3.31.2008

HOT MESS VS. OKAY!!

3.31.08
3:56pm
At approximately 3pm on the afternoon of March 31, 2008, I bore witness to one of the most exciting events...in the History of Man:
HOT MESS VS. OKAY!!
The Contenders:
Big, fat, chattery clump of noise vs. the twittery idiot box (not a television, a person, a box of idiocy) 
The Background:
The Oaf was regaling the Twit with stories of her grandmother who went nutty toward the end.
The Oaf kept referring to her grandmother as a "hot mess", the reaction of the Twit to these recollections was to continually repeat "okay!!"*
After a few moments, I realized that this was much more than a mere recanting of tales, this was a bloodmatch.
Or deathmatch.
Or bloody deathmatch, as the British might say.
So I began to keep count of who said what more, "hot mess" or "okay!!".
The Results:
It was a grueling five minutes but in the end...it was a tie, 7 to 7.
Rematch?
A rematch is almost certain and I will be there to bring the noise, the funk and all the other things that one would want to bring to a mind fart contest like this one.
Stay tuned!!
*I wish more than anything that I could attach a sound clip of her saying "okay".
It is probably the most annoying delivery that two syllables can have.
I will try to describe it:
The emotions are always disbelief and amusement, but exaggerated; as if her subtext is:
'Whoa! Too much information! Thank-ah yoooou-ah!'
Very high school/valley girl.
The intonation is ALWAYS THE SAME, whether it's in reaction to stories about someone's crazy grandmother or a UFO sighting or a dead baby stuffed full of shit and maggots by a lunatic who then sent said baby to the Pope, which adds a lot to the element of I-want-to-step-on-your-throat.
It starts off high and nasally, always nasally and remains at the same note, pitch and timbre until the "a" in "okay" is reached, where it slides down the octaves until it is inaudible.
Also, lending to the sandpaper-on-my-scrotum feel is the fact that she says this about 400,000,000 times a day.
Give or take.

3.20.2008

The Music of the Spheres

3.20.08
10:13 pm
Oh ho yes indeed.
The Music of the Spheres.
The Spheres of Terrible R&B.
Specifically, Usher.
Usher’s new "joint" is entitled "Love In The Club".
Or maybe "Love In This Club" (it’s hard to go off half-cocked if you know exactly what it is you’re talking about...in all honestly, I’m really not even sure it IS Usher but again, a half cock in your hand is...worth......gross, never mind).
Whatever the case, I heard the title first and thought to myself, "Aww, that’s kind of sweet.  Taking such a gross, sticky, sex and drug laden place and imparting it with some sense of romance is kind of nice."
Then, oh silly silly me, I listened to the song.
Silly silly.
Me.
The song is not, as I had dared to dream, about catching someone’s eye across the crunk and vial littered floor of a club and finding True Love, no.
It’s about wanting to fuck someone SO BADLY that you do it...in the club.
L’amor.
The chorus is actually "make love in this club".
One line in particular (paraphrased xmax; half cock, you understand) stands out like a priest’s erection on Easter (TOPICAL!!!!)
"I’ve got the medicine that you need the most/and I know you’re gonna swallow every dose"
Ah euphemisms...sweet, sweet euphemisms...for semen.
Whatever the case, this wet piece of shit is better than that fucking obnoxious idiot anthem "Yeah Yeah Yeah (Yeah Yeah Yeah)" that dominated our charts AND hearts in recent years.
Although that isn’t saying much.
Like, "Hey, today there’s more blood than pus coming out of my penis! Yay!" isn’t saying much.
Half a cock...in your hand.

3.14.2008

'Does anyone smell that?'

3.14.08
7:40 pm
The above question (spoken in broken, heavily accented English by an African nurse) is what has lead me to create the paragraph below.
I swear to you that this is true.
So.
You all know that I don't work in the best Health Care Facility in the World or even in New York City.
But seriously, there is a difference between "not the best" and "populated but goddamn inbred fucking idiots".
So.
I arrive today to find a message in my Inbox with the rules for smoking inside the Hospital attached.
I think nothing of it since it, like most of the messages in my Inbox, does not concern me.
I thought that maybe a resident had been caught smoking where they shouldn't have been or perhaps an employee was suspended for the same reason.
A little later, I was informed why each and every person with a mail box in the system received the same message.
A resident who was supposed to have "One to One" coverage (which means for each of the three 8-hour shifts that make up a workday, there is a professional- and I'm going to go with the dictionary definition which is one who receives monetary compensation for performing a service- nurse with that person) had accidentally set himself on fire.
Yes.
Instead of watching him and, hopefully, intervening, she merely commented, "Does anyone smell that?"
Turns out that yes, several people smelled that...and screamed...a lot.
The resident was moved to a better Hospital (actually a piss-stained cardboard box down the street, but a better Hospital nonetheless) but the nurse remains unpunished.
Why?
Because nurses will cover each others asses no matter how bad they fuck up.
Why?
Because each and every one of them is intelligent enough to know that they are stupid enough to fuck up massively enough to need their OWN ass covered and they are merely banking the good karma.
Like, imagine a spider web made by spiders who are cunning and have a strong sense of self preservation but are dumb as hammers with developmental disabilities.
These hammers are taking care of the infirm here at my place of business.
Anyway, the Admins decided that the best way to stop this from happening again was to send out an e-mail reminding people of the smoking policy and add an extra Security guard to the shifts to wander around from floor to floor and literally check to make sure that no one is on fire.
Honestly...I don't have anything else to say.
*****************************************
Happy Pi Day

3.13.2008

happy. birthday.

3.13.08
3:13 pm
Say what you will about Paul McCartney beating up his wife (quite frankly I think she only has herself to blame; I mean, name one super-mega-star that doesn't have something fundamental wrong with them (Michael Jackson much?).  Success of that magnitude should be a clear warning sign, like a rattlesnake's rattle or an angry, screaming spider waving a gun) but "Happy Birthday" is just an hilarious, uplifting song.
The frantic, insistent yelling of "we would like you to dance", the children singing "birthday", the infectious guitar riffs and the heightened celebratory mood brought about by a multiple Birthday.
This song serves as aural Prozac.
In fact, if you hear this song and depression persists, you may just want to kill yourself because you're bumming everyone out. 
Thanks for that.
Asshole.

3.07.2008

People need to be more careful.

3.7.08
5:10 pm
And here's why...
Occasionally, my phone here will ring.
Sometimes it's a wrong number, sometimes silence, some times even, a person trying to reach this number.
And every once in a while...it's something different.
With the outdated phone system we have here, every once in a while, the phone will ring and I will pick up and find myself in the midst of someone else's phone call.
If it's two people, I'll just hang up and reconnect them, but sometimes it's someone voice mail.
Let me explain, say you wanted to called someone's cell phone from a phone here.
You get their machine and hang up.
Well.
For some strange reason, it will pop over to me so that when I pick up, I'll hear that person's answering machine message and,if I want, I can then leave a message.
I often do.
They aren't normal.
I have never done anything more...bad?...than that.
Until today.
So, the phone rings and I say, chipper as a chipper, "Operator may I help-"
I hear a voice cut itself off...and then begin again.
"I didn't get that.  Say: 1 the policy balance, 2: another sum"
I say "1".
The robot informs me that: "Your balance is $188.44.  Would you like to deduct that from your checking account?"
"Yes" I say.  I wanted to, very much.
"Okay, now our records show you've done this before.  Does your checking account end in 4418?"
Mine doesn't, but I'm sure someone's does.
"Yes" I intoned.
"Okay, your policy balance has been paid off.  This transaction might not show up on your statement until-"
I hung up, bored with his candor.
Then I paused.
Then I laughed my fucking ass off.
I just helped pay off someone's policy balance, whatever the fuck that is.
I'm a good person.
And they need to update this phone system.