Not your standard issue late twenty-something's blog.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Serenity Now!

It's bad when your job starts to interfere with your drinking, I mean, social life. I mean, extracurricular activities, I mean. Er. Well. Hm. I'm starting to hate one of my co-workers.

Observe the following email exchange:

Senior Writer Producer (SWP):

"Kath, attached please find my tapelog for the project I'm working on."

Kath: Peon PA (PPA)
"I can't open it. It's not an excel doc. It won't let me in."

SWP:
"It better be a fucking excel document. "

And yesterday's finest email exchange:

SWP:
"Did you get to send the beta stock I requested late yesterday. And, of course my submaster is not here. And no I don't know who has it, and I need it today."

Kath:
"I sent the beta stock yesterday, per my followup email from 4:30pm. Your submaster is and has been at the editing facility where you have been working. Ask Brian for it, Johnny Surly."

And SWP is notorious for passing the buck, from my email folder titled TSFUs:

Kath:
"Here is a revised log for your records. FPA34401 was actually first on the tape and its first airdate is 8/31/05, not 9/12"

SWP:
"Good - thank you for taking care of that and getting it out of my life forever. If Deb would just fill in all the info on the web consistently I wouldn't make such mistakes that you would cause you additional work."


And once again, dear readers, I have to take an emergency dump and that friekin lil Mexican is in there. Sweet fancy Moses.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

You don't know vitriol

I'm full of wrath and hatred. Having the kind of day where I hope everyone who's wronged me is rounded up and placed in a small, hot elevator that homeless people have pissed in three times a day, every day for the last twenty-eight or so years that is stuck in a ghetto building. I hope they end up pissing, shitting and vomiting all over each other, disgusted with their surroundings and each other . . . as most of my enemies are obese, smelly and hairy . . . it's easy to imagine, no? Then, the elevator becomes unstuck and there's a freefall of at least 30 floors.

One hopes, hell, not one, me . .I hope that, I pray at night, I wish during the day, that my enemies are failures. That their relationships have gone to shit, they've lost their jobs, they've gained even more weight, they've lost an eye in a fight with a wiry Mexican and that there's a constant cloud of rank badshitness ever floating above them and a myopic parrot sitting on their shoulders saying repeatedly "you're a tool! you're a tool! you're a tool!" and "nobody will ever love you. nobody will ever love you. nobody will ever love you." I hope someone takes them down. Assholes should get what they deserve. And it's not success, fame, kindness or money.

Now that I've purged a bit, a more pressing matter is my fear of shitting in bed. That's right. I drink a lot of beer, smoke some cigarettes and eat weird food and I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of my own ass ripping one out and I'm terrified that the heat underneath my ass is more than gaseous fumes. I'm not sure when the farting in bed developed into a problem but it has me a bit worried, as I often share my bed with a loved one, Mr. Brown, who does not tolerate such behavior, being a very refined poodle.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

The pantone of her eyes

Every wedding day should have the following things, she writes after going to a wedding in Providence, Rhode Island over Labor Day Weekend:

1. A smoking hot bride and groom
2. Two breakdancing friends who have a danceoff at the reception
3. A pushup contest (rugby players)
4. Chicago's "You're the Inspiration" as one of the last songs of the night, belted out by everyone in attendance
5. The groom surprising his new wife by singing a song with three of his buddies playing guitar.
6. Should end with wedding beer and pizza at 3am in the now-closed bar of the hotel, everyone in jeans, jammies and glasses, tired and delirious.

In short, it was a fantastic wedding. And it was Catholic so I didn't miss a week of mass.