Just A Regular Guy

Almost everyday around 10:30 in the morning, I proceed to the corporate washroom to evacuate my bowels. I am a regular man that enjoys his stall time and building on his high scores at cell phone bowling (my lady’s brother aptly refers to his stall time as a visit to the Fortress of Solitude). The problem with the corporate washroom is that every time you open the door, you are rolling the dice. Sometimes, its as fresh and sparkling as if the Mexican janitor just hosed it down with some industrial strength cleaner. Other times, its reminiscent of a monkey cage at the zoo. We have three stalls; two are regular size and one is of the jumbo, handicapped variety. Most people use the handicapped stall because it is spacious and makes one feel important. The amount of traffic to that stall is the very reason I never use it. I do not wish to share the same seat with a grubby salesperson that ate three microwavable cheeseburgers from a gas station for breakfast. My choice is limited to the remaining two stalls. I always choose the stall closest to the door due to my understanding of basic psychology, as most people do not prefer to sit in the seats closest to the door. I open said stall this morning and prepare to take care of business when I notice something on the toilet seat; a single curly hair. I conclude it is indeed a pubic hair, as no man in our office has the kinky, curly locks of Gabe Kaplan or a Jack Sikma. Disgusted, I exit the bathroom, walk down a flight of stairs and use the second floor commode. As of today I have officially instituted a floor down corporate shitting policy. Those mortgage fuckers seem more civilized, anyway.

Update floor down corporate shitting policy: I just returned from the second floor lavatories and must say that I am impressed. The bathroom smelled of a mountain spring, the toilets and floors were spotless and there was a copy of today’s paper left by a thoughtful gentlemen. All that was missing was a classical music feed, a hand towel attendant and a bowl of mints.

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Obesity Is Not A Handicap

Every morning I walk into my office building and I run into the whale that works on the first floor and is pushing two and a half bills. She has a handicap parking pass hanging from her rear view mirror and waddles out to her car periodically during the day for a smoke (sitting in her car and smoking, mind you, not actually standing up and smoking). In these situations I get angry for the handicapped community. She does not look nor act legitimately handicapped, she just has a difficult time slinging her immense weight around. Handicap parking is reserved (rightly) for paraplegics and little old ladies with plastic hips who have a hard time getting around. I want to push that blubber factory down every time I see her. I am certain she would argue that her condition is due to an overactive thyroid or predisposition to obesity. I am certain there is medication to treat a thyroid condition, and if one does not have money to purchase said medication than one should quit wasting five bucks a day on a pack of cigarettes and save their pennies. If you are born into an obese family that does not mean you have an excuse to be fat, it just means that you inherited a low metabolism and need to be cautious with what you eat and get regular exercise. Being obese is not cool unless you are the Blob.

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Brozovich World Tour ’04

For the next two weeks I will be going on tour like a trashy hair metal band in 1988. Early tomorrow morning, my lady and I are off to San Diego where we will walk on the beach, eat fresh sea bass, patronize the new Padres stadium, visit the San Diego Zoo, watch a live donkey show in Tijuana and drink our body weight in margaritas. Sunday night, my lady flies back to Denver and I will stay in the OC for the 2004 HOW Design Conference. The HOW Design Conference lasts three days and I will be attending sessions, chilling with my old boss Michael and last year’s partner in crime Scott from Minnesota (who won a free pass to the event and will be crashing in my room, assuring me he will not go all Fear and Loathing up in that bitch) and kicking it California gangsta style by the pool with chocolate honeys and bottles of Courvoisier.

After the HOW Design Conference wraps up, I will be catching an afternoon flight to Las Vegas where my good friends Kaye and Aaron will be getting married. I will be staying in Sin City for one night, winning big at various gaming tables and drinking free watered-down whiskey as I insult professional card dealers for giving me trash.

I arrive back in Denver Thursday evening, only to catch a plane to Boise, Idaho the following morning. In a state that is synonymous with potatoes and the white power movement, I will be attending my lady’s grandfather’s 95th birthday celebration.

On Sunday, May 23, I finally make my way home to Denver exhausted and battered from almost two weeks of traveling where I plan on crawling into my king size bed and sleeping until Armageddon.

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Fatbacked Girls Make The Rockin’ World Go ‘Round

During my lunch hour I headed to the Super Target to procure a cheap AM radio so I could listen to the NCAA Tournament games in my cubicle (as I post this, I am number two in the office pool. Stanford Cardinal all the way, baby). I follow a young woman (approximately 20 years of age) into the retail superstore and am horrified to witness to one of the most unsettling views in contemporary American society: low-rise jeans, a bare midriff and back fat. Rolls and rolls of mushy back fat. With a butterfly tattoo right in the middle of it. I should have reprimanded the young woman for not only showing off her obesity but also accentuating it with a stupid fucking tattoo. Ladies, if you have a handful of flab hanging over the side of your pants you do not look like Gabrielle Reece. You look like chain smoking gutter trash that takes their dirty bastard children to the flea market to purchase cheap jewelry and black market name brand clothing.

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Low-Limit Poker For Low-Limit People

The boys from work got together last night for a low stakes game of Texas Hold ‘Em. I made out with the big stack, B-Dawg turned a tidy profit, Neal got lucky on the last hand that made his night respectable and I knocked Jake out of the game with a monster full boat (aces and sixes) to his strong two pair (kings and aces). EZ delivered the big funny of the evening after I turned him out like an abusive pimp than began to verbally humiliate him he shot back with, “I think you were circumsized to high.” He is lucky I do not have a god complex at the card table like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas otherwise I would have ended the night digging a hole somewhere in a vacant lot between Denver and Boulder.

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Uncomfortable Social Situations

Uncomfortable social situations are my specialty. Take the company break room this morning. I was making a vat of cocoa (and when I say vat, I am not fucking around. I swooped up a Brew Keg from 7-11 that holds fifty-five ounces of hot liquid. On a cold bitch of a morning like this, it holds me together like steel) when a fellow employee walks in. I have my back turned to him, so I ask him how his holiday was (being as I had the past two weeks off). We engage in lighthearted banter and I turn to look at him and immediately notice that his eye is swollen shut. Needless to say, I was taken aback. He notices the look of horror on my face and acts as if I offended him and walks away. Well excuse me, Mr.Sensitive but your fucking eye is swollen shut. Should I act like I did not notice? Christ.

Upon further reflection, I was then reminded of an even more uncomfortable social situation I experienced. I was out barhopping in lower downtown Denver. I consumed many spirits and was feeling loose but focused. Our group eventually made its way to a dance club, which was peculiar because nobody in our group liked to dance. We waded through a sea of sweaty young people contorting their bodies to shitty house music and bellied up to the bar. After a shot or four, I decided to hit the dance floor and fuck some shit up. Nobody joins me; not even the women in our group. So there I am, drunk, alone and swaying on the dance floor. I feel somebody rubbing on my ass. I glance back and notice an attractive female smiling at me. We proceed to engage in what the kids call “bumping and grinding” for almost an hour nary saying a word to each other. Finally, I become parched and invite the young lady to the bar offering to buy her a drink. She informs me that her and her friends are getting ready to leave but thanks me anyway. I ask her if I can get her number and take her out sometime. She smiles and then reaches in her purse for a pen. She hands it to me and I write her number down on a cocktail napkin. I reach out to shake her other hand (now keep in mind its dark in this club and I am totally obliterated so my powers of observation are skewed) and instead I grab a stump. She did not have a fucking hand. I jump back, completely surprised and utter, “Holy shit! Where is your fucking hand?!” She stares at me for what seems like an eternity and then says, “You are an asshole.” Good times.

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I Have An Important Announcement To Make…

I just finished sifting through my post-Thanksgiving emails (I had 77 waiting for me when I strolled in). I have a legitimate use for only three of these emails. Now, I understand that bullshit office emails are a necessary function of corporate America. Any emails regarding the status of copy and fax machines, free muffins in the break room and the arrival of Burrito Guy I tolerate because they are necessary (the Burrito Guy is the unofficial company breakfast burrito peddler. His burritos rank somewhere between wet concrete and fresh elephant feces in terms of taste and edibility). What I cannot handle, however, are blast office emails regarding an individual’s availability status; and nine times out of ten, it is usually someone in sales. The emails go something like this:

I will be out of the office for (insert time frame here). If anyone needs to contact me, please transfer to my voice mail or have them email me.

This is directed to anyone who has ever sent an email out like the one above:

First, if someone wants to contact you, chances are they already have your direct line, cell number or email. People in the business world understand that by using one or all of these methods of communication, their goal of getting in touch with you will be accomplished. The entire office does not need detailed instructions on what to do if someone calls or comes looking for you.

Second, nobody gives a shit where you are or will be at any given time. More than likely, people know what to do in your absence and/or possess the basic problem solving skills to figure out an alternative solution if you are not available. Contrary to the inflated ego inherent in cocksuckers like you, business continues operating when you are gone. This may come as a shock to your self-important ass, but you are just as expendable as the rest of us. It is called capitalism. You might have heard of it.

Finally, if you are not going to be in the office, use the Out of Office assistant or record an informative statement on your voice mail regarding your availability. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT email the entire fucking company.

I am tempted to start sending out company-wide emails informing the office of when I am going in to take a shit.

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Darth Vader Is All About The Dick

Me: An idea that is right up your alley. Literally and figuratively.
Gay Joe: Or something.
Me: Fuck you, you silly little queer.
Gay Joe: Hey! I may be little and queer but I am not silly.
Me: Um.
Gay Joe: Okay, maybe a little silly.
Me: I am surprised you have not faggoted up that cubicle with posters of Julie Andrews and the Depeche Mode.
Gay Joe: I have not done that because I am more of a dark fag.
Me: You are like the Darth Vader of the gay community. Or the grim reaper. Take your pick.
Gay Joe: Vader. He had a huge helmet.
Me: The grim reaper has that giant scythe though. You could do some cool gay shit with it.
Gay Joe: Well played.

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Dagwood Weeps

For lunch, I got my sandwich on at Subway. Everyone always seems pissed at that place. The customers are agitated because they are in a hurry. Subway employees are either stoned college students with bad attitudes or middle-aged functioning alcoholics that hate their lives. It always seems that my sandwich is being rushed through the construction process, too. I am always getting yelled at from the toppings station: “What do you want on the spicy?” I am sorry, but I do not feel good about my sandwich unless I see the toppings being applied. One of those fucking junkies could be out of their mind and slip some onions or olives into my sub. Then, when I pull out my credit card to pay and ask for stamps, the people in line behind me have conniption fits. Hey mister and misses irritated corporate executive, a credit card is a widely used monetary unit and I collect sub stamps in order to one day obtain a free sandwich. I am poor, I do not carry cash and I like free shit, so quit getting your panties in a twist. I should have just gone to Quiznos with Jake.

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