valet is french for servant boy!

So my job is a delicate mixture of boredom, con-arts and crafts, and awkward interaction.

Of the first of this dynamic trio; we pretty much sit around the front door of the restaurant engaging in little activities to wile away time, such as, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, making fun of customers, discussing global economic policy, and figuring out new ways to quasi-con/manipulate the emotions of people who somehow can't figure out how to open car doors--all in a superbly self-esteem-depreciating effort to get dem, get dem billz.

Which brings us to the second act, les kick-backs.

Oh, you're a cab driver? Just trying to get some fares so you can feed the kids and get the old lady that new technicolor she's been screaming about? Well, before you can do that, you'll have to pony-up a fiver to one of the white boys with post-collegiate depression, obviously a result of their realization that their choice of college major (french literature, archeaology, political science, etc.) was a poor one, though they still gots them some real egos due to a bowtie-aided sense of entitlement.

Finally, the awkwardness of it all. Why do I deserve any money? Because social precepts dictate that my presence and snappy dress warrant compensation far greater in value than the worth of the actual tasks that I complete could deserve. Anyhoo, here's how it works paaaall: you give me the ticket, I get your keys. I run around the corner, and then out of sight, I walk to your car. I cram myself into your powerwheels-sized automobubbler and drive it at unsafe rates towards your stupid face, which is attached to a greasy hand that typically holds between one and five dollars, but usually two.

Oh, and it's ever so slick the way in which you slip your sweaty cash into my hand with that weird handshake thing. Everyone knows you're tipping me, why not just stick it in waist of my pressed black trousers and insinuate the calling of a spade a spade. And by spade I basically mean hooker.

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i got a job, or at least some things to take a job's place

Yesterday was one of muted glory in the life of jimbo. An internship started the day, and a job offer ended it. Internship was greatgrandwonderful, and how can a day go badly if a large chunk of it includes a model-casting for the mag's upcoming shoot on a sailboat (which I will also be attending.)

The interview for a 'reservationist' position at a restaurant in Brooklyn was next. I don't know what a reservationist is, but I was going to try to. I left the internship at 5:00, and MTA'ed it home to Brooklyn because I came to the realization that one doesn't often wear jeans to a job interview. Oh, the interview was at 6:00, and was a 15-minute drive away from the apt.

So I got to the apt at about 5:45, and reverse-supermanned-it into a suit and tie, jumped into the Wolwo, and off I was to DUMBO, Brooknahn. Shnazzy restaurant below the brook 'n bridge, and all that jazz. I sat down with the manager who looked at my resume and said "Well, you're definitely overqualified for the 'reservationist' position you're applying for, so I'd like to offer you a job parking cars at our valet stand."

After taking a moment to swallow this not-so-sequitur, and to remember the desperation with which I have been searching for any job, any job at all; I saaays, "I'll take it!"

He sweetened the deal by explaining that I'll be driving some "really fancy cars." I hope they are shiny with bright, fun colors, because I didn't work so hard to get my glorious car-parking qualifications for nothin.

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events of yesterday: a short play

Pavel,
I recently lost my license, but I might get a new one soon. Do you still need me to come tomorrow?
~Jamie


Voicemail Lady: "First Message, received Tuesday at 5:45AM-"
"Hey Pavel, it's Jamie. Sorry to call so early, I just wanted to reiterate that I do not have a license, so I cannot drive today. It just occurred to me this morning that maybe that's why you wanted me to come with you to get the trucks at 6:45 in the morning, but I'll be on my way anyway, so call if you don't need me. Thanks"


Doofus film-geek intern: "Yo Pavel, this kid can't drive."
Pavel: "What? Oh yeah, Jamie I got your message. Are you sure about that? Like, you don't think it would be ok?"
Jamie: "I'm sorry, I just don't think it's smart to drive a large moving truck across the George Washington Bridge at rush hour, and just hope I don't get pulled over."
Pavel: "Ok, well you can just drive the driver drop-off car back here, you won't get pulled over."
Jamie the wuss: "I really don't feel comfortable with this, but I guess I'll do it."


Cop walking beat on West 30th Street: "Sir! Yeah, you! Pull over right here!"
Jamie: "Oh crap."
Cop: "Sir, we observed you here in traffic on your cell phone. Give me you license and registration."
Jamie, breathing heavily, sweating: "Ok, I don't have those."
Cop: "What do you mean you don't have them? You don't have a license?"
Jamie, tears brimming: "No, I lost it. I didn't even want to drive, but these people I am interning for made me, and I was just talking to him on the phone about the parking spot he has for me on the next block. I'm really sorry."

Cop, angrier: "When was this you lost it? Why didn't you get a new one?"
Jamie, losing feeling in limbs: "Well I lost it, uh like two months ago, but then I thought my brother found it, but then [trails off in mumbles.]"
Cop, gettin' sassy: "So this is your passport? You just carry this around?"
Jamie, resigned to fate of paddy wagon: "Yea, I guess so."
Cop, trying to sound pissed-off and cover up his being Jesus reincarnate: "Listen, go to the DMV, it will take you five minutes. Get a temporary ID card. Now pullback and get the hell out of here."
Jamie, blown away: "Thank you..sir, uh offisker."


Pavel: "Yo! Where were you?"
Jamie: "I got pulled over."
Pavel: "Oh shit duuude. Why?"
Jamie: "Because I was talking to you on the phone. I should have been arrested."
Pavel: "Oh man....Ok well go get some quarters for the meter, then make copies of these keys and contracts, then have an awkward interaction in the elevator because one of the film's actors thinks you were checking out his girlfriend, and then put up no parking fliers for tomorrow's shoot, and then never come back to this unpaid internship again because the first day was horrible and all the people in the company are jerks to you."

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depression session

Astounded by the day's event. Let me indulge yas.

You see, I thought I was simply going to an interview for a job that I didn't think I would want, but sweet lord and taylor, was I in for a surprise. After this afternoon, I would rather shoot myself in the face than have that job, but let's just say it's not exactly an offer on the table.

Said table was a "round" one at which the interview, attended by seven applicants and one satan, would take place. The latter of these attendees was conducting the "interview" in the dining room of her 5th Ave apt.--situated on the eastern side of Central Park. Yea, puttin' on the ritz, but her apartment looked like it was decorated by a blind used-car salesman who buys his decor at rural canadian dentist's offices.

To make a traumatic and long story short, the thing lasted over three hours, and consisted mostly of the she-beast talking about her "amazing" life, handing out morsels of philosophy cleverly buried in poker metaphors, and providing me with a platform to humiliate myself.

To elaborate on that final point, early in the meetin' she insinuated that I was "bluffing"--something "not allowed at [her] table"--because I couldn't tell her exactly where a certain function of Microsoft Word was located on the program's toolbar, after telling her that I knew what the function was.

Variating on this theme of embarrassment, the glorious coda of the afternoon came in the final ten minutes when she asked if anyone spoke other languages. The guy to my right says, "I speak French fluently."

"Oh, great! Anyone else? Anyone? Really? No one?" quoth the devil.

I finally spoke up saying that I took French classes throughout most of my education, and have a good understanding of the langue, though I'm not conversationally fluent.

"Ok-" pointing at the two of us "-you two have a conversation in French."

Everyone there stared at me, and no matter what I said, she was set on us having a conversation. And after a feeble attempt at the challenge I said, "I'm really sorry, [laughing] I said I couldn't speak French like this." (then one of the more awkward silences of my life)

after which le lucifer a dit: "mmmhmm. I learned French before English, so I'm pretty hard to fool."

Of course I felt great about myself and my ability to get a job after being brought to this new lowly low by a woman with millions of dollars, but no sense of tact or taste. Oh, and did I mentions this whole thing lasted more than three hours?

Expect some more stories about drunken, poor decision making from this guy.

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nummers

I think today I'll share a couple of delicious recipes that Pete and I recently made in our kitchen, which also happens to be bitchin. It all started with an ingenious combo of two of america'smost favorite comestibles: beer and chicken. I know what you're thinking, and unfortunately, no, they haven't come up with some magical chicken-flavored beer yet; the technology just isn't there. But a close substitute while the scientists get their act together is what we made. Please see figure 1
fig. 1

Actually it's really easy: open beer. Shove beer up appropriate hole in chicken. Cook at tree-fity for a buck and a quarter, and then eat dat bird. Honestly the most succulent chicken I have ever tasted. That's right, succulent.
Inspired by this gastronomic ghetto-blaster, Pete remembered another obscure receipe, and quickly found the full details on a Coca-Cola website. He then proceeded to bake an entire ham in a giant pan of Coke, pineapple juice, cherry pie filling, and love. One might say, "Hell, that mixture sounds friggin awesome, even without the ham. Get me some fritos and let's go to town!" But no, when a ham is baked in this swirling pool of the dreams of small children, it turns into the most amazing thing you've tasted since your own tears of joy after watching oksana's long program routine in lillehammer.

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crate & boredom

This entry is written by Andy Chen, a 105-pound, 37 year-old Chinese man. He is also the person who has been my boss and coworker for the past two days at a Crate & Barrel warehouse in central New Jersey. Enjoy. ~Jamie

Heya, Andy here. I thought I'd give a little wrap-up of the work we have been doing the past two days. Basically, we were repairing about 170 large, circular mirrors that weigh about 40lbs a pop. This job consists of unwrapping, repairing, and then re-wrapping the mirrors. The same five-minute process, 170 times.

I am somewhat lacking in knowledge of the English language--and on the job I like to keep things simple-- so if I need Jamie to do something I usually just point and grunt. If he doesn't immediately understand that for example, the point n' grunt means I want him to go get the box-cutter, open a box, get more tape and screws, and then do a little tap dance; then I just grunt louder and point in a more forceful manner.

When it is absolutely necessary that I use words, I will do so, but in a special way. Like if I want Jamie to put three pieces of tape on the box labels, I will yell "two!" at his confused face, and when he doesn't realize that any numeral value between the numbers one and ten are referred to as "two!" then I will do something nasty like grab the tape gun out of his hand, put three pieces of tape on the labels, and yell "two!".

And even when Jamie makes mistakes that he somehow doesn't think I'll notice, (like driving a screw so hard into the mirror frame that it splits the wood irreparably,) I will make damn sure he knows that I noticed by making a very loud grunt and saying "big crack!"

Anyway, though he is a pretty lousy worker, his upbeat attitude toward the Sisyphean task of completing so many mirrors was impressive, and that's why I offered him a job as my assistant in a furniture warehouse in the middle of nowhere California. There he could do this kind of work everyday for the rest of his life for some paltry sum of dollaz per hour. Probly two.

All my love,

Andy

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are you saying "boo" or "Boo-ush?"

Well skip to my lou, this morning brought me another job interview, though I guess it wasn't really to get a job as much as it was to talk about the idea of what getting a job would be like. really productive stuff. Anyway, so I was en route to the rendezvous pointe, when whose intended path should I cross but that of good ol' git-r-dun Bush.

I know, totally. Here I was jaunting along like a yankee goddamn doodle dandy who has 20 minutes to walk all of two blocks, when slam went the police gates, and I was completely stuck staring at this jerk's shmancy hotel and his milliards of sunglassed security peeps.

So the buzzcut boys then told us it will only be a couple of minutes. Fine, I told myself, I have time to spare, and I guess I have never had the opportunity to personally make obscene gestures at the guy, though yelling at the teevee screen has been pretty fun in the past. Right, so thirty agonizing minutes later, and dumb ass Dubs still hadn't left the hotel, and they still wouldn't let us move. I was not pleased, and even less not sweaty.

And somehow I was only sort of amused by the assertion made by the crazy old homeless man standing behind me that Bush was "probly up there in his goddamn room watchin' goddamn reruns of classic episodes of Sportscenter." Of course, to this the faux-lice repeated the 'couple more minutes' line, which only made crazy old homeless man scream louder about the "really important delivery" he had to make on the next block.

I finally left and found that they started letting people cross the street on the next block, so I made it to my "interview" with negative 35 minutes to spare. It's entirely possible that there are more deserving fish to fry with this guy, but I am really considering writing him a letter about this inconsiderate behavior.
(His probable expression directed towards me from his prez suite windows. What a jerk.)

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nepotabulous!

It's an interesting conundrum one finds one's self in while looking for a job in New York. This may be obvious to anyone not living in a cave with a bag over their head, but of late I have seen the truth in the ugly aphorism: "it's not what you know, but who you know that really matters when you want to boat that slippery, big-mouth employment bass." I also realized that through virtue of being born in a lovely upstate town of snobissimo jerks, I may have access to the influence that said jerks might wield. And therein lies the dilemma.

Do I ask for help from people I know only from cock- and coattail parties, and who know me as mmm, oh yes, the (grand)son of a Lucy in their rolodex. Though such a system might thoroughly suck and be anti-you sleeping at night, should you buy into it? They also say you've got to take advantage of all you are lucky enough to have upon your platter, and unapologetically so, as to apologize for what one does or does not have seems sort of senseless.

And even if for breakfast you made a delectable egg dish, which ingeniously integrated the respective magics of cream cheese and dill, and you had the huevos mas grandes to add fresh jalapenos: you still have to wash your hands afterward because no matter the hours that pass, each and every time you rub your eyes with those peppery fingahs it's going to burn you to tears just as bad as it did the first time. And you still won't have a job. Sucka.

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phil-idiocy

At any rate, the other night I went to a bar about 15 blocks away from the apt. A pretty bon nuit I'd say, but I'd also say that I really blew it at the bar's mini-golf course, losing miserably to a couple of lady friends. Worse things have happened in a night--and actually did, that night. Thats right kids, gather 'round for a tale of how I once again did something categorically stupid, though a bit of a twist in the plot knickers makes the the delicious ends justify the idiotic means.

Leaving the bar in an especially beer-buying kind of mood I decided to do just that at a little bodega nearby. On my way out of the store I was approached by a soft-spoken fella who, in his first sentence, descibed the difficulty with which a man, with two prior felony charges, finds a job. I guess I just ignored the convicted felon part of his spiel, because the next thing I know, we're walking down the street together talking about joblessness.

We then start jibberjabbin about where he is staying, and it turns out it's in a park near my place, so I said "let's share a cab!" As we rolled on back to Bed-Sty, the conversation turned to people getting robbed, and just then I realized the possible negative outcomes of getting in a cab with a stranger. A homeless, felonious stranger. At the same time, he reached into his man purse and started pulling something out, at which point I began to regret my choices a little more.

To my glorious surprise, in the stead of some kind of hurting/robbing implement, he out pulled a big bottle of Polish beer! That he was giving to me! Apparently it was beer tthat someone, thinking they'd cut out the middle man, bought him instead of giving him money. Ahh, but my homeless friend was not a drinker, and wanted nothing of it. Also, he had a bag of cotton candy and gave me that as well! Then he got out of the car, and I says: "Thanks for the beer and candy, you didn't have to do that." to which he replied:"Well, you didn't have to do what you did."

This just goes to show that even when you think beer and candy are going to make you feel good; a foolish and irresponsibly good deed done for your fellow man can make you feel just that much better.


And needless to say, the rest of the night was just delicious.

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anonymous alcohol

after a couple of years of legal boozing, a man grows accustomed to doing so unquestioned by authority. hmm, unless that man thought it would be nice to let his younger brother (not of age) borrow his driver's license because a european romp would ostensibly make it an unnecessary thing to have for a month or two.

well, aside from said man's inability to rent mopeds in greece and ride them fruitily about the isles, the younger brother's inability to return something that he cherishes could cause some problems upon the man's return.

so now I (the man) am forced to carry my passport to bars; something embarrassing (my photo was somehow swapped with that of an unfortunate looking 14 year-old french girl), and uncomfortable (as it takes up a lot of space in my back pocket and occasionally causes a rash.) all was well and good until I left for boston last week, and of course, forgot my dumbass pazpuerto in the NYC.

Fortunately, I stopped by mom's house first so I could scare up a nice stack of alternate identificaysh. I dug through the family files and found:
A photocopy of my learners permit
My birth certificate.
My expired passport with picture of me as a 10 year-old wearing a white turtleneck and a purple Mighty Ducks hockey jersey.


Needless to say, the bostonian bartendresses laughed the tears from my eyes, and the only place where the stack of shame was sufficient turned out to be a bar that also served punch bowls of apple schnapps and had one employee walking around selling meat on a stick. classy biz.
oh, also it didn't work at olive garden, but my friends hid a frosty glass of white zin behind our bottomless basket of breadsticks. and sorry if the entirety of that last sentence made you puke.

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i drink, like, it's my job

Back at home now, and working for my mom's catering business, for I have no disposable income to speak of, much less dispose of. So, I'm here to make some money and help mom. Obviously she knows me well enough to know I'm an idiot, and assigns me tasks accordingly. No real cooking or office work of import for me. Some of my jobs have included taking her dog for walks, counting liquor bottles, and buying ice. Pretty boring shizzle for shizzle, but then came yesterday's activity: wine tasting.

My job was to taste all of the uncorked wine in the joint and determine which of the bottles had gone bad. Ten o'clock in the morn and I'm here tasting wine, and over fifty bottles of that biz. Sounds bitchin', but on the real, it was terrible. At least 30 of the bottles were disgusting, like maybe you think you don't have a palate sophisticated enough for such an excercise, but no, this crap tasted like arss. And then half way through I'm drunk to boot--because if you're gonna taste you might as well drink up. Waste not, want not and all that jazzamatazz.

So there I am, trying to spit the awful taste out my mouf, knocking over bottles, and yelling "ohh sweet jebus, that one tastes like pickles! ughhhhh. someone get some friggin water." The other employees were half laughing at me, half giving me weird looks and telling me I wasn't driving anywhere today. By the end I really felt like I was fixin to scream at my shoes, as dan, dropping it like it's hot, would articulate the pathos of such a situation. And that's really all I achieved that day, for serious.

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drop 'til you shop

Yesterday I left the house to go on a shopping excursion with no shopping list or idea of what I would buy.
I returned with:

One bottle of white cranberry juice
One off-white shower curtain liner
One bootleg dvd entitled "40 Year-Old Virgin/Wedding Crashers Double Pack"
One box of Golden Grahams brand cereal
One half-gallon of full milkfat milk (for the cereal) (that was all they had left)
One Pope John Paul II cylindrical religious candle

I scurried home and put all the crap away so no one could see this collection of items in one place and realize I am an idiot.

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deprecation station!

Once upon a time, I had a job interview today. Any glimmer of opportunity that that statement held this morning was quickly dashed when I realized that where I thought "job interview" I should have been thinking more along the lines of: "standardized test day in 4th fuckin grade." So there I am in the lobby of the staffing agency, laying the mack down on some delicious formal documentation. After filling out the basic stuff, I get to the point in the stack of papers where they start asking me things not commonly found in job applications where an applicant's knowledge of basic things is all but assumed. They start spittin' shit at me like:

The correct definition of "condone" is: 1. Repeat 2. Allow 3. Deep fat-fry 4. Prophylactic

and then:

Circle the incorrect portions of this sentence: "Me and Sally ain't let the dog go inside and don't like no squid? "

And then the 30 math questions, which, if I didn't already feel like a retahhd for filling this sheet out in the first place, then my inability to do them quickly or with confidence definitely did the trick.

I then spent 20 minutes taking tests measuring my abilities in Word, Excel, typing, and not stabbing myself in the temple with a ballpoint pen. The moral of the story is the actual interviewing lasted honestly two minutes and consisted mostly of me signing releases for drug tests, but oh, they are really excited about having me on the team, should any temp work for a non-comatose person arise.

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sweater? i don't even know her!

So I spent the weekend in the Hamptons at my friend Dan's grandmother's house. Enjoyable time had by all, or so I thought. Yesterday, some redikalus biznass goes down via cellaphone. Dan called me to ask me if I had stolen his grandmother's boyfriend's blue cardigan sweater. Not an unreasonable question, I thought, so I explained that I wish I had stolen it, and that if I had, I would wear it every day. Unfortunately, that did little to explain the sweater's disappearance, or quell Dan's grandmother's unbriddled rage caused by her suspicion that her grandson's friends are free-loading (true), old man sweater stealing (untrue), jerks (true). Dan said that the only thing he could think of was that maybe one of us took it while we drunk and played old man dress-up while frolicking about the yard. That sounds like my kind of party, but sadly, such a scene has only taken place in my wildest hopes and dreams.
dope-ass representaysh of my dreams. don't show this to dan.

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jobless wonder

Now I am unemployed, and so far it's been pretty depressing. Anyhoo, I went out last night to spend some of the money I don't have, so getting up today was a task. Needless to say the evening left me crunkasaurus-wrecked, and awoke with the taste of two hotdogs and three candy bars on my tongue. Of course there was a crumpled lottery ticket on my bedside table and I was laying in a sheetless bed-- it's those little things you do to lower your self-respect that really matter in the end.
Well, I'd say that technically I've only been on the job front for a day, so maybe I shouldn't beat myself up about it. Today I watched Raging Bull, made a salad with dressing, and now I'm cleaning my room. That's some productivity. Yea what did you do today? Wake up early and go to work? I'll drink to that.

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don't call it a comeback!

well laateedaah, look who's back in the good ol' u.s. of gay! me. the trip was fabolus of course, and I think it provided new perspectives which may come to serve as lasting and substantial influences on my thinking. For lack of anything better to write today or in the near future, I think I will comment on the ingenious thoughts provoked by my travels.

So, if you've ever prepped for a trip, you may have heard the conversational contribution: "well, if you're travelling abroad you should put a Canadian flag on your backpack, cause you don't want people to know you're American." Yea, well I ain't no flag-waving, gun-toting "blame America never" foolio, but jebus christmas, if you're a friggin' American you're probably going to stay that way, and really who cares what some ignorant euro-trash thinks about you.

The other half of this would be the Canadians who put a Canadian flag on their backpacks. They really don't want to be seen as Americans. This allows them to think they are somehow better, and more accepted by the international community. At any rate, it seems pretty unecessary. You look and speak like an idiot; the flag bag is redundant.

The most amazing case of this rejection of American citizenship that I witnessed was at a customs office in Greece. A 40-something guy travelling alone, with a gigantic backpack, was asked his nationality by a customs officer who knew about two words of Engrish. Guy's reponse: "Well, I'm from Hawaii."
"What? U.S.?"
"Hawaii."
"What?"
"Hawaii. It's not really the United States. It's separate. Hawaii, in the Pacific Ocean."
"Ok, U.S., thanks."
Through my spine shot an amazing impulse to grow some disgusting facial hair, get a giant patriotic tatoo like with a bald eagle soaring above billowing American flags or something and maybe the flamming words: "America is the best country ever, all other countries suck." then buy a really loud harley and ride it shirtless across the globe stopping at every McDonalds along the way.

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come git yer shaud 'n freude!

This past weekend I returned to the glorious green mounts of vermont for some graduation celebration and all-around shin-diggery. A great time was had by most, though that's not the point. What I mean to say is, the whole thing made me freakin sad.

Now I'm back in new york stinkin' city, and somehow I am thoroughly missing those vermont for life-in', broomballin', vermont forward and back takin', champ-spottin', volvo/subaru/saab drivin', outdoor gear wearin', freshnetwork-sustainable-organic-veggie only-eatin' hippies, hillbillies, hipsters, hip-yups, and the whole rest of those wacky weirdos who love them some freakouts on church street. I love those crazy coagulated gravy hotdog bun bastards living up there, and truly they are ones in a millions.



And so I'm thinking that maybe I should take my tax-hiking, government-expanding, latte-drinking, sushi-eating, Volvo-driving, New York Times-reading, Hollywood-loving, left-wing freak show back to Vermont, where it belongs.

Note: end portions of this post may have been taken from a HoDean attack-ad from the glorious Club for Growth Political Action Committee, die-hard supporters of Git r Dun Bush.

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remember halloween? i didn't have a blog then.

So here's my Halloween costume from this past year. It's pretty obvious that I was Jerry Seinfeld. Pretty awes, and I got mad compliments on the getup too, like: "Ohh yea...hmm, I like it..very subtle." and "You just look like someone wearing nerd clothes, gimme a fuckin junior mint." and "Wow, it looks like you just sprinted away from a party because you are returning the tap that your friends drunkenly borrowed for half and hour and then during the get-away you tripped and fell in a pile of dog poo!" It was a glorious all hallow's eve, so full of sweet, sweet memories, and isn't it true that in the end, it's those memories that we will really cherish in our hearts?

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Challah at Ya Homeboy

Otherly, last week I'm riding my bike in Brooknaahn and I'm all weaving through traffic and the whatdywhat, and I take a left when I had a red light. There were no cars coming so I was like whateves I scoff the law.

Anyway, this crazy lady on the sidewalk starts screaming at me. "What the fuck you think you doin'? You mistake-makin' mothafucka! You gonna get hit! What the fuck?? What the fuck you smilin at!? Fuck you!! Come back here mothafucka!"





Needless to say, I was sort of taken-aback by the whole episode and wondered if I really am just a "mistake-makin mothafucka." I do make a lot of mistakes, so maybe she had a valid point there. But then I remembered how crazy she looked and sounded with her crazy outfit and crazy screams, so I figured I would just write her off as a crazy woman and go on with my life using this for a little affirmation of my own mad propah normalcy.



Say what, say down. You gotsa check my new favorite website, seriously it's amazing. Check it: http://www.skunks.org/

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No More Monday Mornings Cause I Just Quit My Job

It's true. As of like 3:15 today, I am on the road to retirement. I just have to finish out the month here, and then I'm dunzo. Quitting this job wasn't such a big deal, but it's not like I was walking out on a job at chuckie cheese's because the mouse costume was chaffing my acne. What I mean is that basically I'm quitting a sort of well-paying position simply because I was unhappy there and now I am gonna do something mad sweetah.

At any rate, now I am free to resume my life as a dorito-eating tv-watcher, which is sure to descend into a slough of despondency when I realize I am a waste of life. I'll see you on the couch.

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