I am a comic book geek. “Total fanboy” is a term I long ago embraced. I can’t begin to count the amount of time I have spent on comics: buying, reading, discussing, daydreaming. Some of you charming readers may know of my obsession. You have been there during the countless debates on the best character in the Marvel Universe. You’ve heard me bitch about how various creators must be purposely trying to destroy the comic industry. You’ve seen the collection I have amassed. And, if I have known you for more than two weeks, I have probably tried to get you hooked on one comic or another; hopefully, I have succeeded.
Mostly, I read Marvel. I love their characters, and the “superhero soap opera” never gets old for me. They were the first to do it, and, mostly, the best at it. My only beef with Marvel is that it almost entirely takes place in New York, Manhattan specifically. That is because the original creators were born, and lived and worked, in NYC. With that in mind, I decided to add some links to comic book creators living and working here in the greatest city in the world.
You cannot mention comic creators in Chicago and not think Alex Ross. He brought photorealism to comics, and there is no one who does it better. If you haven’t read Marvels or Kingdom Come, go out and get them ASAFP. Alex Ross changed the way I looked at comics forever. He’s also responsible for Earth X, which is the best Marvel story ever told, period.
Here is Mike Norton. I really like his style; he reminds me of those cool Saturday morning cartoons, like The Real Ghostbusters and Gargoyles. He reminds me of Ringo, which is a good thing.
Next is Skottie Young. I love his style; to my eye, he is like a bizarre combo of Marc Silvestri and Bill Watterson. I would love to script a story for Skottie; something dark and funny and harsh. He’s done some top shelf books; do yourself a favor and pick them up. I hated New X-Men until Skottie started drawing it. His Human Torch is (pun alert) fucking hot!
I will have links for these guys from here on in, so go ahead and check up on them from time to time.
Until recently, I didn’t know there was a podcast for comic books. It turns out there are several, with two really good ones coming out of the Windy City. If you decide to check them out, I recommend “Around Comics,” which is recorded at Dark Tower Comics, 4835 N. Western in Chicago. Chris, Sal and Tom remind me of those guys who were fun to talk comics with; they have deep knowledge of all things superhero, as well as the great graphic literature outside of the world of spandex. And they are hilarious. Another bonus for AC is that Skottie has been on it a few times, so you can hear what he thinks about stuff. "Word Balloon" is another good one, with great one-on-one interviews with comic creators and other folks in the entertainment industry. There’s a podcast called "iFanboy," but they dissed my hometown in their recent podcast. Fuck them in the ear ; you boys hear me coming?
Anyway, the reason I bring this up is because of the last post. For the last twenty-two years or so, I wanted to work on a comic book. Not having the artistic talent of my uncle or my shit-headed brother, I have focused on writing, which is either plotting or scripting a comic. I am going to try and plot and script a comic, which I will of course keep you updated on. It would be unfair and wrong to not mention another party responsible for my new drive. I must give thanks to several conversations with The World's Biggest Asshole; too many times has he said that I should try and get my stuff published, and I hemmed and hawed about it. It's funny; I am always pushing him about personal shit, and he's always pushing me on professional shit. We're more married than me and my ex-wife ever were...
Don’t worry, you’ll still get plenty of my humiliating stories and endless ranting bitch-fests which you have come to expect from me. But this is going to be something really fun and exciting to explore, and I think you, as a reader, deserve to read more than the bad shit happening to me.
Oh, and I have no idea where the fuck The GringO has been. He refuses to give me more than one joke’s worth of material at a time.
I went fucking nutso with the hyperlink today...
-Zeepdoggie
25 August 2007
22 August 2007
Someday No More
My Uncle Danny died recently, and I haven’t really dealt with his death yet. So I am going to force myself to do it. He was an exceptional artist, and he had the most intricate sense of detail. He did this drawing for my mum of a ram; Zeepmomma is into the horoscope stuff (despite all of my lectures concerning astronomy and stellar distances and blah blah blah I am a killjoy), and she is an Aries. I once tried to count all the lines in the horns of the ram; after three days, I stopped at one thousand. Oh, and the picture is drawn on a piece of 8”X10” paper.
He could also do cartoony stuff, too. He had this really cute drawing of his kid playing outside; it’s all wide-eyed innocence and joy, and you can just feel the love coming off of it. I saw it when I was ten, and it’s a drawing that I won’t forget.
Uncle Danny was schizophrenic, and he had a great sense of humor about it. If he was talking to somebody and you walked by, he would say, “Hey, is this person I’m talking to real?” and wink at you. I always liked to say “What person?” He had this one story that he loved to tell. He had come home from work, and sat down to watch the early evening news before dinner. In the middle of the broadcast, the newscaster was handed a piece of paper, and said, “This just in: Dan, get your shit together because they are coming to get you. You have about ten minutes before they come through the front door. Go out the cellar, because they have the back door covered. So, what’s the weather look like for tomorrow, Bill?” That’s when my uncle realized he missed a dosage while at work.
He was really short, about 5’6”. One time, while camping, he tried to hike up behind us kids to scare us. As he was ascending this hill covered in brush, he pulled on a dead tree branch to get himself up, and it broke off in his hand. Had he been two inches taller, his plan might have succeeded. Instead, he wound up rolling ass over teakettle all the way down the hill, through thorn and thistle.
My uncle was just 65; three years younger than my mum and two younger than my dad. I sit here and think about the fact that one of my best friends has lost his father, and my cousin has lost his father, and another cousin lost his mother. Of my mum’s kids, I am the only one who still has his dad.
Recently, a comics artist named Mike Wieringo passed away, very unexpectedly, at the age of 44. Ringo drew with a very animated style, during a point in comics where the goal was to be more accurate and more musclebound than the last guy. He was about clean lines and emotion. His Fantastic Four is, in my mind, the definitive look for those characters. He had created a truly beautiful universe with his longtime creative partner Todd Dezago in his books called “Tellos.” I highly recommend you read them. If you have kids, they will love the books, too.
Ringo always wanted to return to the world of Tellos, and kept putting it off for other jobs, so as to support his family and pay bills. We all do the “someday” speech. The truth that we don’t tell ourselves is simple and so hard to hear and believe: there is no “someday,” there is only today. So, today, call your mom or your dad, or both. Write the story and try to get it published. Do it, whatever it is. Every day is perfect, and every day is beautiful, come whatever may. Don't let a single one get away from you.
-Zeepdoggie
He could also do cartoony stuff, too. He had this really cute drawing of his kid playing outside; it’s all wide-eyed innocence and joy, and you can just feel the love coming off of it. I saw it when I was ten, and it’s a drawing that I won’t forget.
Uncle Danny was schizophrenic, and he had a great sense of humor about it. If he was talking to somebody and you walked by, he would say, “Hey, is this person I’m talking to real?” and wink at you. I always liked to say “What person?” He had this one story that he loved to tell. He had come home from work, and sat down to watch the early evening news before dinner. In the middle of the broadcast, the newscaster was handed a piece of paper, and said, “This just in: Dan, get your shit together because they are coming to get you. You have about ten minutes before they come through the front door. Go out the cellar, because they have the back door covered. So, what’s the weather look like for tomorrow, Bill?” That’s when my uncle realized he missed a dosage while at work.
He was really short, about 5’6”. One time, while camping, he tried to hike up behind us kids to scare us. As he was ascending this hill covered in brush, he pulled on a dead tree branch to get himself up, and it broke off in his hand. Had he been two inches taller, his plan might have succeeded. Instead, he wound up rolling ass over teakettle all the way down the hill, through thorn and thistle.
My uncle was just 65; three years younger than my mum and two younger than my dad. I sit here and think about the fact that one of my best friends has lost his father, and my cousin has lost his father, and another cousin lost his mother. Of my mum’s kids, I am the only one who still has his dad.
Recently, a comics artist named Mike Wieringo passed away, very unexpectedly, at the age of 44. Ringo drew with a very animated style, during a point in comics where the goal was to be more accurate and more musclebound than the last guy. He was about clean lines and emotion. His Fantastic Four is, in my mind, the definitive look for those characters. He had created a truly beautiful universe with his longtime creative partner Todd Dezago in his books called “Tellos.” I highly recommend you read them. If you have kids, they will love the books, too.
Ringo always wanted to return to the world of Tellos, and kept putting it off for other jobs, so as to support his family and pay bills. We all do the “someday” speech. The truth that we don’t tell ourselves is simple and so hard to hear and believe: there is no “someday,” there is only today. So, today, call your mom or your dad, or both. Write the story and try to get it published. Do it, whatever it is. Every day is perfect, and every day is beautiful, come whatever may. Don't let a single one get away from you.
-Zeepdoggie
21 August 2007
The Final Solution
By now, you have either had the opportunity to listen to my top ten, or you have completely ignored it. Either way, you’re finding out today what the best song I have ever heard is.
The criteria were diverse and strictly followed. The research was long, arduous, and many, many times, very tedious. But no expense is spared for a song that I will bear in my heart as my most favorite song, EVER.
The winner is here.
“Orion” is by far my favorite. It is a masterpiece, and symphonic in nature. It starts out with a growling intro, which gives us the measure and beat of the first movement, a good mid-tempo to get the blood up.
Soon the second movement, introduced with a rhythm break and staccato guitar, comes in thundering, with a fast stop-start riff, and a recapitulation of the first movement’s primary riff.
The third movement follows a trio (or is it scherzo? I could never tell them apart), with Cliff’s bass playing a soft melody, the guitars floating over it slowly with bluesy bends and one of Kirk’s most understated, controlled, and best performances (more on his solos later). The three-part harmonization between the two guitars and the bass on the same line is so tight and so smooth it is amazing that the producer was able to keep their voices distinct; had he not, we would have missed out on Cliff’s amazing bass lines that run under the guitar work in the third movement. It is in this song, and especially the third movement, that shows us how much of a genius the world lost when Cliff died in 1986.
It is fitting that it is Cliff’s incredible solo, so essential to the mood of the third movement and the best I have ever heard recorded for bass, that takes us to the bridge between the third and fourth movement: Kirk’s solo. Not enough can be said of Kirk’s performance during this piece, but this solo is everything that he is capable of. It is the signature solo of his career.
The song ends with its fourth movement being a recapitulation of the second movement’s riff, with a much faster drum performance by Lars, his fills coming frenetically, and just when you think he will be unable to get back on beat, he cracks his snare right on the four count.
This song is great for any and every event in my life, big or small. It fits any mood I may be in, either by enhancing it or changing it. It is the best song I have ever heard. If you have never heard it before, give it a listen; if you have, hear it again. It may surprise, but it does not disappoint.
So what’s yours?
-Zeepdoggie
The criteria were diverse and strictly followed. The research was long, arduous, and many, many times, very tedious. But no expense is spared for a song that I will bear in my heart as my most favorite song, EVER.
The winner is here.
“Orion” is by far my favorite. It is a masterpiece, and symphonic in nature. It starts out with a growling intro, which gives us the measure and beat of the first movement, a good mid-tempo to get the blood up.
Soon the second movement, introduced with a rhythm break and staccato guitar, comes in thundering, with a fast stop-start riff, and a recapitulation of the first movement’s primary riff.
The third movement follows a trio (or is it scherzo? I could never tell them apart), with Cliff’s bass playing a soft melody, the guitars floating over it slowly with bluesy bends and one of Kirk’s most understated, controlled, and best performances (more on his solos later). The three-part harmonization between the two guitars and the bass on the same line is so tight and so smooth it is amazing that the producer was able to keep their voices distinct; had he not, we would have missed out on Cliff’s amazing bass lines that run under the guitar work in the third movement. It is in this song, and especially the third movement, that shows us how much of a genius the world lost when Cliff died in 1986.
It is fitting that it is Cliff’s incredible solo, so essential to the mood of the third movement and the best I have ever heard recorded for bass, that takes us to the bridge between the third and fourth movement: Kirk’s solo. Not enough can be said of Kirk’s performance during this piece, but this solo is everything that he is capable of. It is the signature solo of his career.
The song ends with its fourth movement being a recapitulation of the second movement’s riff, with a much faster drum performance by Lars, his fills coming frenetically, and just when you think he will be unable to get back on beat, he cracks his snare right on the four count.
This song is great for any and every event in my life, big or small. It fits any mood I may be in, either by enhancing it or changing it. It is the best song I have ever heard. If you have never heard it before, give it a listen; if you have, hear it again. It may surprise, but it does not disappoint.
So what’s yours?
-Zeepdoggie
12 August 2007
Now Who's Wrong?
Geneva Convention relative to the Protection of Civilian Persons in Time of War
Adopted on 12 August 1949 by the Diplomatic Conference for the Establishment of
International Conventions for the Protection of Victims of War, held in Geneva
from 21 April to 12 August, 1949
entry into force 21 October 1950
PART II
GENERAL PROTECTION OF POPULATIONS
AGAINST CERTAIN CONSEQUENCES OF WAR
Adopted on 12 August 1949 by the Diplomatic Conference for the Establishment of
International Conventions for the Protection of Victims of War, held in Geneva
from 21 April to 12 August, 1949
entry into force 21 October 1950
PART II
GENERAL PROTECTION OF POPULATIONS
AGAINST CERTAIN CONSEQUENCES OF WAR
Article 16
The wounded and sick, as well as the infirm, and expectant mothers, shall be the object of particular protection and respect.
As far as military considerations allow, each Party to the conflict shall facilitate the steps taken to search for the killed and wounded, to assist the shipwrecked and other persons exposed to grave danger, and to protect them against pillage and ill-treatment.
Article 18
Civilian hospitals organized to give care to the wounded and sick, the infirm and maternity cases, may in no circumstances be the object of attack, but shall at all times be respected and protected by the Parties to the conflict.
Article 19
The protection to which civilian hospitals are entitled shall not cease unless they are used to commit, outside their humanitarian duties, acts harmful to the enemy. Protection may, however, cease only after due warning has been given, naming, in all appropriate cases, a reasonable time limit, and after such warning has remained unheeded.
The fact that sick or wounded members of the armed forces are nursed in these hospitals, or the presence of small arms and ammunition taken from such combatants which have not yet been handed to the proper service, shall not be considered to be acts harmful to the enemy.
Article 21
Convoys of vehicles or hospital trains on land or specially provided vessels on sea, conveying wounded and sick civilians, the infirm and maternity cases, shall be respected and protected in the same manner as the hospitals provided for in Article 18, and shall be marked, with the consent of the State, by the display of the distinctive emblem provided for in Article 38 of the Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armed Forces in the Field of August 12, 1949.
This is not what anyone would call a "political" blog. This is for the co-worker who argued with me about how the US continues to violate laws that it helped draft and has enforced with violence in the past.
Fuck you. What is your excuse for being wrong this time?
-Zeepdoggie
11 August 2007
Seven Hundred Fifty-Six asterix
I watched some of Barry Bond’s press conference last night (I know I’m late, but, in my defense, I cannot stand baseball), and I could only think of two things:
Bud Selig, your douchebaggery has reached a new low. The man broke the home run record (or, if you believe all the allegations about steroid use, a half-man, half-horse hybrid) and you are the commissioner, and you were NOT in attendance? He was one away, you fucking tool; it’s not like he went on a seventeen-dinger streak that night. Selig continues to prove that the only thing he likes about baseball is the fan’s money. Regardless of what you think about Bonds, as the commissioner you should respect the sport and its history.
The second thing was, “Look a’ tha’ heed. It’s like Sputnik!”
Do you think Barry cried himself to sleep on his huuuge pilla that night?
-Zeepdoggie
Bud Selig, your douchebaggery has reached a new low. The man broke the home run record (or, if you believe all the allegations about steroid use, a half-man, half-horse hybrid) and you are the commissioner, and you were NOT in attendance? He was one away, you fucking tool; it’s not like he went on a seventeen-dinger streak that night. Selig continues to prove that the only thing he likes about baseball is the fan’s money. Regardless of what you think about Bonds, as the commissioner you should respect the sport and its history.
The second thing was, “Look a’ tha’ heed. It’s like Sputnik!”
Do you think Barry cried himself to sleep on his huuuge pilla that night?
-Zeepdoggie
10 August 2007
Bah-dum-dum-ching!
You know what people really can't drive?
Quadruple amputees.
True story.
::The GringO::
Quadruple amputees.
True story.
::The GringO::
09 August 2007
A Request from Management
To my dear readers,
You know that I love and appreciate you all. One thing you may not know is that I really enjoy reading the comments. It's the best part of the blogging thingy. I work on crafting an entry, and you tell me how it soared or sank. I love that bit.
But I would like to ask that, should you post, please put a name in there. It doesn't have to be your real name. It's not like my parents actually named me Zeepdoggie; and while The GringO is pale enough to warrant the title, it is an honorific only.
I don't like anonymous posts; they are hard to respond to, since I don't know how to address you. At least with some callsign I can easily refer to you in a response.
I ask, please, no anonymous posts. Since they are moderated, anonymous posts will not be allowed unless: I can tell who you are by what you say; it is too good of a comment to let die on the Interweb.
Peace and chicken grease,
-Zeepdoggie
You know that I love and appreciate you all. One thing you may not know is that I really enjoy reading the comments. It's the best part of the blogging thingy. I work on crafting an entry, and you tell me how it soared or sank. I love that bit.
But I would like to ask that, should you post, please put a name in there. It doesn't have to be your real name. It's not like my parents actually named me Zeepdoggie; and while The GringO is pale enough to warrant the title, it is an honorific only.
I don't like anonymous posts; they are hard to respond to, since I don't know how to address you. At least with some callsign I can easily refer to you in a response.
I ask, please, no anonymous posts. Since they are moderated, anonymous posts will not be allowed unless: I can tell who you are by what you say; it is too good of a comment to let die on the Interweb.
Peace and chicken grease,
-Zeepdoggie
08 August 2007
The Penultimate Entry
With everything that's been going on (school, family stuff, money concerns, porn getting boring), you would think that I forgot about The Project, where I try to determine what the best song I ever heard is. While it is true that I have been quite busy, I have been sticking to The Project with a devotion that holy men should have to their parishioners, or politicians to democracy.
So I have, at last, figured out what is the best song I have ever heard. My favorite song of my life, up to this point, and most likely for the rest of it.
In the beginning, I figured it would be an instrumental of some sort. Lyrics tend to steer you towards a feeling or thought, and I wanted a song that was everything to me: happy, sad, energetic, angry, contemplative. It would have to be a song that I could listen to after I got a new job; after the first kiss from a new woman in my life; and, of course, it would have to work after I was fired from that job and the bitch left me.
That puts Mozart out of the running right there. His genius is in the creation of mood; if Wolfie wanted you to cry, you'd cry; he could make you laugh, hate, grow tense, even fall in love, in his compositions. While his power is great, it doesn't serve the need I have.
So, that left about one hundred twenty instrumental compositions to go through. Not easy.
I do want to point out one anomaly: "Lateralus" by Tool. It is, far and away, my favorite Tool song, and the best song with lyrics that I have heard. It soothes me when I am troubled, and energizes me when I am tired. When first dating M, I listened to it constantly, as if Maynard was telling me what to do in order for this thing to work out. It did, for a time. It works in just about every situation that I have listened to it, and it certainly lives up to the top criterion of being all things to me.
But it has lyrics. It is the honorable mention in the group, and worthy of great praise. Check it out, if you haven't. If you're a math geek, you'll love the hidden Fibonacci sequences in the song.
Back to task. I got it down to ten, and here they are:
I am a worse tease than Cara Tomkins. "Tell me I'm pretty! Oooh, you're hard! I am so excited! Oh, you've touched my boobies...now I go home."
Some wounds never heal...
-Zeepdoggie
So I have, at last, figured out what is the best song I have ever heard. My favorite song of my life, up to this point, and most likely for the rest of it.
In the beginning, I figured it would be an instrumental of some sort. Lyrics tend to steer you towards a feeling or thought, and I wanted a song that was everything to me: happy, sad, energetic, angry, contemplative. It would have to be a song that I could listen to after I got a new job; after the first kiss from a new woman in my life; and, of course, it would have to work after I was fired from that job and the bitch left me.
That puts Mozart out of the running right there. His genius is in the creation of mood; if Wolfie wanted you to cry, you'd cry; he could make you laugh, hate, grow tense, even fall in love, in his compositions. While his power is great, it doesn't serve the need I have.
So, that left about one hundred twenty instrumental compositions to go through. Not easy.
I do want to point out one anomaly: "Lateralus" by Tool. It is, far and away, my favorite Tool song, and the best song with lyrics that I have heard. It soothes me when I am troubled, and energizes me when I am tired. When first dating M, I listened to it constantly, as if Maynard was telling me what to do in order for this thing to work out. It did, for a time. It works in just about every situation that I have listened to it, and it certainly lives up to the top criterion of being all things to me.
But it has lyrics. It is the honorable mention in the group, and worthy of great praise. Check it out, if you haven't. If you're a math geek, you'll love the hidden Fibonacci sequences in the song.
Back to task. I got it down to ten, and here they are:
- Symph. no. 7 im Emaj, 2nd Movement - Hans Bruckner (he made cathedrals of sound, and this is the best example)
- Midnight - Jimi Hendrix (it may have been mostly improvised, but without Jimi, every guitar solo that i love wouldn't exist)
- Miami Vice Theme - Jan Hammer (sure, you laugh, but you know it's a JAM, baby!)
- Orion - Metallica (the song that proves that Metallica once had talent and can compose, not write, a truly epic piece)
- Lemminkainen's Return Op. 22 No. 4 - Jean Sibelius (this was the composer whose music led to the founding of a nation; no one else in music can make that claim)
- Treadstone Assassins - John Powell (music score is the real child of "classical" music; it must evoke a mood, complement the images being seen, stand on its own without being distracting, and do this in less than three minutes: and i love it when a composer marries more than one genre, here it's groove rock, great string composition, and a thumpin' bass beat)
- Medulla Oblongata - The Dust Brothers (another soundtrack entry, and a great one: first, it's the only album with The Dust Brothers on their own; it's for my favorite movie of all time; and it just fucking grooves, man! that bass line! those bells!)
- Suite for Solo Cello No. 1 in G, BWV 1007: I. Prélude - Yo-Yo Ma (the most recognized cellist ever playing a challenging piece so flawlessly you forget you're listening to anything, the whole world swims and you're in it, totally; it's like beauty singing)
- Battle Without Honor or Humanity - Tomoyasu Hotei (what a groove this is; nothing more to say)
- Amazing Grace - Massed Pipes and Drums of Caledonia (every time i hear this song, i weep; it's the sound of hope in the face of defeat; it's a mother's cry whose son has gone to peace for following his dream; it is perseverance and holiness and strength; it is Scotland)
I am a worse tease than Cara Tomkins. "Tell me I'm pretty! Oooh, you're hard! I am so excited! Oh, you've touched my boobies...now I go home."
Some wounds never heal...
-Zeepdoggie
07 August 2007
In Seven Days...
I lost my job, which was created for me, at the library. My DSL went down. My relationship ended, in case you couldn't tell by the comment. My uncle went into a coma. My DSL was fixed. COLLEGE is claiming that I owe them money, even though they owe me money. I went for a bike ride in the deserted streets of downtown Chicago, and watched the sunrise in a new favorite spot. I got a new job. My uncle died.
I think I have a right to be a little negative.
Thanks to the anonymous poster who said my blog is "interesting." On the behalf of The GringO, I will take that as a compliment. Next time, let us know who you are, so we can say, "Thanks for kudos, ______!" Then you'd be on the web, which is just like being famous, except without the recognition or money.
-zeepdoggie
I think I have a right to be a little negative.
Thanks to the anonymous poster who said my blog is "interesting." On the behalf of The GringO, I will take that as a compliment. Next time, let us know who you are, so we can say, "Thanks for kudos, ______!" Then you'd be on the web, which is just like being famous, except without the recognition or money.
-zeepdoggie
31 July 2007
Down to One
I lost the job with the library. I can understand that my availability isn’t enough; I am only available three days a week. There was a possible compromise, and it had been discussed previously (“discussed” being defined as “you said it, but we decided your ideas are poo-poo pants before you walked in here”), but they would rather not continue with me in the library. There is a “new direction” the temporary directors want to take the program, and it is not compatible with how I think the program should go. They want to “challenge the children” with tasks and activities, “to better serve the needs of the children.”
Interesting, since these two weren’t ever even in the room with the children, have never spoken to them, or even generated a survey to find out what they need. These are the people who disliked the idea of my calling the children “my kids.” I guess being enthusiastic and proud of my job weren’t in their definition of a good coordinator.
Without observing the program, without talking to the kids, without any experience whatsoever concerning the program, they have decided that it isn’t good enough. So, what I gather from this is that W. and his current administration will have a future in the library arts and sciences, should they escape prison charges.
Fuck, now I have to update the bio information.
The job in Hell is my only employment. How I am keeping a noose from around my neck is beyond me.
-Zeepdoggie
Interesting, since these two weren’t ever even in the room with the children, have never spoken to them, or even generated a survey to find out what they need. These are the people who disliked the idea of my calling the children “my kids.” I guess being enthusiastic and proud of my job weren’t in their definition of a good coordinator.
Without observing the program, without talking to the kids, without any experience whatsoever concerning the program, they have decided that it isn’t good enough. So, what I gather from this is that W. and his current administration will have a future in the library arts and sciences, should they escape prison charges.
Fuck, now I have to update the bio information.
The job in Hell is my only employment. How I am keeping a noose from around my neck is beyond me.
-Zeepdoggie
25 July 2007
An Addendum
An addendum to the previous blog: someone asked me if anyone at the library had access to my blog, and I said that one or two people might know about it. It was pointed out that this might hurt my chances of getting my job back. My response was thus:
Fuck it.
I don’t write this blog for a job, or to satisfy other people. It is done, solely, to satisfy me. I am not going to censor what I write in case it may upset someone who reads it. I write it to get stuff out of me that is better off not spinning around in my head, but exposed in some way. I can’t afford the therapy that someone said I needed; but I can afford this. Better out than in, as Shrek said.
This blog is my practice pad, my counselor’s couch, my stage and my shield. It is my connection to my friends and a way to let those who want to know what is up. But it is mine, and if it bugs you, then there’s more than just a passing reason for it.
I stand behind, before, and beside anything I have ever written here, because it had a validity and truth to it when I wrote it. May my feelings change? Of course they might. But that doesn’t invalidate them. Think on what Emerson said about consistency of thought:
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” (read the rest after for some really good stuff; and what is before it isn’t so bad, either.)
If this blog costs me a job, then it was a job I was bitching about, and therefore losing it might be seen as a blessing. The library thing was satisfying. But if the program is going to change into something that serves the library more than it serves my kids, then they can go to hell.
-Zeepdoggie
Fuck it.
I don’t write this blog for a job, or to satisfy other people. It is done, solely, to satisfy me. I am not going to censor what I write in case it may upset someone who reads it. I write it to get stuff out of me that is better off not spinning around in my head, but exposed in some way. I can’t afford the therapy that someone said I needed; but I can afford this. Better out than in, as Shrek said.
This blog is my practice pad, my counselor’s couch, my stage and my shield. It is my connection to my friends and a way to let those who want to know what is up. But it is mine, and if it bugs you, then there’s more than just a passing reason for it.
I stand behind, before, and beside anything I have ever written here, because it had a validity and truth to it when I wrote it. May my feelings change? Of course they might. But that doesn’t invalidate them. Think on what Emerson said about consistency of thought:
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” (read the rest after for some really good stuff; and what is before it isn’t so bad, either.)
If this blog costs me a job, then it was a job I was bitching about, and therefore losing it might be seen as a blessing. The library thing was satisfying. But if the program is going to change into something that serves the library more than it serves my kids, then they can go to hell.
-Zeepdoggie
24 July 2007
I'm Working Something Out
Fuck the library. Fuck the new boss. Fuck the old boss for being so cool and setting me up for disappointment. Fuck passive aggression and cowardice; just tell me if I have a job or not. Fuck the first job I had a positive emotional attachment to. Fuck working with women. Fuck working for women. Fuck my former co-workers. Better yet, don't. May the men avoid them as though their twats had teeth. Fuck them for wanting to fuck over MY kids. Fuck the people who think lying to kids is better than being honest with them. Fuck them for not listening to kids. Fuck that community, overripe with stagnation; a perfect example of a cold death universe; frozen in social entropy; the town that time forgot. Fuck my kids for being so great that I will miss them every day I am not working with them.
Fuck you if you think I am talking about you; if you think that, ask yourself why.
Fuck me for thinking that it would be all right. Fuck me for caring about my job. Fuck me for believing that those working there would want to do better by the kids. Fuck the pride I felt helping my kids with homework, with video games, with whatever I could help them with. Fuck me for remembering their birthdays when their parents forgot. Fuck me for trying to make a difference; fuck me for succeeding.
Fuck hope.
-Fuck Zeepdoggie
Fuck you if you think I am talking about you; if you think that, ask yourself why.
Fuck me for thinking that it would be all right. Fuck me for caring about my job. Fuck me for believing that those working there would want to do better by the kids. Fuck the pride I felt helping my kids with homework, with video games, with whatever I could help them with. Fuck me for remembering their birthdays when their parents forgot. Fuck me for trying to make a difference; fuck me for succeeding.
Fuck hope.
-Fuck Zeepdoggie
12 July 2007
Random Musings from Hell
On Sunday, during the floorset, I suffered what I think is a unique injury. While doing a rather complicated push-up involving an escalator and a steel bar, I do believe I strained my taint.
People ask me for directions all the time; sometimes I feel like being helpful, and sometimes I don't. When someone walks in to ask me for directions to the store kitty-corner to us, which is also a competitor, I cannot help but fuck with them. "Excuse me, but how do I get to (your competition)?"
"Oh, well, you head west down this street, and then, when you reach the next intersection, make a left. Head down the next two intersections, and make a left there, but stay on the same side of the street! Next, walk two blocks toward the Lake, and at that light, make a left. Then walk two blocks with the Lake on your right-hand side (that's east!), and make a left on the next corner. It should be at the end of that block, on the corner!"
"Thanks!"
"Do you need me to write that down for you?"
"No, I think I can remember it."
"Okay. Have a great day. I know I will!" Especially when I look across the street fifteen minutes later and see the dawn of realization on their faces.
Here's a tip, shopper. If you want directions to a store's competitor, don't just ask an employee of the store. Sure, I hate my job and a good portion of the products suck, but I take pride in what I do, and I am not alone. If you just come in asking me for directions, don't expect me, or any other retail person who gets paid by what they can sell, to be helpful. It would be like me asking you for the address of the person your significant other would rather be fucking. Now, if you come in, browse, ask for help and we just don't have what you are looking for, then I am generally happy to tell you where to go, with proper directions and everything. I can be a nice guy, but give me a reason to go against my common nature first.
I love how the whole operation just goes to shit when there's someone to impress around. Normally, we are a successful store, but when someone higher up the food chain shows up, the entire management team just loses all confidence in their and our ability to do what we do every day. Me, I ignore it. This muckity-muck is so much less important than an admiral, and I have cut wise to two of those without being busted back in rank, or even significantly yelled at. I just do what I always do; ignore the management, help the customers who look like they might actually buy something, and do the co-worker-harassment thing. Whenever I'm going to be working with people who are my boss, I always think the same thing: We all jerk off, and we all make stupid faces when we come. Seriously, next time you crank one out, just go and check yourself out in the mirror. Or film yourself, if the equipment is just laying around. You'll laugh for a week.
-Zeepdoggie
People ask me for directions all the time; sometimes I feel like being helpful, and sometimes I don't. When someone walks in to ask me for directions to the store kitty-corner to us, which is also a competitor, I cannot help but fuck with them. "Excuse me, but how do I get to (your competition)?"
"Oh, well, you head west down this street, and then, when you reach the next intersection, make a left. Head down the next two intersections, and make a left there, but stay on the same side of the street! Next, walk two blocks toward the Lake, and at that light, make a left. Then walk two blocks with the Lake on your right-hand side (that's east!), and make a left on the next corner. It should be at the end of that block, on the corner!"
"Thanks!"
"Do you need me to write that down for you?"
"No, I think I can remember it."
"Okay. Have a great day. I know I will!" Especially when I look across the street fifteen minutes later and see the dawn of realization on their faces.
Here's a tip, shopper. If you want directions to a store's competitor, don't just ask an employee of the store. Sure, I hate my job and a good portion of the products suck, but I take pride in what I do, and I am not alone. If you just come in asking me for directions, don't expect me, or any other retail person who gets paid by what they can sell, to be helpful. It would be like me asking you for the address of the person your significant other would rather be fucking. Now, if you come in, browse, ask for help and we just don't have what you are looking for, then I am generally happy to tell you where to go, with proper directions and everything. I can be a nice guy, but give me a reason to go against my common nature first.
I love how the whole operation just goes to shit when there's someone to impress around. Normally, we are a successful store, but when someone higher up the food chain shows up, the entire management team just loses all confidence in their and our ability to do what we do every day. Me, I ignore it. This muckity-muck is so much less important than an admiral, and I have cut wise to two of those without being busted back in rank, or even significantly yelled at. I just do what I always do; ignore the management, help the customers who look like they might actually buy something, and do the co-worker-harassment thing. Whenever I'm going to be working with people who are my boss, I always think the same thing: We all jerk off, and we all make stupid faces when we come. Seriously, next time you crank one out, just go and check yourself out in the mirror. Or film yourself, if the equipment is just laying around. You'll laugh for a week.
-Zeepdoggie
11 July 2007
A Possible Beginning
“This isn’t over; don’t think it is. It won’t end until I’m drinking from your heart.”
He sat before me as he said this, his long legs in front of him, hooked together at the ankles, the smooth black leather of his boots matching his poppy-black eyes.
The threat flowed from his mouth so incidentally that I didn’t even hear it. I’m a good listener, especially when I’m with someone I hate, but he was so relaxed, his demeanor flowed like oil from him. His arms were resting on the back of the bench, so I could see the emptiness of his short sleeves in that ugly, oversized brown bowling shirt. One button too many were undone, so I could see the border of tanned flesh and blue-veined chicken skin.
We had a history, long, dark and ugly, going back to Basic. But I figured, after last year, after what he took and who I killed, we were even. Or at least done.
It’s not like I’ve never been wrong before.
“So no truce?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he asks, and I get annoyed. It drove me nuts when someone would answer a question with a question. Be truthful, lie, be a smartass, whatever; just answer the fucking question!
“Did you hear me?” he asked, still just as casual as a Sunday out of church.
I hate it when it gets personal. It bodes poorly for business. And feelings get hurt, at the very least.
-Zeepdoggie
He sat before me as he said this, his long legs in front of him, hooked together at the ankles, the smooth black leather of his boots matching his poppy-black eyes.
The threat flowed from his mouth so incidentally that I didn’t even hear it. I’m a good listener, especially when I’m with someone I hate, but he was so relaxed, his demeanor flowed like oil from him. His arms were resting on the back of the bench, so I could see the emptiness of his short sleeves in that ugly, oversized brown bowling shirt. One button too many were undone, so I could see the border of tanned flesh and blue-veined chicken skin.
We had a history, long, dark and ugly, going back to Basic. But I figured, after last year, after what he took and who I killed, we were even. Or at least done.
It’s not like I’ve never been wrong before.
“So no truce?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he asks, and I get annoyed. It drove me nuts when someone would answer a question with a question. Be truthful, lie, be a smartass, whatever; just answer the fucking question!
“Did you hear me?” he asked, still just as casual as a Sunday out of church.
I hate it when it gets personal. It bodes poorly for business. And feelings get hurt, at the very least.
-Zeepdoggie
10 July 2007
I am so tired, I can't feel my teeth. I did a floor set at Hell, which was fun, but it has to be done when the store is closed. We worked from 1800-0300, and I didn't get home until 0430, and barely fell asleep at five. I haven't actually recovered yet; I played hooky, didn't go to class, and basically sat around, tuning some little things on Sylvie, researching a new bike for the winter, and fighting hard to not take a nap or fall asleep. Now, I am at the point where I am overtired. I keep missing the shift key, which makes me want to go at this all e. e. cummings style. no caps, just let the writing flow.
i've been trying to help someone buy a bike recently, and that's going like pulling teeth. maybe she doesn't really want a bike.
a lot of people i know have babies. i always wanted a big family, lots of sons, a few daughters. i haven't been with a woman who i would inflict my kid on in a long time. i don't think i could be a dad anyway; i am a 32 year old boy who only has examples of what not to do as a dad to go by.
this entry really sucks. i'll post it anyway, but it still blows. i hope you didn't get this far with the reading and all. i really hope you quit right after the teeth thing.
i just want to quit.
-zeepdoggie
i've been trying to help someone buy a bike recently, and that's going like pulling teeth. maybe she doesn't really want a bike.
a lot of people i know have babies. i always wanted a big family, lots of sons, a few daughters. i haven't been with a woman who i would inflict my kid on in a long time. i don't think i could be a dad anyway; i am a 32 year old boy who only has examples of what not to do as a dad to go by.
this entry really sucks. i'll post it anyway, but it still blows. i hope you didn't get this far with the reading and all. i really hope you quit right after the teeth thing.
i just want to quit.
-zeepdoggie
05 July 2007
What Train?
Asshole and I went to the 3rd of July fireworks, a long-standing tradition of ours that stretches back to when we were in high school, around the time that Marco Polo first brought gunpowder back to the western world. Sometimes, that’s how old I feel.
The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.
The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…
The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”
What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.
Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?
I love it when a blog gets away from me.
-Zeepdoggie
The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.
The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…
The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”
What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.
Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?
I love it when a blog gets away from me.
-Zeepdoggie
21 June 2007
A Line in the Sand
Hello, World! How are you? I bet you’re awfully sexy, even the ladies under the burkhas! Hey, I’m an American (that’s pronounced ‘Mur-kin,’ right, W?) and if the hot dog proves anything, it’s that we in this nation love mystery meat; if ever there was an equivalent in women’s fashion, it’s the burkha!
The burkha is what brings me here tonight, or rather the region of our tiny little orb that’s in the hands (mostly) of the folks who enforce the burkha on their women: the Middle East.
The more I read about what’s going on over there, the more I am convinced of two things: we should never have gone in and should get the hell out and never, ever, EVER look back; and that I think it’s about time that we stopped looking at what is happening as a Middle East crisis and just start thinking about it as Middle East culture.
Historically, this is the region that birthed ‘civilization,’ so it stands to reason that it is also the region that has had nearly ceaseless warfare and violence. Seriously, I don’t know how the Tigris and Euphrates aren’t just red with blood by this point. The periods of peace in this particular region of the globe are measured in decades, when its presence in history is measured in millennia. This does not suggest a good ratio of hugs to choke holds.
I am not smart enough to offer a solution, but I am lazy enough to suggest a cop-out. Let’s think of the Middle East like Sparta, or even better, Barter-Town. Yeah! You can have Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as Auntie Entity, and Ali Khameni as Master Blaster. “Who run Barter Town?” Would that make the kids Mad Max finds in the desert Israel? Wow, but there is a lot of allegory to be found in “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.”
Let's just leave, and figure out how to make fuel out of algae.
BTW, this is not the subject I had envisioned, and that I promptly forgot. That’s still lost in the incredibly dark, murky, sporadically active recesses of my memory. I just wanted to share this with you. Why? Cuz you, like me, believe furries to be EVIL.
-Zeepdoggie
The burkha is what brings me here tonight, or rather the region of our tiny little orb that’s in the hands (mostly) of the folks who enforce the burkha on their women: the Middle East.
The more I read about what’s going on over there, the more I am convinced of two things: we should never have gone in and should get the hell out and never, ever, EVER look back; and that I think it’s about time that we stopped looking at what is happening as a Middle East crisis and just start thinking about it as Middle East culture.
Historically, this is the region that birthed ‘civilization,’ so it stands to reason that it is also the region that has had nearly ceaseless warfare and violence. Seriously, I don’t know how the Tigris and Euphrates aren’t just red with blood by this point. The periods of peace in this particular region of the globe are measured in decades, when its presence in history is measured in millennia. This does not suggest a good ratio of hugs to choke holds.
I am not smart enough to offer a solution, but I am lazy enough to suggest a cop-out. Let’s think of the Middle East like Sparta, or even better, Barter-Town. Yeah! You can have Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as Auntie Entity, and Ali Khameni as Master Blaster. “Who run Barter Town?” Would that make the kids Mad Max finds in the desert Israel? Wow, but there is a lot of allegory to be found in “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.”
Let's just leave, and figure out how to make fuel out of algae.
BTW, this is not the subject I had envisioned, and that I promptly forgot. That’s still lost in the incredibly dark, murky, sporadically active recesses of my memory. I just wanted to share this with you. Why? Cuz you, like me, believe furries to be EVIL.
-Zeepdoggie
20 June 2007
What was that again?
I was going to blog about something, but I forgot what. I was on the train, and I thought of something, and I said to myself, “That is a great blog subject! I can really expand on that, go on and riff about that for a while!” I sat on the train, thinking of tangents, and the fun in exploring them.
But now, I sit here, and I have forgotten what the subject was. I can remember being excited about writing about it, but not what was worth all the excitement. That’s weird…
If I remember, I’ll write about it, I promise.
Sorry about the letdown. Maybe next time.
-Zeepdoggie
But now, I sit here, and I have forgotten what the subject was. I can remember being excited about writing about it, but not what was worth all the excitement. That’s weird…
If I remember, I’ll write about it, I promise.
Sorry about the letdown. Maybe next time.
-Zeepdoggie
07 June 2007
Where the hell am I?
Hello, everybody. It has been quite a while since I have posted, and I have several reasons for that. The first is that the last semester was awkward; I never found that nice, steady rhythm of work and learning that I fall into. So I was all manner of discombobulated and uncomfortable; writing about uncomfortable stuff is usually gold for me, but I can't write when I am not feeling any kind of flow.
Another reason I didn't write was because of something a lot more disturbing to me. Writing wasn't fun. It had lost its charm and energy that I usually associate with it. I don't think school had anything to do with it, since I wrote something creative for a class that was well received and I really liked a lot. But the act and art of writing just fell out of me, and I don't like that. The two stories I had been working on, one that had been in my head since I was fifteen and the other that I was working on with GringO, lost any joy in their respective creative processes, and as such I lost a lot of ground with them. It feels less like writer's block and more like "print is dead." Since writing creatively is my main source of stress relief, I am not happy about this. Any cures for ennui?
But I will be posting soon about my continuing search for the greatest song I have heard, and another post about my participation in Bike the Drive '07. If anybody has any suggestions as to topics or memes or anything, let me know. I could use the help.
Oh, and something I would like to share, overheard by me: "Let's '86 the pussy-spank, shall we?" Thinking about that one will cause an embolism.
Another reason I didn't write was because of something a lot more disturbing to me. Writing wasn't fun. It had lost its charm and energy that I usually associate with it. I don't think school had anything to do with it, since I wrote something creative for a class that was well received and I really liked a lot. But the act and art of writing just fell out of me, and I don't like that. The two stories I had been working on, one that had been in my head since I was fifteen and the other that I was working on with GringO, lost any joy in their respective creative processes, and as such I lost a lot of ground with them. It feels less like writer's block and more like "print is dead." Since writing creatively is my main source of stress relief, I am not happy about this. Any cures for ennui?
But I will be posting soon about my continuing search for the greatest song I have heard, and another post about my participation in Bike the Drive '07. If anybody has any suggestions as to topics or memes or anything, let me know. I could use the help.
Oh, and something I would like to share, overheard by me: "Let's '86 the pussy-spank, shall we?" Thinking about that one will cause an embolism.
19 March 2007
Job Desciption
The other week one of the managers of Hell was walking around asking employees what they were going to do to help the store that day. I suppose discussing the various stages of drying paint or whatever it is the managers talk about all day had run its course. My answer was honest, which is never a good thing at work:
"I'm going to focus on ringing."
She looked at me like I had just smeared shit on her chest or something. Suffice it to say, she didn't seem too satisfied with my answer. After reviewing her clipboard (she literally had one, Zeepdoggie) I noticed other associates saying the programmed responses of adding clothes or credit and such.
Nestled in that list of bullshit my answer looked like it came from a mentally subnormal rat. The manager (she of the head that whistles as she walks due to absence of matter between the ears) implied that my answer was not satisfactory.
I internally turned the red switch to MOTHER FUCKING ENRAGED.
"What am I going to do to help the company?! I'll do my fucking job you useless bag of overly tanned skin! I mean to say, what is my job description? I'm a ringer. What do ringers do? They fucking ring. What kind of fucking idiotic quiz were you giving out, you with the intellect of a shriveled monkey testicle? I get paid to perform a specific task within the boundaries set by a guidebook, and perform that task excellently; so don't judge me as being lazy or stupid just because I couldn't care less about this job as it isn't my career. Loosen the pigtails because they are obviously too tight and cutting off circulation to the dried and blackened husk of a gerbil on a rusted wheel that is your brain!"
Instead I did what I said I would do, I rang. I really have not point other than it feels good to feel the rage sometimes. Its like a shot of good coffee. Mmm...good.
::GringO::
"I'm going to focus on ringing."
She looked at me like I had just smeared shit on her chest or something. Suffice it to say, she didn't seem too satisfied with my answer. After reviewing her clipboard (she literally had one, Zeepdoggie) I noticed other associates saying the programmed responses of adding clothes or credit and such.
Nestled in that list of bullshit my answer looked like it came from a mentally subnormal rat. The manager (she of the head that whistles as she walks due to absence of matter between the ears) implied that my answer was not satisfactory.
I internally turned the red switch to MOTHER FUCKING ENRAGED.
"What am I going to do to help the company?! I'll do my fucking job you useless bag of overly tanned skin! I mean to say, what is my job description? I'm a ringer. What do ringers do? They fucking ring. What kind of fucking idiotic quiz were you giving out, you with the intellect of a shriveled monkey testicle? I get paid to perform a specific task within the boundaries set by a guidebook, and perform that task excellently; so don't judge me as being lazy or stupid just because I couldn't care less about this job as it isn't my career. Loosen the pigtails because they are obviously too tight and cutting off circulation to the dried and blackened husk of a gerbil on a rusted wheel that is your brain!"
Instead I did what I said I would do, I rang. I really have not point other than it feels good to feel the rage sometimes. Its like a shot of good coffee. Mmm...good.
::GringO::
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