s launch a probe into it.” Homosexual tendencies are floating around in space like semen after a college party where you invite some drunk floozy to show her tits and it instead turns into a “let’s plug holes with meatsticks” exercise.
See how I worked hole in there?
tbh I’d probably bang Doctor Crusher. Not so much her older counterpart though, mostly because I don’t have a hidden maturity fetish.
Your vagina ages like beef. Oh, that’s terrible, I’m sorry.
This is the worst update I have ever written and I know it. I’M FINE WITH IT THOUGH, GOD DAMMIT.
FINE!!!!!!
I’ll get back to you.
When I was in highschool I had a penchant for skipping school whenever the mood struck. I get the feeling this accounted for me graduating with a GPA of 2.8 but that also may have been the extreme laziness and desire to snub my nose at authority but either or, I guess. Also, yes, I realize this makes me seem more rebellious than I was – I really wasn’t, I was just a lazy fuck.
More on that later.
I went to this thing called Kent Career/Technical Center. It was basically a glorified career training school that made you pretend briefly you were in college and more responsible than you really were. I’m not quite sure it worked out that way because I spent most of my mornings arguing with teachers, cracking jokes and making loud animal noises that disrupted several classrooms at a time.
It was during this time where a friend of mine, Dan (which yes, lead to some confusion), would ramble on about his girlfriend Jamie. Rambling I think actually is an understatement, I’m fairly sure every conversation included her in some way which was kind of curious when you’re talking about why Windows 2000 is a terrible operating system and several years out of date.
Something that was consistent was that he apparently spoke of me too and wished for the two of us to meet, leading to many of these conversations to head towards “no, I really will bring her in one day so she can see what I’m talking about!” as I made some kind of probably ill-fitting joke. I usually shrugged this off until apparently one day he actually brought her in.
I, of course, was skipping. I was likely at home drinking a Coca-Cola and watching Cartoon Network in my underpants. Brilliant.
I was then mercilessly tormented for my absence the one day he followed through and she appeared.
Well, fuck.
The fact that I retain this particular memory fascinates me. Mostly because I have these ridiculous gaps in my memory that more or less obscure large strides of my life that may or may not have been considered important. This was more or less an exercise in seeing just how much I could recall and if I could phrase it in a way that wasn’t a complete borefest.
I’m going to do this more often.
I think it’s the sex I hate the most.
It’s this laborious sweaty shuffle of grunting and moaning that I more or less force myself to participate in. I feel about it the same as I would taking out the trash or mowing the lawn. Maybe worse – those acts don’t require me to pretend I care about it.
At one point I think I was attracted to her. It feels like a distant memory which sounds really hilarious coming from someone my age. I can’t help myself though, it feels like years since I’ve felt any kind of spark between us other than loathing and disgust.
When we first met I honestly felt she was out of my league. Funny, witty, could hold a conversation with me. Had a big ass which I felt was an excellent attribute. Now she’s, well… you know one of those hot air balloons you’ll see sitting in a used car dealership’s parking lot? The giant ill-inflated ones that wobble in the wind when it hits it right? That’s her. Wobbly and ill-inflated. Although I guess I shouldn’t complain, I’m not exactly a looker either. I’m a gumpy fatass with hair that’s too big and a head that’s shaped like one of those Japanese square watermelons that was left out in the sun.
Whatever.
I have a problem with sinking into my own head during crucial moments. I know this because she’s right now naked, on top of me, looking at me for some kind of validation for what she accomplished. Apparently she got off, good for her. Maybe I’ll give her a medal. Or a tomahawk to the neck.
“Are you even paying attention?!” she manages to screech out in a voice that sounds disturbingly similar to that of a pissed-off crow, which in turn causes me to jump and fall off the bed slightly.
She may have figured out I wasn’t paying attention.
“Do I even EXCITE you anymore?”
Oh my God I have to answer this. ohshitohshitohshitohshit
“Um, yeah, of course you do… I guess I’m just tired is all.”
Heh heh. Works every time.
Except now she’s looking at me – through me, even – with a gaze that could probably make the most hardened man cringe if he held it. I, of course, am the farthest thing from a hardened man so I immediately look down and make an effort to crawl away from her before this becomes more uncomfortable.
Somehow I manage to succeed and pull some pants on so that I might recover a drink from the kitchen. I make it about halfway there when I realize something is amiss.
Her drunk, extremely unpleasant stepdad is right there. Right in the hallway. Staring at me. Me, without a shirt and unbuttoned pants.
Did I mention I’m 15? Hi.
He starts toward me. Hell, starts toward me may be an understatement. With one step he manages to clear about 10 feet somehow. Probably my imagination but he’s 6′4″ and all muscle, I’m 6′0″ and all flab.
I let out a girlish yelp and stumble back into her bedroom and slam the door shut and use my body to hold it that way. Hopefully excess weight comes in useful.
She looks at me wide-eyed “I..is that?!” – “Oh, yeah, he’s here! Glad you noticed!” I yell back. She tosses me my shirt and my shoes, I start eyeing her bedroom window.
As it turns out, I’m capable of incredible speed. At what felt like light-speed, I rush the window, throw it open, and dive out feet first as if I’m going down the best waterslide ever.
A waterslide that ends with a thorny bush. Fuckin’ awesome.
This of course forces me to elicit a very loud “FUCK!” as I throw my shirt over my head and start running for my car – an act that causes me to wheeze and cramp and wish death upon my crappy, out of shape body.
Then I hear a door open. In my mind I secretly hope it’s either a cop or the ice cream man or the guy who fixes the vending machine at my school and hands me a free pop because I told him how to get his wife’s AIM password.
No. Wrong. Stepdad with a shotgun.
“This CANNOT be fucking happening” I mutter to myself as I close on my car. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him taking aim at me. My heart stops.
I can see this whole thing coming to an end. My crappy life, filled with lies and secrets and betrayals and hurting the people I love the most all coming to an end because I knocked up a girl and am now forcing myself to fuck her and take care of her because I’m not man enough to leave after I catch her blowing some dude repeatedly. All of it for nothing.
Click. Was it a click? What did I just hear? Oh. Right. The gun.
Okay. Apparently it’s happening.
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