Archive for November, 2010


it’s noon somewhere

Hi team,

I sincerely hope that this quarterly interoffice memo will be better received than my last one, which nearly caused rioting despite its breast cancer awareness theme. Perhaps distributing pink papers to everyone in the office was not the best idea, but my heart was in the right place. I’m pleased to announce that our custodial staff is very close to cleaning the last traces of the six-inch-tall letters saying “Fuck Old Man Johnson And His Gross Old Jowls” from the reception area, and that we are officially closing the investigation to find who wrote the message. That being said, I’d like to clear the air about a few things. For starters, I don’t care for being referred to as “Old Man Johnson”, as it carries a false connotation that I am some ivory-tower executive that is not in touch with the needs of my employees. And while it may be true that I routinely test my staff members’ loyalty by throwing litter on the ground, then giving them cash to pick it up, in increasing increments of brashness until eventually I am just callously tossing them a c-note to permit me to use the bathroom on them, I want you all to know that at MantiCorp, our greatest asset is our people. To show my appreciation for your efforts, there will be P’Zones in the break room from 11am to 11:15 am on casual Friday. Please make good use of your time, however, because at 11:16 the P’Zones will be fed to the endangered Kimodo Island Monitor Lizards I keep as pets. Well, I’m glad I got all that off my chest. Time for my afternoon nap, where I will sleep on a mattress made of condor feathers and never have to choose between Nancy Grace and Paula Deen, because in my dreams I can have them both.


cuttin blow wit cake mix

I dunno, I guess I always thought I’d kill myself for a better reason than the shame of spilling ranch dressing on my keyboard at work, but here I am in the Afterlife watching from above as my girlfriend bangs yet another pizza delivery guy. Fact is, I had been contemplating suicide for years, but just couldn’t quite work up the nerve necessary to go through with any but the most passive plans to end my life, like driving around with no seatbelt while smoking cloves and eating bacon and egg croissandwiches. A while back, I began an illicit affair with my neighbor Gladys in hopes that her biker boyfriend would someday catch us and murder me, but it turns out he had been listening to us in the next room the whole time. It’s just as well that Steve the Cobra’s cuckolding fetish thwarted my plans, though, as my weekly trysts with Gladys had briefly given me a reason to live.

It didn’t last, obviously, since here I am welcoming you to the Afterlife (they get super pissed when you call it Heaven, by the way). It can be a little overwhelming at first, but once you get acclimated, you’ll really like it here. If you’re like I was, you’re probably stressing out about Judgment Day, but trust me, it’s no big deal, at least mine wasn’t. They put me through a battery of aptitude tests and determined that my only talent was the ability to flawlessly mimic the handwriting of Liberace. On earth, I wrung considerable spoils out of that skill, including fame, women and riches, but in the Afterlife, it only got me a clerical job that I don’t appear likely to be promoted out of anytime soon. Turns out, I’m the best collator in our division, so they can’t afford to lose me to middle management.

I’ve only been here five years, so I’m still learning the ropes. The good news is that the new-guy hazing is finally starting to abate. What with the tens of thousands of new people arriving every day, I would have thought that they would have quickly moved on to razzing someone else, but no. I’m not sure how much of it has to do with people having a totally different scale of time once they have eternity to fill, versus just being acquainted with people who really like turning off the hot water while you’re showering.


everyone doesn’t fit perfectly between two slices of bread

Few of Life’s Little Joys rival that of brushing one’s teeth while high. Leave aside the obvious fact that toothpaste, like other things, never tastes better than it does under the influence. The sensation of the toothbrush’s bristles going over your teeth and gums and between the crevices is a really pleasurable one, and one that often goes sadly unappreciated by sober persons. Plus you get that gross weed taste out of your mouth. Once you’ve brushed your teeth, of course, you’re ready to go out and mingle among the world’s more productive citizenry to observe them, and with your chemically enhanced wisdom, silently judge them for not being as in touch with the complex machinery, the intricate ballet, of the world as you’re seeing it right now.

Sunday morning brunch with friends seems the optimal setting for the people-watching that presents itself naturally to today’s discriminating pot smoker, and the break from various stressors is welcome. It’s November, and I’m already feeling that creep of dread again, occurring dully like a toothache that I only notice intermittently. My hatred of the holidays probably falls outside the scope of what can be explained away as normal seasonal depression, but today it’s offset by interaction with loved ones to whom we are bound by mutual consent, by choice, not by biologically preordained obligation.

We’ve having such a great time that I’m not even really bothered by the fact that our kids are making a tremendous mess. When you don’t go out much, you can afford to leave a 30% tip to make up for any soggy straw wrappers or crunched-up-and-thrown sweetener packets I’ve overlooked as I stuff the meal’s litter into my jeans pocket. It’s the kind of day that we’ll look back on years from now as a reminder of how great our early thirties were, when our kids were young. Increasingly it seems to me lately that unless you’re very lucky, your body will spend the first few decades of life determining the most frustrating- the most psychologically undermining- way to fail you, and then run headlong in that direction. That hasn’t happened to any of us yet, and I’m uncharacteristically appreciative of that today, while aware that it won’t always be this great.

Before the bill comes, I take a quick trip to the restroom, where someone has scratched the words “will travel” onto the mirror. The words are also reflected a quarter-inch behind in the glass, and from the angle I am standing at the urinal, the graphic interplay of the two identical sets of letters creates its own interesting architecture. Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” is playing over the intercom in here, and I stand there a few extra seconds with my pants unzipped until Eddie Van Halen’s guitar solo is over, appreciating yet another of the day’s little details that I wouldn’t ordinarily notice. On my way back to our table, I check my phone to see three missed calls from family members in a five-minute span. Quickly the day’s dreamy haze dissipates.


hoodie you repeat that?

Do you like cinnamon toast, but hate the long hours of prep and cleanup work? So many marriages in this country have been crushed under the weight of the myriad obligations to our national addiction to cinnamon toast that it almost seems like the sweet taste of cinnamon toast might not even be worth it anymore, but there’s finally a solution! Come see the medical professionals at Southeast BodyCare Associates and get a free consultation to see if laser eyes are right for you! Just think, by this time tomorrow, you could be enjoying all the many benefits of having eyes that shoot lasers out of them. Aside from the forementioned quick and easy cinnamon toast, there’s also such copy points as: revenge on your enemies, easy escape from elaborate death traps set by supervillains, and the ability to literally undress prospective sex partners with your eyes!

I’m Dr. Manfred Sausalito, and I’ve been inventing shit like this for decades. After the humiliating failure of my marijuana-scented car air freshener, which, had it been popular enough, would have made it impossible for police to know whether or not to search your vehicle since every car on the road would smell like weed, I holed up for three years in my laboratory to perfect the technology that made laser eyes possible. Initially, I designed a weapon that used powerful concentrated microwaves to not only kill, but simultaneously cook wild game in the field. Unfortunately, the enormous distance required to safely operate the weapon made it impossible to use accurately, so I spent another three years adapting the design to be implanted into human eyes. My dedication to my work left me with little time for personal hygiene, so don’t let my super long beard, tattered clothes and body odor so strong it can be seen with an infrared camera give you the impression that I am just some crazy vagrant that wants to harvest your eyes with an exacto knife for sale on the lucrative black market for corneas.

November 2010