Contractors Don’t Eat Nachos

While working at the data slaughterhouse I kept a semi-regular notebook where I drew, wrote inane drivel and otherwise zoned out of meetings that could have been emails. Below is an excerpt from one such meeting with a particular consultant I held deep contempt for. Enjoy. 

Old man on teleconference. His voice echoes, cell phone breaks up. Is he taking a shit right now? His voice strains now as his aged bowels push to evacuate the Metamucil he choked down this morning. When was the last time he digested a solid meal? A steak, potatoes and some broccoli? French toast, scrambled eggs and bacon? A cheeseburger, french fries and a chocolate milkshake? Could his ancient, rumbling GI tract withstand a hard punch? I long to feel the pleasure of my knuckles connecting with his old, weakened solar plexus; his diseased stomach full of prune juice and bile rupturing into his bloodstream. I long to destroy his ability to digest even the feeblest of meals. The phone muffles and I imagine he arises from his porcelain savior. Did he just wipe ass? I’m happy I can eat nachos whenever I want.

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Burrito Man

While working at the data slaughterhouse I kept a semi-regular notebook where I drew, wrote inane drivel and otherwise zoned out of meetings that could have been emails. Below is an excerpt from one such meeting with a particular consultant I held deep contempt for. Enjoy. 

The Burrito Man is here. Like cattle we move quicker than we do all day long to inhale his horrible treats. To us chubby, chain-smoking, alcoholic welfare whores; his burritos are our cocaine. Pull that salsa out of your Ziploc bag, Burrito Man. Your burritos are garbage and I won’t even eat them hungover. Which I am.

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Corporate Angst

While working at the data slaughterhouse I kept a semi-regular notebook where I drew, wrote inane drivel and otherwise zoned out of meetings that could have been emails. Below is an excerpt from one such meeting with a particular consultant I held deep contempt for. Enjoy. 

His body surges with adrenaline as he leaps across the table and connects his fist to the old man’s lower jaw. A mouthful of blood and teeth spray on the meeting room window. Another blow quickly collapses the old man’s nose and a hard cracking noise echoes in the room as his sinus cavity explodes behind the velocity of his knuckles. His laughs maniacally as a flurry of fists reign down upon the old man’s now limp body. Blood streams in long, splattering waves over movements of wildly flailing arms and fists that result in sickening thuds. He stops when he realizes the beating hurts his swollen hands more than it hurts the old man. He arises, covered in blood, hair and tooth enamel to finally notice the horrified looks frozen on the faces of the employees in the room. The old man lay prostate on the floor gurgling incomprehensible phrases through fluid and broken teeth. He closes his eyes and feels satisfaction. He doesn’t hear the doors open. He doesn’t feel it when the police officers tackle him to the floor. In this moment, he realizes he is too pretty for prison.

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The Crushing Of Souls

Yesterday I ran into a guy I used to work with at the data slaughterhouse at the hockey rink. After exchanging pleasantries (“pleasantries” being me talking smack after we shut his team his team out 4-0), I asked him how everything was going. I knew that he was still toiling away in that godforsaken hellhole and I was curious if things were as I remembered them. He dropped this gem on me:

“Once I stopped caring about what was happening around me, I was a lot happier. When I cared, management knew it and they crushed my soul.”

Good to hear that nothing has changed since the day I was laid off.

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The MB Transitions Into Obscurity

When I started the MB back in 2000, my original intent was to showcase my resume and minuscule design portfolio. I had just made the transition from print design to web design and thought the purchase of the domain name would motivate me to learn more about designing and maintaining websites. It did.

In 2002, the MB transitioned from a professional showcase to a personal one. I started posting about all manner of nonsense, because, in case you have not realized by now, I have a lot to say about a lot of shit. In 2002 there was no Facebook. No Twitter. No MySpace. No news feeds. It actually took some doing to track down links and write about them. I was happy to do this because my job was mind-numbing and management at the data slaughterhouse had no idea what the hell I was up to. Soon, links, emails and IMs started flooding in from the likes of Jake, Michael, DJ, Kaye, Monica, CH, Gay Joe and Mark. Boredom loves company? I was happy to be posting regularly as it fueled my passion for creativity in ways that my career was not.

Enter Broz Design in November 2008 and my posting to the MB fizzling out. Maybe its because I am fulfilled professionally? Or because I would rather hang out with my kid than waste my time posting about a guy that got fucked to death by a horse? Or maybe it is time to take the MB into a new direction? I go with the latter. I have always dreamed about writing the Great American Novel but am no closer to that goal than I was last year. My New Years resolution for 2010 is to start using the MB to focus more on actually writing a book and get some ideas out into the ether. It may not lead to anything other than me doing what I have been wanting to do for some time and that is fine. It is not like you want to read about a horse fucking a guy to death, anyway. Right?

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Take This Job And Shove It … Again

Last Monday my boss and I had a Come-To-Jesus chat regarding my complete lack of enthusiasm for my current position. While I informed him my lack of passion did not hinder me from going through the motions (just ask my ex-girlfriend She Who Will Not Be Named), I did acknowledge that I was completely burnt out. Many factors led to my burnout; frequent late paychecks, a complete lack of any tangible project process (i.e. massive undertakings were given one line explanations like “Client Center back-end development: 36 hours”), lack of established deadlines and milestones (other than early 2008 or late 2008), non-payment of contractors/vendors and a general malaise regarding client/vendor relationships. I was issued an ultimatum to decide by that Friday whether or not I wanted to stay with the company. When Friday rolled around, I quit, packed up all my shit and went over to DJ’s house to get drunk and play poker (in a rare Ex-Data Slaughterhouse Employees Game victory, I took home $60). After a tumultuous career path over the past three years, I am finally growing some balls and committing full-time to Broz Design. I have already nabbed two and a half retainer clients (the other half happening once I get off my ass and draw up a contract) that will pay me more all while working less and living the pants-free dream. My pregnant wife is thankfully awesome and supportive of my pursuits and deserves a new Lexus once I start rolling in the dough. It is either that or we will be selling our unborn child on the Mexican black market to make ends meet. Wish me luck either way.

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Enter Lesbian Turkish Oil Wrestling

There is nothing I can say about Lesbian Turkish Oil Wrestling except its arrival to the scene was long overdue. Jake, Gay Joe and myself discovered the national Turkish all-male sport back in the Data Slaughterhouse days which yielded many discussions and one inappropriate IM buddy icon that Joey rocked for two solid years thanks to a useless human resource department and a devil may care attitude. I am proud that the Turkish Oil Wrestling organization finally acknowledged the Women’s Movement and decided to let oiled-up dykes grapple with each other in the Turkish tradition. It looks like Daddy just found a new show to record on the HD DVR.

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Karma Is A Bitch

Nameless Ex Coworker: Hey, do you know the login and password to that thing on the corporate website you designed? I need to do something with that.
Me: Yes. It will cost $80 an hour for that information. That is my going design rate for for-profit corporations. Or we can work out a flat fee.
Nameless Ex Coworker: Seriously? Even for me?
Me: For you and for anyone who represents your company.
Nameless Ex Coworker: Wow.
Me: It’s a pleasure doing business with you.

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Polishing The Brass On The Titanic

In the past two weeks, my former employer’s chief technologist accepted a job offer in Boulder and three members of the senior sales staff resigned (I am still firmly entrenched in the data slaughterhouse gossip circle). I shared anger, pain, jokes, laughs and bourbon with all four of these individuals and am happy to see them make it over the wall. A message to all my people still trapped on the inside: The owl hoots at night. The fat man is dancing with the briefcase. The bell tolls for thee. Vive la Resistance!

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Interviews Update

I heard back from both companies I interviewed with last week. Company #1, located in Downtown Denver, gave me the “I just want to be friends” routine via email. Classy move. Maybe you should hire my ex-girlfriend She Who Will Not Be Named, Company #1. Like you, she is a cold-hearted bitch with no regard for social etiquette and would thrive within your corporate culture. Company #2, located near the Governors Mansion, offered me the position and I turned it down. Sure, it would be nice to start working again and sock away my severance booty towards a Mexican holiday with the wife, but something told me to stay away from that place. Perhaps it was the HR lady wearing sneakers, the invasive personal questions regarding my values or the “We do not use Macs” line that turned me off. All I know is that I ignored my instincts far too long while languishing at the data slaughterhouse and I refuse to ever do that again. In more interesting news, a neighboring town home burned down a few days ago. It appears as if the firewall did its job and kept the whole unit from succumbing to the flames. Good times.

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