Monthly Archives: November 2005

The Warmth of the Sun

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It all seemed to be going so well. Listening to Ian Dury and the Blockheads, ‘Do It Yourself’. That record, now CD, always makes me feel good. What a crackerjack band those Blockheads, and what lyrics and vocals from the late Mr. Dury. ‘Through channels that were once canals, do lift the heart of my morale, to know, that we, are pals’. Never had a chance to see them, they only played the states once and it didn’t go well.

So I floated to work, listening to Do It Yourself, and I was feeling pretty good. It’s true, hell is other people. Once my coworkers started arriving, the day started going downhill. Being it was the day before the day before Thanksgiving, pies were ordered. Not just any pies, and not any pies in the immediate vicinity. No, these pies were across town.

They ordered about a dozen pies. Apple Sour Cream, Pumpkin, and Carrot Cake Apple sauce. Jamie the office manager and I had a town car to take us to the pie company, so the cost of 12 pies was about 500.00.

The president of the company paid for them. This is the same guy I spoke to about my issues at work. This is the same guy that has done nothing. And the issues and the situation have gotten worse.

I did hear from Jamie, that Bleedin’ Hope and her bleedin brain moved to San Francisco, which really confirms my suspicions that she lied about everything. I mean, if your brain was bleeding, do you think it would be a good idea to pull up your roots, forget the doctors, and move to the other side of the country?

No one bats an eye. Now the 34th floor water buffalo known as Wombus with the kidney problems has been whispering in the ear of her supervisor, Joe Hemosaxual. Faggot douche bag supreme. I’m sure that’s how he graduated from the business school. Such a fucking priss. He has no clue what’s going on, only what fat ass tells him. Fat ass comes in late, waddles around the office, annoying people with her Staten Island drone, and leaves early. She dresses like she’s going to play bingo in a trailer park. Sometimes she does nothing all day, stays late, gets a free dinner and a car service home to Staten Island.
He fired off an email stating that put upon Brenda isn’t a team player since she doesn’t really communicate with the other admin assistants. But doesn’t the Persian bitch fall into that category? She doesn’t speak to me, is she a team player? I mean I can picture her doing the team in the locker room in some triple X rated porn flick, but a team player?
No not at all.

She seems to have won over various people in the company. Men who are easily swayed by tight pants and four inch heels. I guess these neck bones never had the opportunity to be driving past the Javits Center late at night and seeing her doppelgangers outside turning tricks in rabbit fur coats.

And most of them are Transgendered who look way better, even with a five o’clock shadow. The only proper name for her is anatomical slang for vagina.
I desperately need to be out of there. Not her vagina, I wouldn’t be anywhere near that thing, but rather, out of Wanker Banker. It’s too bad. At one point it was a pretty good place to work. Now, I’m a relic, a dinosaur from another time. Maybe I should leave some dung behind so they could dig it up long after I’m gone.

Sink My Boats

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It was a pretty good weekend. Hanging with Rand and Julio on Friday, Connie and Jennifer on Saturday and Bill on Sunday. Everything went well. Nothing planned. The good feeling carried over to today. A lot of people out today, perhaps all week. That was great.

The encounter with Bill was definitely not planned though I did try to instigate something on Saturday afternoon. He’s phobic about having sex before driving a bus, he feels he will kill himself and the passengers if he did. So perhaps I saved close to 60 lives. Yeah right.

I told him that we have a lot going for us, and sex is just sex. I’ve had it, hoped I wouldn’t look for it again, but it seems I might have to. It’s a lot like keys. You have your keys, but somewhere down the line you will misplace them. If you find them, great. But sometimes there is a good chance that you might need a new key or even a whole new lock.

And maybe the locksmith is a hot guy, like the cross between George Clooney and Colin Farrell. Or just resembles one of the two, I’m not picky. And he’s horny and hot….

I wake up in a cold sweat and stumble to the refrigerator for a swig of diet 7Up. The cold tile floors bring me to an irritated state of consciousness. I see a few empty Heineken bottle and Guinness cans. Ashtrays overflow with stale Gauloises.

I walk into the bathroom and take a piss while looking in the mirror. I always think I look good when I’m wasted. I’m that detached from my persona, it’s like a vacation from me.

I’m handsome, witty and a touch decadent.

I wake up under a pillow. The cat has clawed my arm trying to roust me from bed so I can feed him. When I shoo him off the bed, he goes into the next room and caterwauls. But he sounds almost human. It sounds like he’s saying ‘Hello’. Which is endearing in a frightening way.

I stumble out of bed and walk into the kitchen and find there is no fucking cat food. I realize that I am truly an idiot. I was in the store last night and walked right by the cat food. Nothing. Not even dry food that I shouldn’t give him since he’s been fixed. I remember I have a can of tuna in the fridge. The cat will eat well, once the tuna in his bowl warms to room temperature. No, he’s impatient and hungry. He’ll eat the damn thing cold.

I wake up in the Lincoln Tunnel. The New Yorker magazine from 3 weeks ago is at my feet. The bus is crowded, people standing in the aisle. I sit in the back, next to the wheel well. Whoever wants to sit next to me will sit on top of the wheel well. Not very comfortable, but roomy.

No one wants to sit next to me. I pick up the New Yorker and go back to sleep.