Wednesday, September 29, 2010

In Which I Wouldn't Be Right For The Job

Often times, for reasons unknown to even myself, I'll find myself thinking about jobs that I would not be a good fit for. You know, just in case I ever find myself in a position where I am offered said job, I'll be prepared and will have my answer without having to think about it. Like a majority of my thoughts, this doesn't actually serve a purpose, but you know what they say about idle minds.

Here is a short list of professions that I would not be good at. I would not make a good...
... President of the United States, because I would reassign the purpose of the Situation Room from being primarily a conference room and intelligence center to a massive target practice range with strategically placed pictures of The Situation. The room would be equipped with an array of different weapons to shoot the target with (paint balloons, BB guns, watermelons, eggs, and poison-tipped darts are just a few I've thought of). 
... Emergency 911 Operator, because I would be all like, "Dude, seriously? You got what stuck where? What made you think that would be a good idea?" to every caller who was calling in for help after they did something stupid to themselves.
... Podiatrist, because I dislike looking at Sarah Jessica Parker for even the briefest of moments, much less day in and day out for the rest of my career. Also because feet are gross.
... Sportscaster, because I would be unable to resist the temptation to doodle with the screen-writer thing during game play, and give close-up shots of people Hitler mustaches and devil horns.
... Pharmacist, because I would constantly second guess myself about how many pills I had counted out, and would have to recount everything that I did at least twice. My obsessive compulsive streak would make me accurate, however exceedingly slow.
... Ninja, because I would inevitably feel the need to show off my awesome nun-chuck skills and wind up knocking myself unconscious in front of my mortal enemies. 
... Radio DJ, because I would only play the songs that I like.
... Daycare Provider, because I would focus primarily on trying to get the kids to do something funny and catching it on video to send into America's Funniest Home Videos instead of actually taking care of the kids.
... Traffic Cop, because I would be too tempted to just let everyone go at once, or to make everyone stop and wait for a minute to learn the value of patience.
... Game Show Host, because I have this problem where if I see someone struggling with a question and I know the answer, I find it extremely difficult to not just blurt it out. It's not because I want to be a know-it-all, it's because I want to be helpful. I promise.
Lucky for me, I'm not often approached out of the blue and offered random jobs in which I have absolutely no experience. It's probably not a coincidence that I selected jobs that I would be bad at that have relatively high levels of pressure upon job performance, either. With the job I currently have, I'm all about keeping the expectations low, or at least not too high, so I don't disappoint anyone.

After all, disappointment in the workplace is unemployment's ugly cousin.

Monday, September 27, 2010

In Which I Am Observant, Part Ten

Have you ever noticed that the airing frequency of a particular commercial increases in direct proportion to it's level of annoyingness?

Have you ever noticed that the one time someone takes you up on your offer to help that you made just to be polite a few weeks ago is during a time where you have other things already planned? And then you feel like a douche for backing out of your offer?

Have you ever noticed that birds will play target practice with your car just minutes after you've left the car wash, with a majority of said fecal splatter being on your windshield that is only smeared around with your washer fluid and wiper blades?

Have you ever noticed that your novelty ringtone is suddenly not so novel and actually a bit embarrassing when your phones rings at top volume when the office is oddly silent?

Have you ever noticed that there is no way to successfully come back from being caught singing to Katy Perry, even if it was just to be funny?

No? Well, I have.

What have you noticed lately?

Happy Monday, folks.

(Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine)

Friday, September 24, 2010

In Which I Wouldn't Put Those Two Together

In case you haven't tried to find any TV to watch on Sunday afternoons or evenings for the past two weeks, we are now two weeks into football season. For a majority of America, this is something we have been looking forward to ever since the last second of regulation ticked away at the Superbowl in February. I have been a lifelong Patriots fan, and while I don't get into football so much as to have my own fantasy team, I do have the NFL app on my Droid so I can keep up with the league, and I participate in a couple of local football pools. 

I've been going to home games ever since I was ten years old, and this Sunday is no different. I'll be traveling down to Foxboro to watch the Patriots (hopefully) redeem themselves after last week's horror show against the Jets. It's supposed to rain (or so I've heard) but that's okay. Besides the tailgating and the beer and the cheerleaders and the atmosphere and all of the other great things about being at the game in person, there is one thing about being at the game that is so much better than watching it at home:

Not seeing the commercials.

A majority of the commercials aired during a football game are about beer or cars, but guaranteed, there's going to be at least one moment during the game where the room has fallen silent and it's just you and the guys, and a commercial comes on... for erectile dysfunction. I don't know why the people in charge of advertising spots during football games allow these commercials. I mean, seriously. Football is about masculinity and power, not about flaccidity and limpness. 

I'll allow that limp dick syndrome is something to see your doctor about, but I think I'm speaking for the guys here when I say that we don't want to see these commercials while we're hanging out with our buddies. Seeing those commercials while we're watching Dateline or Wheel of Fortune is one thing; seeing them while hyped up on beer, chips, and testosterone is another thing entirely. There is nothing more awkward than the silence that immediately follows a Viagra or Cialis commercial before all the guys in the room silently and unanimously agree to resume the conversation as if the aforementioned commercial never happened. 

Even if statistics say that one in ten adult males have E.D., I just wouldn't put those two things together.

Have a good weekend, everyone

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

In Which I Might Fit The Profile

To commemorate the beginning of my vacation, I tasked myself with cleaning out the car this past weekend. Since The Boss and I have been down to only one vehicle for almost a year now thanks to the good ol' economy, our little Ford Focus is often quite messy. More often than not it looks like two rival gangs, the Dunkin' Donuts and the McDonald's, got into a violent fight inside the car and left pieces of their fallen gang members behind. If I had a nickel for every straw wrapper or crusty French fry that I found while gathering up the trash, I could quit my day job right now and retire comfortably. 

On top of all of the everyday junk that had collected in the car like travel mugs, shoes, sweatshirts, shopping bags, books, magazines, old mail, sales flyers, and other detritus (I've always wanted to use that word), there were a couple of things that wouldn't look too good if looked at in the right perspective. Say, for example, the perspective of a law enforcement officer who has decided to search a vehicle he has pulled over.

First off, until I cleaned the car out, it had an odor. Not exactly unpleasant, but not truly welcoming either.  If you caught it on just the right amount of breeze, you'd definitely notice that someone had tried to cover the foul smell up (which we had, with Febreeze). Combine that with the massive blue tarp, 100 feet of high-test nylon rope, two hammers, a hatchet, a couple of large kitchen knives, duct tape, lighter fluid, and an economy size box of matches, I'd probably fit the profile of a serial killer.

But really, you'd just be looking at a poorly organized collection of camping gear. 

There are some times where I feel like I fit the bill, with my unshaven face and unruly hair and clothes so wrinkled I look like I got my wardrobe from the donation bags at a Salvation Army. I guess I'm just fortunate that the only times I've been pulled over recently were so some bored police officer could let me know that I had a taillight out. Which, by the way, happened twice within three days... the second time while I was on the way to buy the bulb to fix it.

Now that the car is all cleaned out, all of my serial killer gear is safely stored away in a storage closet in the attic of our apartment building, tucked safely away from prying eyes and the reach of the law by a thick wire gate and a padlock. That's probably the best place for it, all things considered.

Do you have anything incriminating in your car?

Monday, September 20, 2010

In Which I Am Twenty-Five

Today, I turn the corner on a quarter-century, having survived on this planet for twenty-five years. Considering that my immune system often attempts mutiny and I've got extra pieces of brain in my brain, the fact that I've made it this far is an achievement all unto itself. 

Despite it being a major holiday and all, I don't have a whole lot planned by means of celebration. The way things worked out, today is going to be a day of errands and appointments. It's not all bad, though. The Boss has an appointment for her first official ultrasound, so we hope to get a better picture of what Baby Badass looks like currently. After that, I get to sit in the waiting room of a dentist's office while The Boss gets one of her teeth filled. Other than those two things, though, the day is open. I have the day off from work, so I shouldn't really complain about anything else. Actually, I'm on vacation again and don't return to work until the 29th, so I definitely shouldn't complain.

When I was growing up I remember asking my parents for certain things for my birthday during the weeks leading up to it. It was usually Lego-related, but what else is to be expected from a growing geek? Once you are an adult (at least allegedly), asking for things for one's birthday is still allowed, but you won't get taken seriously if you ask for toys. Trust me. I found that out the hard way. Instead, I've asked The Boss to place on order the new Stephen King book that comes out in November so I can get a first edition. That's it. I try to keep things simple.

That doesn't mean that I don't want other things, of course. I'm a geek, which means I want pretty much every new shiny gadget or anything new and electronic that exists on the market. I talk myself out of getting half of that stuff because I don't truly need any of it, but the want for new gadgets still lies within me. I just need to befriend some generous rich people so they can buy me shit. Like this. And this.

At any rate, I hope my birthday passes with no big hoopla. I just want a laid-back day with some comfort food for dinner. I'm just another year older and another year wiser... or at least that was the goal.

Happy Monday, folks, and Happy Birthday to me.

Friday, September 17, 2010

In Which I Share A Little

After my vacation last month, I promised that I'd share some of my writing project with you all. I haven't had so much as an hour since then to devote towards proofreading and editing, so what I'm going to share today is pretty rough. Keep that in mind as you read and forgive any errors along the way. 

What I'm about to share is at times graphic and not at all lighthearted or funny. Please recognize that before continuing.

The back story that would make this section make a little more sense is that the character here, Russell Miller, is a bitter and jaded man in his early thirties who began a career in nursing after caring for his crippled mother. His youth and his chances at an Ivy league college education were taken away as result, which is largely the source of his bitterness. He developed a taste for murder, starting first with his mother and then to the patients at the mental hospital he works at. Keen at staging the murders as accidents or suicides, he hasn't been caught... Yet.

The story is untitled thus far. I hope you enjoy this little sample.

Russell Miller had one bitch of a headache.
If he had ever had a sip of alcohol in his life he would have likened the pain to being hungover. All the same, this was a pain he was familiar with. He was often stricken with these headaches when he had gone too long without killing someone.
Russell was a smart man, but he was no scientist. He didn't think that a person could become addicted to something other than the wide variety of substances available for recreational consumption. Behavioral addiction was something psychologists were just beginning to discover and understand, but Russell knew he was above all of that. He was in denial about his needs, saying to himself that he could stop killing whenever he wanted to. The simple fact is that he didn't want to.
As he shuffled into the kitchen of the house he grew up in, he aimed his bleary eyes towards the calendar hanging on the wall by the telephone. Without even realizing it he counted back the number of days it had been since he had killed. Forty-seven. Way too long.
He smiled faintly as he remembered his most recent kill. At nineteen, she was one of his younger victims. She was admitted for making several attempts at taking her life but never actually succeeding. Russell took care of that for her, though, staging her murder as if it was her last (and ultimately successful) attempt at suicide. He added into her medicine cup one night a fast-acting anticoagulant, and crept in during bed check to cut her throat. He used a butter knife from the cafeteria, which was dull but ultimately did the trick. Looking back on it now, it was a shame he had to kill her. She had great tits. Russell's smile deepened at the memory of how furiously he had masturbated to the image of her as she bled out in front of him later that night at home.
With trembling hands he poured himself a cup of coffee. He was in bad shape this particular morning, and he hoped the coffee would help. Two cups later, all it did was activate his bowels. He retreated back upstairs, forgoing breakfast in interest of the nausea caused by his headache, and got himself ready for work.
He drove to work in silence. His nerves were jumpy and his hands were still shaking, and he felt as if he'd burst into a ball of rage at the slightest frustration. There were a few times where he thought he was going to crash and pulled off to the side of the road until he composed himself. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way, but if his mind hadn't been addled by his withdrawal symptoms he would have remembered that he got this way in between each killing. Pulling into the long paved driveway leading up to Spring Meadow Spring Meadow Psychiatric & Long-term Care Hospital, he took a few deep breaths and willed his nerves to calm down.
As soon as he entered through the back door marked Employee Entrance Only, his nerves quieted and he no longer felt like there was a hurricane brewing inside of his head. The simple act of crossing the threshold into what he considered both his second home and his hunting ground was like the anti-venom to the poisonous malice that circulated in his veins.
He greeted warmly the few colleagues that had already clocked in for the day. His stomach grumbled amicably as he smelled something appetizing coming from the employee lounge. Someone had brought in muffins, and Russell helped himself to two, eating both with gusto.
The morning went well, a complete turn around from how his day began. His headache still lingered, but it was a minor nuisance compared to the skull-splitting pain of that morning. While making his rounds, Russell scouted the patients for his next killing. He found that his nerves were still on edge, buzzing with energy like high voltage power lines. He felt again like he was right on the edge of snapping, and he told himself that whatever he did, it was going to have to be soon if he expected to be able to make it through to the weekend. He wasn't sure he could take any more than a few more hours like this.
His rounds didn't yield any good possibilities. The current set of mental cases and cripples were all too new, their families coming to visit too often where the sudden death of their loved one would raise suspicion. Russell was beginning to lose hope, his eyes tinged with red from the need, when a commotion in the common room got his attention.
He smiled close-lipped. He grabbed a small tray and two syringes of tranquilizers, and made his way to the common room.

As always, please leave your suggestions or comments. I appreciate any and all input.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

In Which I Get Into Hot Water

Any man who has been in a relationship with a woman for any length of time will inevitably find himself in a situation from time to time where he is in trouble for doing absolutely nothing wrong. One can find themselves in this predicament either by inexperience, non-attentiveness, or by misguided good intentions. Over the years of my relationship with The Boss, this has happened more times than I can count. It's just a fact that us men-folk resign ourselves to, and if we're smart, we don't blame it (at least out loud) on hormones or monthly cycles.

For example, The Boss and I lived for a period of time in an apartment where there was no dishwasher. None of us wanted to wash the dishes to begin with, and especially not when they piled up in the sink for a couple of days and started smelling like the funk behind a homeless man's ear. When it could be put off no longer, the chore usually fell to me. To The Boss' defense, the apartment was on city water that was really abrasive and caused irritation on her hands, so washing dishes was painful for her. After a couple of months with having sole responsibility for dish duty, I understandably got a bit tired of it. So I, with nothing but honest and good intentions, went out to the store and bought her some rubber gloves to wear so she could help out. They weren't the cheap yellow generic gloves, either. They were pink with polka dots, non-latex, and were a bit pricey as result. When she came home, I told her that I had bought her something. She naturally got excited, thinking that it was an actual gift, not something so glaringly domestic. The look on her face when I presented to her her new pair of dish washing gloves? Well, let's just say that the phrase "if looks could kill" was invented for a reason.

I didn't learn my lesson there, either. A couple of months later, she asked me if I thought that she had lost weight. Even though we had been married for two years at this point and I knew the correct response to this question (it's always yes), I came back with this reply: "I can't tell. I see you every day, and I don't notice small changes." Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I knew that I was going to find myself in trouble, but I couldn't stop it from coming out. I tried to take it back and follow it up by saying that yes, I did think she had lost some weight, but it was far too late at that point. The damage had been done.

One classic case that gets me every time is when I'm asked, after a few minutes of expectant glances, if I had noticed anything new about the way she looks. My immediate thought process?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What's new? Is it her hair? New earrings? Did she get new shoes? Is she wearing makeup today? What is it? Fuck. FUCK!

Sometimes I think you women-folk try to make sure we're on our toes and ask this sort of question even if there isn't anything new. Either that or you like to watch us squirm while we try to come up with the response that will do the least amount of damage.

I'm not complaining at all. After all, this is a part of relationships that is universal to us all. It's not fun feeling like an ant caught in the focused light from a magnifying glass, but in the end, it's worth it.

Monday, September 13, 2010

In Which I Find Something Awesome

Has anyone here ever placed a classified ad in a local newspaper? If so, you know that they can be a bit pricey depending upon how much you want to say and how long you want your ad to run. That's why I am assuming that the following full-page classified ad I discovered a few weeks ago is more than likely an awesome practical joke from someone with money to burn rather than a last ditch effort from a seriously distraught pet owner:

If you are anything like me, you would be a little stunned upon seeing this ad. I mean, seriously. A full-page classified ad that ran on a Saturday for a missing cat? That had to have cost some serious cash, considering that a five-line classified ad in this particular newspaper can set you back nearly $100. On top of that, having it run on a Saturday during the prime season for yard sales and other events. I tried calling the newspaper to find out exactly what it would have cost to run the ad, but no one returned my calls. 

Short of the fact that these people were offering a $500 reward for a frigging house cat that had been missing for about a week, I just want to touch on a few things that make this ad awesome:
  • "He likes to go on these walkabouts - which often occur around full moons."
First off: walkabouts? What exactly does that even mean, and what does it mean when referring to a cat? Additionally, the fact that the owners of this animal happen to know its proclivity for an evening stroll surrounding the schedule of lunar activity (given that this is a real ad and not an elaborate joke) is a bit creepy. It also could suggest that little Kaden has supernatural tendencies, which could bring up a whole host of other concerns.
  • "When you see him you will know immediately. He blends into the scenery due to his markings and colors."
The assumption that a complete stranger would recognize a random cat from two grainy pictures in a newspaper is just hilarious. Saying that the cat blends into the scenery because of its markings kind of contradicts the preceding statement, but considering the ad as a whole, it's easy to look past that.
  • "Has a most awesome leopard-like cry that you can hear from a long distance off. Uses awesome leopard-like cry to say he's stressed, lonely, bored, sad, and/or hungry (all the time)."
I highly doubt that a domestic house cat would have a cry that rivals a leopard's. I've owned a few vocal cats in my time, but none of them ever came close to sounding like a leopard. Furthermore, if I heard something that sounded like a leopard in rural Maine where the owners of this cat say they live, I would first shit my pants and then call Animal Control. Also, the thought that a cat would ever be stressed is just absurd.
  • "Can seem skittish, however very friendly if approached slowly and you talk to him. Lightning fast. Likes slow moving or still people who offer food and water and talk to him."
Short of the "lightning fast" part, these particular statements could describe me most days. 

When I first saw this advertisement, I almost called the number on the bottom of the page to see if this was real or not. We've all seen ads for missing pets before, but this one is the gold medal winner in my book. If this was indeed a real ad and not a joke, I seriously hope their investment worked the cat turned up alive and unharmed.

I mean, who among us wouldn't like to escape for a few days to go mouse hunting? Sounds refreshing to me.

Happy Monday, folks.

Friday, September 10, 2010

In Which I Spill The Beans

It's been sixteen months since I wrote the post where I talked about how I'm not ready to be a dad. A lot has happened and a lot has changed during those sixteen months, least of which my alleged "readiness" to become a father, but sometimes you just need to jump in with both feet and hope for the best. 

Can't wait to meet you, baby Badass. See you sometime in April.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

In Which I Speak

I was asked to speak in front of a class of new hires last week at work. Being asked was flattering, considering that there are other people who have been with the company much longer than me that would have been better candidates, but management apparently thinks enough of me to approach me about it. To be truthful, I wasn't really asked so much as told, as I wasn't given the option not to do it. They outlined it for me, and all I had to do was talk for a few minutes about my job, simple stuff like how I like my position, what my typical day is like, and what the challenges are. It didn't seem too intimidating, so I didn't think much of it. I was surprised at how not nervous I felt, walking towards the conference room to give my speech.

That all changed when I opened the door.

When I was a new hire, I remembered going to one of these meetings. There were four other new hires other than myself, so it was a pretty small group and we got a really personalized experience with the person who came in to talk to us. I was expecting a similarly sized audience for my speech, but when I walked into the conference room, I was greeted by twenty-three curious faces. Twenty-three

I just about pissed myself. I hadn't spoken to a group of people that large since the time I threw up during class in the fifth grade and made some quip while bile dripped from my nose.

The surprise over seeing how large of a group I'd be speaking to threw me completely off guard. My mouth dried up, my armpits started sweating like crazy, and my stomach started churning up clouds of gas that gurgled uncomfortably and loudly in my stomach. I stood awkwardly by the door and waited for the trainer to finish what she was saying and introduce me, spending a majority of that time looking down at my feet, trying to compose myself. While looking down, I noticed that the shirt I was wearing had a stain on it. Awesome. I imagined the thoughts of the new hires, wondering why they had some overweight guy who looked like he hadn't shaved in a month, dressed in wrinkly khakis and a stained button-down, come in and talk to the newbies. I hoped fiercely that I had remembered to zip up my fly. 

When I was finally given the green light to speak, all of the things I had prepared myself to talk about had long since evaporated from my mind. The trainer had a list of talking points printed up for me, so I went off of that. I wish I could tell you that I calmed down and fell into a good rhythm and it all went smoothly, but I think you'd know better than that. You see, when I get nervous and have to speak in front of people, I have this tendency to breathe in too much. I don't know even how I do this, but I keep inhaling despite the fact that I have more than enough air to finish what I'm saying. Before long, my lungs are filled to capacity and I have no choice but to exhale which, of course, is done with enough force to blow away whatever notes or talking points I have in front of me. 

Oh, and then there's this neat thing that I do where I say really stupid things. Like really stupid. Take the following statement for example:
"Once you've gone through the product training and software training and you've learned everything, you will know all there is to know."
I couldn't tell by their silence if they were awed by my brilliance, or if they felt embarrassed for me. Either way, that particular sentence was met with heavy silence.

Not surprisingly (but thankfully), none of the new hires had any questions for me when I was done speaking. I stood there while the trainer wrapped things up for me, and all I could hear was my pulse thudding in my ears. I eyed the door handle anxiously, and finally I was allowed to leave. The class of new hires clapped weakly for me as I left, but I was already out the door before it really amounted to anything. I made a beeline for the Men's Room to release the major gas bubble I could feel in my gut. It felt like I swallowed a balloon animal and it was fighting to get out. Gotta love nervous stomachs.  

This was the first time I had been asked to speak for the new hires, and I wish wholeheartedly that it was going to be my last. Unfortunately (both for me and for them) there is another class of new hires coming in next week, and I've been picked as the guest speaker again. I'm hoping that now I've got one under my belt, the next one will go a little more smoothly. It's not like it can get any worse. Well, actually, there are many ways it could go worse, but I'm going to choose not to think about that.

Monday, September 6, 2010

In Which I Am a Jackass

I came across this book at one of the Goodwill's in town yesterday. Kind of makes me wonder if the title of this book would be acceptable in today's world. Given the fact that the term "jackass" has a largely different connotation these days, probably not.

I'm thinking of starting a sporadic series of posts where I show pictures of almost inappropriately titled books that I find in secondhand bookstores. I've found a few that would be worthy of being inappropriate in this day and age, like the "Gopher Dick" one from a while back. Oh, and there is this little gem:

Awesome, isn't it? I guess the rhythm method hadn't been popularized yet. 

Happy Monday, folks. 

Friday, September 3, 2010

In Which I Parodize, Again

"Chamillionaire" - (sung to the song "Billionaire", by Travie McCoy)

(Click here for the music video, so you can listen along.)

I wanna be Chamillionaire so fucking bad.
I'd be the best thing music's ever had.
I wanna be on the cover of Spin Magazine,
bringing the best music on the scene.
Oh, every time I close my eyes
I see my name in shining lights, yeah.
A different woman every night, oh I swear...
The world better prepare for when I'm Chamillionaire.

Yeah, I would have a group-like posse that I would be the king of.
Everybody wants in, they better keep on wishin'.
I'd probably pull a Woody Allen or some shit, and adopt
a set of morals and marry my step-kid.
Escape a few convictions like "I never did this",
and last but not least grant some females their last wish.
It's been a couple months since my last single so
you can call me "Has-Been" in case you didn't know.
Get it? I'd probably write a song that would be a hit,
and some guy named Weird Al would come and parody it.
Yeah, can't forget about that, you see.
Everywhere I go I'mma have to be ridin' dirty.

Oh, every time I close my eyes
I see my name in shining lights, yeah.
A different woman every night, oh I swear,
the world better prepare for when I'm Chamillionaire.
(Oh-oh, oh-oh) When I'm Chamillionaire.
(Oh-oh, oh-oh)

I'll be playin' fast and loose with no precedence,
spendin' all the dough I get.
Then I'll complain about never being able to pay for shit.
Throw all my receipts right in the trash just for the heck of it,
Come tax time I'll have no records to fully account for it.
Yeah, I'd be in the hole with a tax audit.
I'd blame recession but that ain't exactly it.
Spent too much money on my grill and my gilded cup,
now everybody that I know is just laughin' up.
And not a single honey around me would know how money I was,
livin' good, livin' proudly.
I know this wasn't part of my celebrity dream, but
go in your pocket, pull out your wallet, give all of it to me.

I wanna be Chamillionaire so fucking bad.
I'd be the best thing music's ever had.
I wanna be on the cover of Spin Magazine,
bringing the best music on the scene.
Oh, every time I close my eyes
I see my name in shining lights, yeah.
A different woman every night, oh I swear...
The world better prepare for when I'm Chamillionaire.

I wanna be Chamillionaire so fucking bad....


Have a good weekend, everyone.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

In Which I See A Trend

I've noticed an annoying trend recently. It seems to me that there are a lot of people out there who put forward the least amount of effort required for a given task. If there is a shortcut available, or if they can get by with not doing all that they should be doing, they'll take it and they'll do it (or not do it, as it were). Perhaps I notice this more than the next guy because of the line of work that I'm in, but I can't be the only one who gets annoyed by this.

The kind of people I'm referring to are the ones who only offer their first name when a customer service agent over the phone asks what your name is. As if we're supposed to magically know what your last name is. Unless you are a celebrity or one of those assholes on Jersey Shore, if someone in a customer service position asks for your name, odds are they need to hear both your first and last name. Same goes with the address. In my experience calling customer service for various needs, never has just the number and street name been sufficient.

After taking a dozen calls this week where the people I spoke to acted put out by my asking what their last name was and for their complete address, I started to get a bit steamed. Then I asked myself this: If these people think half-assing their way through basic questions is acceptable, what would their reaction be to people in other professions who do their jobs half-assed?

We would be appalled if we heard of a surgeon who used clothespins and a prayer to close up an incision. We'd send back our food and want to verbally berate the chef if we got raw food served that only looked cooked on the outside. We'd sue an airline for every penny they have if one of their pilots thought they were "close enough" to the runway and started their descent too soon. 

If this is becoming more and more acceptable, I'm going to start doing it, too. One day I'll stop putting deodorant under both arms, or start relying on breath mints instead of brushing my teeth. I'll start applying the brakes at the last moment. I'll leave my fly unzipped because I'm just too busy to be bothered to remember to zip it up. Fair is fair, right?

I don't know. Perhaps I'm being a bit cynical. I'm allowed to rant every once and a while, I suppose.

What's pissing you off this week? Feel free to get it off your chest.