Yaaaaaawn, check.
Stretch, check.
Tea, check.
Business-Casual Khaki-and-Wingtips, check.
Smelly Shoerack in the Cafeteria, check. Wait, wut?

Please excuse me while I write a few correspondences...

Dear Mr. Hockey-Dad-Plymouth-Sunfire-Driver,

You do not need to be in the passing lane if you are not passing cars. You also do not need to cut in front of me without using your directional signal or matching speeds, causing me the immediate need to slam on my brakes. And, while we're on the subject of brakes, all of your brakelights are stuck on, regardless if your hitting them or not, thus not allowing me to know when you are actually hitting your brakes. Thanks for your time.

Sincerely,

I-hate-YOUR-hockey player



Dear Owner-of-the-Mobile-Gas-Station-Near-My-House,

I appreciate the fact that the economy is poor, thus causing people to wash their own cars rather than get them washed at your station; however, there is no need for you to angle three (3) of your lawn-sprinkler heads to shoot jets of dirty water at the vehicles stopped at the stoplight in front of your business. Full stream. At my car. Kudos to you for attempting to create your own demand, but, c'mon, if my window was open I would have gotten hosed for a full two (2) minutes. Thank you for your concern.

Sincerely,

Carwash: yes/no? NO.

Dear Lady-Sitting-Next-To-Me-At-This-Very-Moment,

I have never met you even though I work with you. PLEASE STOP READING MY SCREEN. It is none of your business. Just keep shovelling food into your face and pretending to do work. Also, while you're at it, could you please refrain from interrupting every training meeting that we have with extremely ludicrous questions that only pertain to your selfish needs. I do not want to be in this training any longer than I have to, and you could just as easily complain to the trainer after we all leave. Then you will only be wasting one person's time rather than all 34 of us. Seriously, we were watching training videos, who cares if the actors don't express every need in your fat head. Deal. MMmm'kay? Thaynkz.

Sincerely,

Stop-Reading-This

newb

Today was my second day in the lab yet, somehow, I had people whose first day it was asking me questions. Ahhhhh.... there's nothing like being completely clueless then having to share it with people that you are just meeting. I fear I may be considered a newbie for the rest of my tenure here. Hooray promotion!

Please excuse ignorant politics but...

If the the government bails out newpaper publishers, does this not mean that they have stock in the media, thus creating a conflict of interests?

Not to mention that bail-outs go against the concept of Free Market Economy.

Not to mention that newspaper decline is due to technology rather than the ecnomy.

Not to mention GET OFF MAH LAWN!

and now...

A new job means new responsibilities. Means new opportunities. Means new stress. Means new posts!

I'm back.

I just got my computer access and I'm already scouring the web for inappropriate content. And blogging.


YAYZ!

sometimes my head will break the surface enough for me to get a breath of air.

sometimes my legs cramp and i get pulled back down.

swimming is difficult in the dark.

sinking - even more.

beeboo-daboo-bah-ble...

6:19am I woke up yesterday to the sound of Benny and the Jets by Elton John blasting out of someone's grocery-getter as they drove slowly past my house. I wasn't angry because I just imagined the person that would get excited by THE shittiest Elton John song enough to play it at high volumes through open windows. I also imagined this person to be dramatically lipsynching along. This made me laugh.

So, I get up and go and forget about this waking moment shortly after it happens.

10am DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN DUN-DA-DAH-DAH DUN-DUN... No way! Same song! (look out the window) Same car... Same person! Obviously either a big fan of the song or the radio station has a tight loop... whatever.

1pm I'm in the middle of an episode of Voyager... Benny! Benny! Benny! oooOoooh, Benny and the Jetsssss... fucking Voyager, dude. Voyager.

5pm The smells of chicken, broccoli, Greuyere cheese, and jasmine rice, and butter dance through the air in hope of resting on an eager palate. Thoughts of wintery nights neslted around a warm bowl as the light glitters from the pianoman's jacket as he bangs on singing "somethin-somethin-somethin some-thing some-thing arooound... Benny and the JEEEee-ooo-eeetssss..." Fourth time! What the hell is that?! Does this person ROLL IN to this song every time? Have they chosen it as their theme music? Do they know Elton John? Is their name Benny? Or do they like jets? Regardless of answer, four times is beyond coincidence. There may be evil forces afoot...

.. and what's the deal with George Hamilton? That skin is just too damn orange. He's like a cross between an oompa-loompa, Kato Kailin, and a Cheeto. I bet you get orange-cheese fingers after you touch him.

UNINTELLIGENT DESIGN

"Intelligent Design" catchphrase of the year. The idea that our universe's birth was the design of an intelligent entity i.e. God i.e. monotheism e.i. same shit different day. Monotheism in a new box with a new name and a new commercial featuring guys high-fiving each other while alt/country/rock blares from the kickers in their Canyonero.

I say FUCK INTELLIGENT DESIGN. let's pay attention to something else. how about..

UNINTELLIGENT DESIGN:

Much like Ireland's plan for international fiscal uprising through the DeLorean Motor Company or a tea kettle without a whistle that melts when it gets hot, Unintelligent Design surrounds us. Instead of being all "like totally, wow, man, like God is all great, because we, like, as humans, are, like, soooo magnificent," I'm going to take the advocate's approach and say that humans (in general) are fucking stupid. Most people tend to revolve their lives around the money they make and look at it as some sort of justification as to who they are (yeah, make money - just don't think you're worthless if you don't make as much as someone else). This, to me, is stupid. Based on the common monotheistic belief that we, as humans, are a reflection of God, then God must be stupid. God is stupid.

God is the motherfucker that slams on their brakes THEN turns on their directional.

God is the motherfucker that decided hydrogen surrounded by flammable tapestry was a "pretty solid" idea for mass-uber-rich-super-heavy-smoking-cliente-transportation. Hinden-something.

God is the motherfucker that holds back technology to make a quick buck.

God is the motherfucker that decided, lacking any evidence leading second-hand smoke to cancer, to start banning smoking everywhere for health concerns.

And God is the motherfucker that came up with the fucking ridONKULOUS equation that insurance companies use to evaluate an accident. I mean, c'mon! Since when should dollars amounts negate actual physical evidence? Fucking Commerce Insurance! Shithead rear-ended ME and they don't want to claim liability! Fuck you and fuck your God! yeah. that'll show ya.

In hbomb-job-related news:

Apparently, I am an accomplished singer/songwriter with a degree in education. I am going to have to update my resume.


Also, Jon Bumpus is a swan.

get well, pina.

last night, i had a dream that i drank a Snapple Iced Tea.

as i finished the bottle, tipping it back for that last swig, i felt something hairy enter my throat.

it was a kitten.

from inside the bottle.

i feel the need to warn everyone:

Don't ever drink Snapple! Kittens, dude, kittens...

you would think that with all of the free time on my hands, I could think up something witty to say.


nope.

i am going to skip bachelor's and go right for the doctorate.



fuck you, learning system.


in other news: an era ended with the announcement that JCD will be closing its doors. i will attempt not to hold my head in shame as I wait for the imminent demises of Applewild, Bromfield, and Memorial.


hi. howyadoin? surfin' usa.

I COMMAND THEE!

WATCH ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT TONIGHT!! FOX 8pm-10pm EST!!

It very well could be the last episode, you fuckers!

let's dust this thing off......

Hurricanes are funny.


They're like giant, white assholes taking a big dump over whatever land they can find.


Obviously Katrina used too much t.p. in 'Nawlins and forgot to jiggle the handle or some shit.

EDIT: here ya go- best forecast ever(mpeg pops).

In other news...
The "insert key" on the keyboard is the most fucking annoying key evAr. Who wants to type-over? I mean c'mon! get it out.

ok.


three mondays in a row is enough.


I think you got the point.


In other news....


I still kick ass and am extremely awesome and sexy.


yes.

ha ha

Monday! w0rk pwnz!

ssshh....sssshhh...ahhhh...ahhhh....

What, exactly, is the bigfuckingdeal with the Bare Naked Ladies? Oh, I have to go to their live show, right? I've got a live show for ya. Yeah. My Fist is opening up for Your Head. Gonna be good.

12 Monkeys would be a good movie to watch about now. Too bad I'm about to watch Seed of Chucky.

As awesome as summer is, it's always better when looking forward to it in the winter.

Sometimes I have nothing to do. I sit and think, "I've got nothing to do. What should I do?" By the time I figure out what I want to do, I don't want to do it anymore. This is not a good way to spend one's time.

I have certain t-shirts that have reached their last wearings. Another tussle with Mr. Washer/Dryer would mean a torturous death. I like these t's. They're basically clean and unstained cheesecloth with cool designs on them. I do not want to trash them. Definitely unwearble. What the hell should I do with them?

A Call To All Codgers:

Hey, you! Yes, you, the person born over a decade before me. Yeah. Stop talking about how better it was in your day. It wasn't that great. Lay off the Nick at Nite.


And while we're at it... There are these newfangly things called checkcards that deduct money from your bank account just like writing a check! Yes! So now you don't have to stand in line in front of me and write down your fucking telephone number and blood type so that you can buy your fucking bag of old people candy. MOVE FASTER.

yes. it has been a while since my last post. "why?" you ask. well. the answer is simple:


i dont like you.


There. Whatcha gotta say about that?


huh?

INANE RANT: 404 logic not found

I would like to thank Boston's local news affiliates for being prompt with their newscasts and sitting on the London story for FOUR hours before informing anyone that something had actually happened. And then teasing with the story until 7am - just in time for the Morning Show and the morning ratings crunch.

Way to be on-the-ball and unbiased.

Maybe another bankrolled employee should give you an award.

Then again, if they had reported a prompt news story, it would have cut into my nightly Blind Date/MASH/MASH/COPS/Conan/COPS marathon.

Oh, and PAX, way to not report any news. EVAAAAaaaRRrrRrofl. Apparently, bad things never happen to the good people that watch PAX *cough* other than the fact that their life is a mindless void that ends when they die *cough* Obviously Jesus would rather me know the result of another of Billy Ray Cyrus' gripping surgeries than the fact that shit's blowin up over the pond... yes. billy ray. surgery.

He gave us an achy/breaky heart, now... he's here to mend it. every day. at four in the morning. instead of news. Rejoice!

hbomb's food for thought:

ever notice that people who say "ever notice that" never notice anything that ends in "...and piles of cash suddenly appear in front of you?"

LAUNCH!!!

Yeah... So... I'm launching a second blog.

This one's going to be a comic strip entitled, you guessed it, "kid tested."

It's a superhero type thingee.

So, without further adooo-oo-oo - BLAM!!!

ok then

Buy "Peace, Love, Death Metal" by the Eagles of Death Metal.

I should have mentioned that months ago.

In Entertainment News:

Reading Hollywood Life Magazine is like freebasing a People Magazine that Mel Gibson ate and, later, shat out.

workinworkinworkin

check it.

a little flashy-poo.

yay 4 me!

It burns me eyes!

This banner is freaking me the fuck out.

I'm working on a new one.

If all goes well, it may be part of a Flash Animation.

If I can learn my p's and q's, this site will hopefully become a lot more interesting.

For now, you'll have to deal with my scary-ass banner.

BTW, here's a link to the original picture, just so you don't think that's my hillbilly body up there. A word to the wise: never do an internet picture search for the word "cutoffs." You will get teh gheyest shiat. Also, don't do a search for the word "Bumpus," for the same reason.

It's 2 in the AM, Howie, what are you doing on the internet?!!

Why, I'm looking up cool roadside attractions in my neighborhood!

Here's one for all you Massholes!

new banner

I'm so damn SSSSSEX-AAAYYY!

your brog must frow!

Writing a successful blog is like taking a pleasant shit.

If you force it, it comes out all messy and angry.

If you relax, it will flow like a mighty oak downriver.

Yup, one wipe and you're done.



HAIKU:

Happy blog flows well,
Like poo from smiling buttocks:
no wiping needed.

splash.

"Square" has a "U" in it, jackass...

The EXP is, once again, parked at 22 Marion.

The EXP's driverseat is, once again, being held up by a stick.

I have a stained T-shirt.

I will make cut-offs.

I will wear a red bandana.

Unemployment never felt so right! YES!

So hip to be sqare....

Huey Lewis:

America needs you now, more than ever! (well... except for '85)...

We need your non-offensive lyrics and saxophone solos...

We long for your happy beach videos with heads-a-poppin'...

We need you to tell the Pinheads that they're just too loud, JUST TOO DAMN LOUD!



Huey, Dear Huey:

Your Second-Coming will mark the birth of a new Ray Parker Jr. and he will then speed up your song and sing about ghosts. And that song will then accompany a new Murray/Ramis/Aykrrydyrioyrd film that will include NEITHER Rick Moronis NOR Sigourney Weaver NOR Annie Potts NOR Vigo NOR Slimer NOR the Fake Monkey Ghosbusters NOR Slime That Is Given Human Traits BUT be produced by my friends AND be co-starring me AND Guest Appearance by Earney Hudson AND I will get to do a burnout in ECTO-1 AND maybe I won't feel so bad about my fruitless unemployment.

And then *POOF*

Huey Lewis will vanish again...


FROM WHENCE HE CAME!!!!!!!!!!!

it's the POOOOOWWWWer of love........

it's also 3AM.

Geek.. um... yeah..

I saw Episode III last night at 12:01.

Needless to say, set your predictions low.

pessimism allows for a optimististic viewing.

There is a exorbident amount of cheesy dialogue.

Not as much as episode II.

There are a few rewarding moments; BUT, remember, G. Lucas did write this one, too.

If you think this is a masterpiece, you are a " F. to the A. G."

Good but with fault.

Worth seeing? Yes - if you see it in DLS. Otherwise, wait for the hype to fade.

Rent 'er from Lackluster.

Overall rating - C+

George Lucas still manages to blow it, some how.

2 words: Chewbacca Force.

Florida - America's Wang

I'm not sure if I blogged about this the last time I came to Florida. If I did, allow me to re-iterate...

Florida is made up of 2 kinds of people:

old people

and those that take advantage of old people.

I smell so nice right now.

Too bad you're not here to experience my aroma.

Rock on, Chaka Khan!

Polo Shirts and Bermuda Shorts

Comped some passes to the Majors.

Carts with GPS.

Keeping an eye out for Arnold Palmer.

Bushmills and Cubans are the way to go.

hungover.

sunburnt.

lllllllllllllllllllllovin' evry minute of it!

Mudslides Poolside

I'm in Florida.

It is 85 degrees.

Sunny.

I'm going back into the pool now.

Don't work too hard.

Nooge.

It's the 5th of May and I'm wearing a fake moustache...

Cinco de Mayo! Or, as we like to call it in Fitchburg "Not Yesterday."

in the grand tradition of Mexican Independance...

i will read an excerpt from....

DESTINOS: Learn Spanish through the art of Soap Opera:


Los republicanos contra los nacionales. La mayoria de los republicanos eran democratas y los nacionales eran aliados de Hitler y Missolini. Latoya y Janet Jackson: Quien es su hermano, cantante muy famosa?


hermano, indeed.


hasta luego.

The Dopest Rhymes This Side of Tatooine

So you say that you like Cartoon Network's Adult Swim.

You're a big fan of Aqua Teen Hunger Force?

Take Adult Swim, mix it with Easy E, add some Star Wars and Dungeons and Dragons and you have MC CHRIS.

He does a lot of voice-over work and writing for Adult Swim. He also kicks out most of the network's music.

Find the geek within you. Drop all your "pretending to be cool" shit and you might actually enjoy this.

Today's Wednesday, right? No, wait, Thursday! Today's thursday...

2 days!

Jon Bumpus! Meg Walsh! Join Forces! SHAZZAAMM!

kid's super-saver-seats still just ... ten bucks

You may have reservations for the whole seat -- but you'll only need THE EDGE!!




busy week. busy week. gotta drive to New York for a wedding tomorrow, then high-tail it back to Westminstah for the Schwan/Swann wedding on Saturdee night. It's Quarter o' nine at night and I'm just about to start my day's errands. What was I doing all day, you ask. I was being unemployed. the first check arrived today. w00tw00t!


I've gotta say .. . I'm lookin and feelin perty good for being a leech upon the tit of the working man.



Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy opens tomorrow. ima gonna see it, yup yup!

it's been waaaay too nice out to stay in and blog.

it's also waaay too nice out to stay in and read blogs (YOU!)

it's supposed to rain tomorrow, i'll blog then.

here is something to occupy your feeble human mind.

great old show, great new show, bad made-for-telly movie in-between. fantastic.

Farked:

--News Flash--

Morgan Stanley tops Merrill Lynch in t-OMG BRITNEY'S PREGNANT!!!

It's the Rap, Rap, Unemployment Rap!

unemployment is so nice,
i eat chicken mixed with rice,
i left my house only twice,
i hope my earnings will suffice.

i'm so busy all the time,
have a corona with some lime,
thank god for the country's dime,
hbomb's kickin' a fresh rhyme.

only 14 hours of sleep a day,
jumping through hoops is not my way,
i've no respect for bobby flay,
i think jude law is wicked gay.

out of your check and into my pocket,
until you've tried it, you can't knock it,
guinness in hand - about to cock it,
when i park my car, i forget to lock it.

unemployment is so nice,
i eat chicken mixed with rice,
i left my house only twice,
i hope my earnings will suffice.

I just applied for a part-time job at which I will be payed to blog. I mentioned my uncanny ability for getting mayonaise all over the handle of any utensil that I use to extract it from the jar. The only reason that I mentioned this is so that, if I do get the job, I can tell my dad that I got a job based upon the very thing he used to yell at me about.

me: hey, dad, remember how you used to yell at me for getting mayo all over the spoon's handle?

dad: yeah...

me: yeah, well, I just got a job because of that.

dad: huh?

me: I just got a job because of that!

dad: what do you mean you got a job because of that?

me: I told niner niner that one of my skillsets is getting mayo on the spoon.

dad: what's niner niner?

me: nevermind.

dad: wanna go ice-fishing?

YYAAAWNNNN!


STTRETCH!


Unemployment sure takes a lot outta ya. Not really, though. I mean, unemployment would take a lot out me if I was actually actively looking for a job. Moving on...


I hate critics. Ok.. wait... not so much critics in general.. more like critics that take criticizing as an art form. yeah.. that's it... let me try this again..

I hate critics that think criticizing is an art form. There. Now, I understand that in critiquing critics, I am, paradoxically, becoming what I hate; HOWEVER, it is a necessary evil in this case. So don't criticize me. Or, if you do - wait - this is getting confusing - let's just get to it and not worry about me being hypocritical. OK, THEN...

I enjoy critics. I enjoy hearing other peoples thoughts on things that I am unfamiliar with. Q's reviews on new albums. Ebert's thoughts on a new movies. Bumpus's experiences with homosexual love. Ok. That said, here is what I can't stand.

Say someone writes a review of a book. I believe that, if the review is longer than the book, it is no longer a review, but a book, itself.

WOW! you know what? this post is really going nowhere. rather than kick into super self-editing mode, i'm just going to stop where I am. Usually, I would delete this entire post and write one sentence in it's place. Something like:

Who put the bop in the bop-shoo-bop-she-bop?

Well, not gonna delete it today. Why, you ask. Well, for every post that you see on this page, there were 2 or 3 posts before it that I probably deleted (by accident or on purpose). Let this post act as their gravestone. Their epitaph. To the thousands of deleted posts out there. All witty and useless. Like the hour-long one that Betsy wrote with me that accidentally got deleted. yep. I will go no further with this one.

going to New York tomorrow. Broadway opening of Spamelot! Can't wait. Undoubtedly, there will be much talk of father's smelling of elderberrries and air-speed velocities of unladen swallows. Well, cheerio!

I was watching PBS the other day when I noticed something. It seems like the cool thing to do if you're an assassin is to throw your middle name in whenever possible. For instance:

John Wilkes Booth

Lee Harvey Oswald

James Earl Ray

Mark David Chapman

Nothing new, right? Then it occured to me that sooo many of today and yesterday's child actors have the same moniker. I.E.:

Mark-Paul Gosselar

Soleil Moon Frye

Brian Austin Green

Haley Joel Osment

Anthony Michael Hall


Coincidence? I think NOT!

I am most joyous! I just purchased this movie--> for $14.00!!!


i will be in vhs heaven....

I have bad news for y'all. John Burt has unfortunately gone from the title of New England Pennypincher to that of Mississippi Cheapskate. He called me while eating dinner the other night. I asked him if he was eating an assorted bag of chicken parts, washing it down with Busch Light (as was his dinner every night when I lived with him). I don't exactly know what I expected for an answer, but it was not the one that he gave me. "You're right on the chicken," John exclaimed, "but no more Busch Light for me." Then, at the moment that I thought that Burt couldn't be any more, well, Burtish, he exclaimed to me what it was that he was drinking. My heart sank as I heard the words "Natty Light" roll from his lips. My deafening laugh was met by the Worst John Burt Rationalization EVER....

"Well... It's in a bottle!"

WHAT?! Oh, a bottle! Yeah! You must lose that just-pissed-out-by-a-dirty-Mexican taste when it's canned. God forbid. Let me tellyasumthin, Johnny Boy. You dress a turd in a tuxedo, I still ain't eatin' the shit. And as for your frugalness - Natural Light is just crossing the damn line, pal. Crossing the damn line.

NEW LOOK FOR TEH BLAHG! wOOt wOOt!

Being fired today really doesn't bother me...

...what bothers me is that I am now the target demographic for datime TV commercials.

Can you say "UNEMPLOYED?"

Bam. hBoMb's door opens. He exits his office with box.

He is now in a state of advancing melancholy, slightly unhinged.
Many of the other agents now try not to watch him leaving.

hBoMb
Well, don't worry! I'm not going
to do what you think I'm going to
do, which is FLIP OUT!

hBoMb
(continuing)

hBoMb goes to a water dispenser, calming himself, and fills
a small Dixie cup. Downs it and fills it again, rubbing his
face..

hBoMb
(continuing)
But let me just say, as I ease out
of the office I helped build --
sorry, but it's a fact --

ON DOROTHY -- WATCHING

from her cubicle.

hBoMb
-- that there is such a thing as
manners. A way of treating
people...

He notices the fish tank nearby. He attemps to be profound.

hBoMb
(continuing)
These fish have manners! They
have manners.

And now hBoMb feels bravado, mixed with a wave of anger.
Another cup of water as he finds power.

hBoMb
(continuing)
In fact. They're coming with me!
I'm starting a new company, and
the fish will come with me and...
you can call me sentimental.

He begins dipping into the tank, grabbing the one exotic fish
that failed to escape his cup. It's a fire-tailed Peruvian
beauty. He grabs a baggie from an assistant's desk, shakes
out some crumbs, and dumps the fish inside.

hBoMb
(continuing; to fish)
it's okay... it's okay...

Nearby, a Xerox Repair Guy watches the human train wreck.

hBoMb
(continuing)
But if anybody else wants to come
with me, this moment will be the
ground floor of something real and
fun and inspiring and true in this
godforsaken business and we will
do it together! Who's coming with
me besides... "Flipper" here?

But clearly even Flipper is not happy with the new
arrangement. Panicked, he whips around the small baggie.

hBoMb
(continuing)
Anybody going with me?

Silence, someone coughs, as laboratory and office personnel look
on with equal parts pity and embarrassment. hBoMb downs
another small cup of water. His lid is blowing off with each
second.

hBoMb
(continuing)
Wendy? Shall we?

Assistant Wendy looks at hBoMb. Painfully polite:

WENDY
I'm three months away from the pay
increase, hBoMb. I have to, uh...
you know, stay.

hBoMb absorbs the blow, and takes the keys from the top of
her desk. She can't look at him. hBoMb stands alone, the
pictures of hBoMb's flat tire on Wendy's desk sits accusingly
in frame. There is only silence now, the loudest kind.

hBoMb
Okay, anybody else?

ON bRe@l

She looks around. Doesn't anybody believe in the very thing
they were applauding three days ago? She has an odd
reaction, a muscle twitch of the soul. Before she knows it,
she stands boldly, unfortunately knocking a cup of coffee
onto herself in the process.

bRe@l
I'll go with you.
(quietly, on her
coffee mess)
Wonderful...

She dabs at her pants. Next to her, KONA looks on sadly.

ON hBoMb halfway across the office.

hBoMb
bRe@l e@kub@! Thank you!

She gathers her things, increasingly aware of what she's done.

JERRY, i mean, ah, hBoMb
(continuing)
We will see you all again. Sleep
tight!


and, yes, I did get fired today.

Finally. I swear Blogger.com was down. That's why I couldn't blog. It was not due to my laziness or lack of care. Actually, it was because of my laziness. Yeah. I'm lazy. But Blogger.com was down. anyhoo...


A word to all managers and supervisors: if you are going to terminate an employee, and they know that they are going to be terminated, let's expedite things, ok?! Don't make them wait all day to be fired. Get it over with in the morning. This whole "will I/won't I" bullshit is completely unnecessary.

Oh, yeah, I think Genzyme might fire me today, by the way. The worst thing they could do now is not fire me. I'm full of piss and vinegar today. Ready for a tussle. Let's get er done! Bring it aawwwwnnnnn!!!!

Down with Eisner!

The silence has ended. The curtain has lifted. I am back. Back to sanity and back to work. Now that my blog is the sole survivor, I will reap the benefit of my singularity. All attention to me! All attention to me!

Can I just tell you how much I LOOOOVE Corporate America? A lot! Only in Corporate America can you return to work after a seven-month trip to the nuthouse to find a Final Written Notice sitting on your desk to welcome you back. Yup. Genzyme doesn't like me being sick, I guess. Who knew?

In other news, I don't care about my job anymore. I care about earning money. I care about challenging myself. I just don't care for this place. I would respond to a "You're Fired!" with a resounding "Meh." Fuck it, I say. I don't need the headache anymore.

Subsequently, if your job is hiring, put in a good word for yours truly. Your workplace will be filled with the inane ramblings and the unbridled pessimism that is made up by one H. Rockwell Sumner, III. A win-win situation if you ask me.

be back latah.


-h

Ya'Har! Avast ye, matey!

yup.

Oh yes. Thanksgiving was a big "thums up." Notice I said "Thanksgiving" not "Turkey Day." I do not believe that T-giving should be called turkey day. It takes away it's identity. Any day can be turkey day. Like everyday is Prince Spaghetti Day. Especially the days after thanksgiving when all I eat are cold turkey leftovers. Turkey Day is supposed to be like the Politically Correct version for the non-religious or sumthing. Whaaaaatever. Thanksgiving is about family and tryptophan. If you wanna hold hands and be all Jesusy, go ahead.

yup. back at work.

So, I'm hosting Thanksgiving at my house this year. Food will be cooked on my small stove. It'll be like cooking on a doll house stove.

The turkey will be cooked on the grill. Yes, grill. It will be rubbed with the finest of spices and then a can of beer will be shoved up it's ass (much like the above picture). Wood charcoal will be the fuel. I must start the cooking now. First up - quiche florentine. Wish me luck.

Yeah, I've been spending my free time playing GTA4, so fuckin what about it??!!

Here you go, Bump.


Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas Review.

So. You've pretty much done all that you can do with Tommy Vercetti. You've crashed a shitload of crotchrockets. You've found all of the special packages. You've left enough Vice Citizens limping around with one leg. Ok. Basically San Andreas takes Vice City and places it in the Dre Day music video. Your name is CJ Jefferson. Your mom got capped and you've just returned home from out east after a five-year hiatus. The first thing you do is hop on a bicycle and peddle home. If you thought Vercetti started underpriviledged, then you will see CJ as straight-up bootleg.

This game is a cross between the Sims and GTA. Basically, you gain weight if you eat, you lose weight if you run, and you get jacked if you workout. They actually say, "You have become jacked." At this point, you can get haircuts, grow mustaches, and buy new clothes (one of the first missions is to reprazent with you're gangs colors). There is a stamina meter, a fat meter, a muscle meter, a bicycle skill meter, a fighting skill meter, and, most importantly, a respect meter. To gain respect, you have to "wet" other gangs and spraypaint over their tags.

Gameplay is exactly the same. One thing that didn't make sense was that Vercetti couldn't swim. He lived at a fucking beach, man. The thing that doesn't make sense in this game is that CJ can swim. You have about as much chance of seeing an innercity guy swimming as you do seeing them on a ski slope. But, whatever.

Other new things are this:

-the bikes bunny hop

-you can target people when you punch them

-you can break into houses and steal shit

-you smoke weed

-the music is siiiick (i.e. Faith No More, RATM, Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, Tom Petty)

-the city is 5 times bigger than Vice City

-you get called a "marq" by people walking by


Other than that, it's pretty much like Vice City, so far. It just added a lot more fronting.

So, I say, it is better than Vice City (if that's possible). Throw down forty clams and buy it for chrissakes. Like you needed this review to tell you it was good. Sheesh.

So, I bought GTA: San Andreas and forgot to post... Sue me. I'm making up for it now.

Some of you may be wondering where I was for the past week. Welp, here's your answer - I was in the psychiatric ward. The looney bin. The nuthouse. The rrrrubber rrrroom. I checked myself in voluntarily on Tuesday night.

So... my first thoughts were that of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I expected to run into Danny Devito and Chief Broom. I expected lobotomies and electro-shock. I expected Nurse Ratchet to be doling out meds from a little window. Well, there weren't any lobotomies, nor any elecro-shocks, nor any Danny Devitos. I did, however, once get my meds through a little window.

I have clinical depression. It is completely attributed to a chemical imbalance. My brain is having a slight problem producing seratonin (the chemical most associated with social interaction). Because of this, I became isolated and extremely depressed. I chose a knife from our kitchen selection and was set on slitting my wrists. Heavy shit, I know. Obviously, I still had a bit of sanity left to place down the knife and ask for help. Yes, I actually admitted defeat. Mr Control passed over the steering wheel.

So, now I'm on the rebound. I'm taking seminars and meeting with psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors, social workers, occupational thereapists - you name it. I'm taking a seratonin inhibitor (Wellbutrin) to coax my body into producing more. It also acts like Ritalin to quell my severe ADD (which, also, was just diagnosed). I've bought Full-Spectrum lightbulbs to keep my house bright. I even began painting again. All to keep me from getting pulled down again.

I am not cured of my sickness. There apparently is no cure. It can come and go dependant on my environment and brain chemistry. Luckily, it isn't one of those my-friends-have-to-walk-on-eggshells-around-me type situations. It actually helps to talk about the serious shit sometimes.

So, let's not dwell on this. It's nice to be back and I'm thankful for the support of my friends and family. The blog will continue as it always has (with the exception of fewer negative posts). When I have more time, I'll go into more detail about the psych ward. S'all 4 now. hbomb out!

Howard Sumner: reporting in for duty. I will post later this afternoon. It's nice to be back.

2 things about Local News that I'm starting to get sick of:

1 - Red Sox Fever: Yes. We won. Great. Everyone is happy. Fine. Enough with the fucking bandwagon fairweather shit. EVERYONE is rocking the fresh new Sox cap. News anchors cannot stop talking about the Curse. It's fucking baseball! Isn't there a war going on?

2 - Ridiculous Statistics About the Upcoming Election: Obviously it is looking like a close presidential race. Fine. We know this. What we don't need to know is that every election has coincided with a Seminoles victory. I don't care if a frost before November 1st means a Democratic win. I, myself, have gas the day before a Democratic win. It really does not matter. We are either going to have a Jesus-freak Cowboy that'll send our money overseas or a horse-faced bleeding-heart that'll send our money to lazy-ass old people and welfare leeches. Whether my shit is purple and smells like rainbow sherbert has nothing to do with it.

So let me get this straight...

The Red Sox are well on their way to becoming World Champions...

The Patriots are 21 games undefeated...

AND I actually showed up at work today!

I hope Hell has mittens.

I finally found out where all of the cowboys have gone:

68% Bleeding-heart Liberals with ponytails.
26% Wealthy Republicans with large ranches and oil refineries.
4% Wowed Hollywood with leathery demeanor and one-armed push-ups.
2% Curled up and turned into tumbleweed, blowing across the mighty plains for eternity.

As I awoke this morning, I found myself hammering another nail into the coffin that houses my career. Simply put - another day-off. For the past five days, my seratonin levels have been causing a tempest in my head. A few happy moments swirling with many deep, dark thoughts. Like drowning in a dark, stagnant pond. With leeches. And snapping turtles. Today is a head-out-of-water day. The day of exhaustion that usually follows the treading of depressed waters. Today I look back at the past few days and ponder A)what the hell I was thinking and B)why the hell was I thinking it. I usually go about this in a personal way. I become withdrawn. I keep things to myself. Today, however, I am going to blog.

I am an introvert. The days that I do not blog are usually the days that I do not come out of my shell. I still think about funny shit. I still make fun of people. I still get mad at Route 2 drivers - I just keep it to myself.

Did I mention that I hate my job?

It's not that I hate science and labwork, more that I hate the things that I have to do in order to get to the actual science and labwork. The social interaction.

I put up a good front. For some reason, I give the impression of a fun-loving, easy-going jolly guy. I'm always the one willing to do the stupid shit. The first one to yell out the car window. The first one to crack a joke. This, however, is not me. In truth, I am extrememly introverted and very unsure of myself. I am hyper-critical of everything that I do. I can remember almost any insult that has come my way - but cannot remember a single compliment. I am ego dychotic.

When I show up to work, I don't want to talk to people. I want to do my job and get the fuck out. Don't ask me about my house. Don't ask me about the Sox. I do not want to talk to you.

Unfortunately, this is not how the Corporate World works. To get ahead where I work, you've got to be all smiles and "how ya doins." You have to front. You have to be shallow. You have to talk to people that are hollow and not let it bother you that you know they talk shit behind your back. Happy face. Spring in your step.

For three years I put up with this shit. Going as far as wearing a tie to accompany my shit-eating grin. I bought in. I sold out. Only to find myself turning into a hollow, meaningless employee with no recognition and no friends. So, I stopped. I stopped being Mr. Eatshitandlikeit. I tried being myself.

One year, one ulcer, one back tear, one drug addiction, and one nervous breakdown later - here I am. Further behind than I was 4 years ago.

I'm getting prepared to pull up the ole bootsraps once again and take it like the prison-bitch, cubicle-jockey that I am. Getting ready to swallow my pride for a carrer that I dislike just so that I can live in a house that only offers assholes a conversation piece.

As I have said before - I am done with science. Done in the educational scence, at least. I will continue to work for the Faceman Corporation until I can find another job that seems cool for the first few months then sucks the soul out of me slowly. Ahhh, the American Dream!


Now, how bout them Sox?!!!

Stay away from Boston for the next few days. The forecast calls for tired and grumpy as more and more Red Sox fans stay up late just to watch our team lose.

In other news, the Beastie Boys concert was top-notch. Very few new songs, very many old ones (even Paul Revere). Karma played its part as the marq that was standing up and dancing right in front of me was subsequently removed by security and arrested for possesion of the wackiest of tobbacies.

I need a nap.

Skittle-dee-doo-bop...

Happy Birthday Singer: (Baroque)
Birthday, birthday, birthday for you
It's hard to believe another year is through

(punk rock)
Slipping though the leaps of time!
Cosmic trav'ler with mirror eyes
doth peer from between his mother's thighs
Blood slick and with purple skin
The babe doth emerge from her vagina within
While the mother screams like a witch
Like a bitch!
Happy birthday!

(spoken, baroque)
Stare into the cold light of life.
You will see it again. You WILL see it again

Druid Choir:
And what is this cold dark world
Upon whose shores I'm so rudely thust
Love it. And doth the masked man delivers a smack
Unkind! Unjust!?

Happy Birthday Singer:
Father, is that you?
Though clouds of the dark mill flew
It's a boy. It's a girl.
It's a soul, or is it?
(maniacal laughter)
(spoken)
Mother is that you? It's my birthday!

Witch: (evil laughter) I have a secret for your ear, not your eye.
The moment you are born you begin to die.

Happy Birthday Singer: Crone, begone!

Witch: Away! Fulfill your destiny. Unwind the clock. Happy Birthday! AAAAHHH!!

Happy Birthday Singer: Thou knowest me not! With this sword, I claim thee into the world Through the stormy deep the babe is hurled! Tretreh Gramerton!!

Druid Choir: Ah, ah, ah, ah. Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday.

Happy Birthday Singer: Oh, Braxis. Oh, Braxis I give myself to thee! (baroque) NOOOO! Why this shattered life?! Why was I born a woman?! Hideous vision, what wouldst thou with me?

Wizard: Happy birthday!

Happy Birthday Singer: Weary traveller who are you?

Wizard: I'm Eternity!

Happy Birthday Singer: Wiltst thou let me pass on this journey?

Wizard: (punk rock)
If you answer me this riddle
Than Ascott's treasure shall be thine
In the name of Thor! Who is your father?
Who is your father? What is the answer? Mortal, speak!
Happy birthday!

Happy Birthday Singer:
No, can it be?
The answer that you seek is..
It's me!
It's me!
It's me!
Happy birthday!

(falcon sceeches, music ends)


Happy Birthday, Bets.

Unnecessary thought of the day:

Why did America's forefathers decide to go all the way to Africa for slaves when there was an abundance of Native Americans here to begin with? I mean, c'mon, think overhead, people.

And now... Some mind farts:

Marshfield, Massachusetts - the next Columbine?

How 'bout them Sox!

He's got big-apple-pie-in-the-(beat)-sky-ah-y hopes...

I ate pizza last night. It was delicious.

Whatever happened to the long, blonde musical stylings of Nelson?

My car is having acceleration problems.

My body is having acceleration problems.

You shouldn't eat an hour before bedtime. You'll get a tummy ache.

70 degrees Fahrenheit is the money temperature.

Shortest thought of the day: taking a crap in the visitor's office just so that I can forget about it, then, be reminded of it when I hear someone yell "Awwwwww!" from down the hall.

Emotion Lotion! Takin it to the sta-hars!

In a country where you can neither swear (Dale Earnhardt Jr.), nor show your breast (Ms. Jackson) on the airwaves, it is with the utmost disgust that Paris Hilton is as popular as she is. Riding upon her grandparents coat tails, she has, somehow, propelled herself to super-stardome. I wouldn't even bother to give this slutty media-whore a second of thought if it were not for the abundance of sheer annoyance that she leaves in her wake. Paris can do whatever she wants. She can make pornos, write books, be on TV, whatever. I don't care. I don't watch Access Hollywood or ET. I don't waste my time with "Entertainment" Magazines that schill out "stories" about "important" people and what they wear/do/say. I have my own life. I care about my circle of friends. Everyone else is fuckall. This being said, Parisisms have crept into loved ones vernacular.

"That's hot."

If you want to leave a good first impression on me, DO NOT say these words. Immediately, I will associate you with that cumdumpster and a low IQ. I will know that you haven't a personality of your own. I will see the sadness that is your life and the reaching that you perform in order to emulate a useless media squirt's acceptance. Do not be Paris. She is not hot. She is not smart. That is all.

"Hey there, Howie! Where've you been?!"
I've been hooked on Vi-co-din.
"Rehab, huh? What's that like?"
Well, simply take the seat off your bike.
Now ride over a set of ruts,
Till the post is up to your guts.
Then swallow some shards of glass,
Get hit in the head till you're on your ass.
Continue for 3 days again and again,
It's withdrawral from Vicodin!



I'm back at work. No more talk about my health. Moving ahead, moving ahead. I hope to receive the LOCOBAZOOKA pictures ASAP. With them, I will be re-re-re-re-editing my blog. I will obtain a host for pictures that will allow me to be more creative with this page. More pictures and whatnot. Until then, I will have to just entertain you with my piss-poor poetry and complaints about commuting.


RIP, Rodney.

Another Monday. Get used to it. Only 40 odd years until retirement age. That is if Social Security still exists. Then it may 50 or 60 years. Then I'll be too old to know what day it is anyway. I'll be complaining about whipper-snappers and watching The Price is Right, while drooling all over myself in my beige armchair. I had a nice taste of being old and retired for that month.5 that I was injured. It was nice. Except for the back pain and the bathroom trips - but I digress...

Where have all of the cowboys gone? Really?

Why is Hollywood afraid of something that will BLOW THEIR MINDS???!!!

Why are the totally hot, slutty chicks always hanging out with the kid in the X5 with his collar up?

Why do bums expect me to give them change?

Why does Donald Trump insist on keeping that orange dirvish called a hairstyle?

What, exactly, is Funky Cold Medina and how do I get some?

Why is a song about scoring Herion used for Carnival Cruiseline commercials?

Who did put the bop in the bop-she-bop-she-bop? The ram in the ram-a-lama-ding-dong?

Yup. Monday. Here we go....

yeah. no, seriously - i'm back. My time of self-indulgence has ended. I am now hopefully entering a stage of self-improvement. We shall see.

I just came back from a quite-intense fishing trip with my father. We hit up Salmon River in Puloski, NY this past weekend. As many of you probably can attest, there was much waiting around as desert was sssslllllooooowwwwwllllllyyyyy eaten by my father. Let's just put it this way - my dad could never win an eating contest. The booth would be taken away before he's done eating. And then he'd order dessert.

My father is also what i would like to call and Unopportunistic Shitter. More than once, I have found myself seatbelted with the car running when my father decides it's time to drop the 'ole kids off. It's worse when there are other people waiting.

The trip was great. I was working my 10ft pole in my waders and corkers. A regular fishy mcgee. My opinion of New Yorkers definitely got strengthened on this trip. NEW YORKERS ARE THE WORST COMPETITORS EVER. Big cheaters, New Yorkers. Their idea of fishing invloves a big sinker, styrofoam on a hook, and snagging. They won't allow the fish to eat the bait, NO! they've gotta foul-hook every fucking thing. I saw a kid rack up $350 in fines for snagging fish. I also saw a Frenchman and a Game Warden get into a fistfight. "Fah Cue, Monsyuuuer Game War-den!" then BAM! Frenchy on the ground. Awesome.

As for fish... we ain't caught shit. I got a few "big hits" from salmon but the only thing I ended up reeling in were a few Chubs - basically the Kato Kaelins of the fish world. No good to nobody.

Sloth. Best sin ever. With the aid of Vicodin, Robaxin, Valium and a plethora of remote controls, I became the epitome of laziness for the entire month of August. Had I more time, I believe that I probably would have turned into that fat guy from Seven. Ahhh, but that goal will never be attained...

I am back at work. Full-time.

Work sucks when compared to doing an entire month of nothing. I have to wake up at a certain time. I have to drive. I have to talk to "people." I have to do "things." Dammit! It was almost worth the unbearable back pain.

I've gotta go. Lot's of paperwork to do. I'll try to sneak in an under-desk nap a la Kastanza. I don't think it'll fly, though.

The blog is back in Biznaazzzz!

late.

This Blog lacks. Don't worry, I'll be back into the swing of things after Suchecki's wedding (2 weeks). Until then... read a book. Take a walk. Fly a kite. The blog will be going through some changes. Fear not!

Yeah, so, updates have been few and far between. Well, movements have also been few and far between. I've been in a Valium-indused haze for the past week. For some reason, I have grown a strong affinity for the Teletubbies. I think my next banner may be of the Tinky-Winky sort.

But, I digress... While laid-up, I have had time to watch pretty much every movie in my arsenal (and aquire many more). I am currently hooked on the Dr. Who Key of Time Series. This is a most glorious time-travel adventure in which the good Doctor must assemble pieces of the Time Key. Although this sci-fi stuff may be rather lackluster to the majority of you, I believe that there is at least one point of interest in this Dr. Who series: the mouth herpes that Tom Baker has aquired and the subsequent plot revolving around explaining them.

You see, the first few episodes have foundation make-up trying to cover up the Good Doctor's Scars of Sin. Later, when the herpes have grown too obvious for the BBC make-up artists to cover, the Doctor is involved in a Tardis crash. He hits his mouth on the Control Panel and VOILA! the herpes are explained. Then he is later slapped in the mouth to explain the re-occurance of this dreaded mouth abhorration. I find this rather amusing. A whole episode of Doctor Who based upon the covering-up of Mr. Baker's herpes. I wonder how he contracted them. I bet it was Doctor Groupies. You've gotta pull tons of tail with a white-man-afro like his. And the scarf - huge with the ladies.

s'all fer now.

And now...
 
An hBoMb Update:
 
Current Mindstate:  Listless/Lethargic
Daily Activities:  Lying Motionless on Couch/Complaining/Whining/Sleeping
Number of Hot Baths Taken Since Yesterday: 3
Number of Back Muscles Torn: 2
Medications Taken: Valium/Vicodin/Motrin/Jewish Penicillin
Number on Miles Run to Add to Muscle Tear: 3
 
 
Ok, then.  sitting upright is starting to lose its appeal.   Talktoyalater.

Yippy yo. I've been gone for a long time. I left you with my weak-ass Cosby poem. Tho thorry. Anyhoo... I spent the past few days in Plymouth, Mass. Home of the Plymouth Rock. Plimoth Plantation. Angry Native Americans. Also the home of many-a-fat woman with big hair and pictures of cats on their hoodless sweatshirts. If any of you have ever been to Plymouth Rock, you will agree that it is less than impressive. One reason is that it is wicked small. Another reason is that their are usually beercans and diapers floating around it. I walked the Strip, looking for a reasonably-priced "Plymouth Rocks" t-shirt. It has a pilgrim playing a guitar on it. It is most choice. So I basically got eyed by all of the sketchy store-owners because I wasn't wearing khaki shorts, sunglasses with a strap, polo shirt, mandals, and fleece with the collar up. Apparently everyone got together and decided on this Cape Uniform. I stole some Cranberry Saltwater Taffy so I guess they were right. They just weren't very good at watching me. Their also weren't very good at making Saltwater Taffy. That shit was gross. Imagine someone took a dirty tissue and wrapped it in a plastic bag. Then they added two tablespoons of salt to it. That's about what it tasted like.

I also sat on a "Customer's Only" bench and watched the same cars drive by. Apparently, the cool thing to do in Plymouth is to drive your mom's Ford Contour around and blast JAMN 94.5 with your window rolled down. Yup. Plymouth trully does rock, my friends.

Sometimes, it's really just not that easy to find a topic to blog about. Usually, I'll comb the local headlines or think about any and all horseshit that I watched on TV. So, what's going on at CNN.com... Ah, Bill Cosby. Getting more and more disgruntled. Well, let's write a poem entitled:

Fizzle Fazzle Floozum Flop

Kids can say the darndest things,
"Playah hatin'" and wearing their "blings."
They've turned into "illiterate, laughing gigglers,":
If only they bought some Jello Jigglers.
All of this crime really needs to stop,
Fizzle Fazzle Floozum Flop.
The Huxtables need to be their role models,
Drink their New Coke from recyclable bottles.
They're hooked on pot, coke, and crack,
Should be taking photos with film by Kodak.
They need to buy a Jello Pudding Pop,
Fizzle Fazzle Floozum Flop.
The Black Community is stuck in a rut,
Elvin is a jackass; Olivia - a slut.
Illiteracy is affecting blacks of all ages,
If only they had watched Picture Pages.
Kids listen to their hippin' and a hop,
Fizzle Fazzle Floozum Flop.
These days, Roach pushes around a mop,
Fizzle Fazzle Floozum Flop.

So Killion is in the market for a car. This got me a-thinkin', "what car would Killion want?" Well, I've come up with a few. You may or may not know Kill, but - there's no denying it - these cars rule. I present:

CARS FOR KILL -

Ecto 1: Start it off with a classic. That's right for only $4,800 and some suspension work, and shocks, and brakes, brake pads, lining, steering box, transmission, rear end, maybe new rings, also mufflers, and a little wiring, Kill could own a piece of ghostbusting history. Oom Blare! Oom Blare!

Mad Max Interceptor: What better way to chase aroung the Ayatolla of Rock 'n' Rolla than in your very own apocalyptic cop car? And you can kill people for their gas! Cha-ching!

Huppich's Mom's Le Car: Complete with rust spots that you tell everyone are bullet holes, this Renault 5 oozes French confidence. Le Cars are Le Crap, but at least they fit into tough parking spaces.

Delorean DMC 12: Hook up a lightening rod for 1.21 Giggowatts and you're on your way to intercept the Libians. You'll never worry about being late to your trials anymore - just hit 88 MILES PER HOUR and you're travelling back in tiy-ya-ime! Just watch out for Biff, butthead.

Matsui's Motorbike: From Akira. You're tall but you won't look goofy on this bike. And your sweet leather pill jacket will look nasty. The theme music says it all: Dun...Dun...Dun...

That's all I have time for now. Talktoyalater.

The thing about Television Programming is this: if they have a "hit," God knows they're going to ride it out until it is completely destroyed.

Case and Point: Reality TV. Survivor sucks. Never liked it. Never will. Reality TV has been around 4 eva. America's Funniest Home Videos was the precursor to the non-acting apocalypse that was to follow. I blame you, Sagat. You and Vin Di Bona. Then The Real World boiled out the cheesy jokes and found the true grit the "real" people wanted - voyeurism. Survivor made a game out of it. American Idol involved the audience. And now the non-stop Burnett/Bunim Juggernaut continues with Fear Factor, Last Comic Standing (which I like), World's Littlest Groom (!), Joe Millionaire, Bachelor, Bachelorette, Next Action Hero (y'ok), American Jumiors, Cops (best ever),Paradise Hotel, Class Reunion, Temptation Island, American Top Model, American Chopper, Real World, Road Rules, Real World/Road Rules Challenge, etc., etc.

Case and Point: Law and Order. A good show. Factual? Naw. Entertaining? Sure. There are like 20 Law and Orders now. All the same, damn show. One has Ice-T. He's from the streets. He's a no-nonsense guy that tells it like it is. A graduate from the school of Hard Knocks. This makes it different from the other 31 Law and Orders out there (11 new ones sprung up since I started writing). Soon to come - Law and Order: When Animals Become Severe Victims and Must Attack In a Court of Law.

Case and Point: The Cosby Show. Ahhh. I remember watching the Cosby Show when it was on ABC. I remember Theo. I remember Denise. Rudy. Bud. Cockroach. Good times. Then Denise starts doing soft-core and Sondra comes out of fucking nowhere. Sondra ruined everything. She made way for Elvin. Then Denise comes back with Martin the Sailor. Then Elvin and Sondra form the perfect symbiosis of evil and annoyance with the dreaded OLIVIA! I hate Olivia. Raven Simone can die. So then the writers and ole Bill realize that the show sucks and cancel it. Immediately, the Simpsons start up. Yay! Then comes The PJ's. Then Everybody Loves Raymond. Worst. Show. Ever. How this schmoe has any fans is well beyond me. George Lopez Show? Busch. Quintuplets? Busch. Hangin with Mr. Cooper? Busch. Busch. Raven Simone. Busch. Sitcoms suck. Writers that can't make it big in movies work there.

Case and point: CSI. I like(d) CSI. It was an entertaining show. It basically was a crime-drama with a shitload of "crime-speak" and plotlines that never told you enough to figure out the ending. It was good, for a while. Then we get CSI: Miami. David Caruso is the man (Session 9?). Anyhoo, "Miami" is the same, exact show, only set in Miami instead of Las Vegas (i.e. instead of casinos and hookers, it has speedboats and old people). OK, so now there's CSI: New York. Bootleg. Gary Sinese? Bootleg. So I decided to watch the two CSIs the other week. Usually, I can't figure out the killer. Why? Because the writers don't give the intuitive mind enough to information work with, thus, every killer is a "surprise." Well, not this week. Unfortunately, both CSI (and 2 Law and Orders) ALL HAD THE SAME ACTOR PLAYING THE BAD GUY! One week saw the same frigging guy in 4 different crime shows, all playing the murderer. I thought I was losing my mind. I thought that either I was on the level of Sherlock Holmes or I was so in-tune to the maniacal mind of a psycho-killer, that I could easily pick them out from the crowd of useless crime-drama extras. I was neither. I was just another victim of poor
programming, poor casting, and too much time on my hands.

That's it, I'm done with Network Television. Ok, maybe not.

I no longer base my definition of "success" upon monetary accumulation. I feel that money is the one thing you can never have enough of. and sex (but sex is ok). Not that money is a bad thing, just that I feel that one should not base their life goals upon it. It's shallow. Shallow as in "non-satisfactory" not as in "like, I would never date an ugly person. Ew." I have been chewing on this thought for a while. It was stuck in my craw, if you will.

I have decided, since I'm sure you're sooooo captivated by this post, to base my definition of "success" upon self-fullfillment. Selfishness. If I'm happy, then I'm successful. Money is not making me happy. It's good to live with, but not good to live by. This decision has led to a few little changes:

1. I am no longer a Republican. If money is not my goal, Republican is not my party. I am, however, not a Democrat. Don't ever think that something can lead me to that. I may have lost my party, but I have not lost my mind. The goal of Modern-day Republicans is two-fold: Money Accumulation and Moral Precedence. I have always had a problem with the whole Morality thing (being that Republicans define "moral" as "Christian"). Now, the money accumulation thing doesn't really float my boat, either. Not that I'm Anti-Republican, just that I no longer feel well-represented in that party.

2. I am changing my major to... Philosophy. Yeah. A true sign of someone that doesn't strive for monetary success. It's just that Biology constrains my creativity too much. I can hypothesize well, but I'm getting sick of this day-in/day-out bullshit. I am a mouse on a wheel, keeping myself busy until I die. I feel that I have more to offer than that. So there.

3. I will minor in English. If this blog has done anything for me, it has allowed me to appreciate my own writing skill. This blog is very watered-down, if you can believe it. I have a lot more deep shit going on than I write about here. But this is not my forum for that kind of stuff. This is where I have fun. Get fruitless shit off my chest. Only when the lines blur (like right now) do things get confusing. This blog will remain my outlet.

That's it. By the way, the Kegger is postponed for a later date. Details to come...

Transformers rule. No ifs, ands, buts. Everything associated with them has kicked much ass. I just bought a PS2 Transformers game and I'm hooked. I highly recommend purchase. Bump and I came across this internet gem the other day. Crank the volume and kick it old skool with Soundwave, yo.

Alright. I'm having a KEG PARTY! July 3rd. You're all invited. YOu know where to reach me.

It's Kill's Birthday. Happy birthday, Chah-hee!

Tapered pants. What is it about MIT geeks and their fascination with the L look? The L look, for the unfamiliar, is when you wear tapered jeans and big, white hi-tops, causing you to resemble the letter L. MITers love this gear. I thought they were supposed to be smart. Am I missing something? Fat ladies also like tapered pants. They wear black ones with stirrups. And sweatshirts with cats heads on them. And while we're on fat ladies, why do all fat nurses wear scrubs with rainbows, clowns, or smiley-faces on them. You're a nurse, dress like a damn professional. If I'm lying on the OR table and look over to see a fat lady wearing scrubs with kittens on it and her hands on my intestines, I will leave. No fat cat scrub lady touching me. NO!

Yeah, so... tapered jeans. they suck. don't buy them.

Well, hello! How are ya? We haven't spoken for some time. I've been ODO (Outta Da Office). Thus, I have been inable to blog during work hours. If you must know, I have been taking a seminar on Effective Technical Writing. If you don't care, well, fuck you.

Moving on... During my absence, I have been privvy to many-a-societal observation. The subsequent lack of a computer, however, has deterred me from sharing my "witty" banter and "thoughtful" prose on many-a-subject. Well, sorry. I'm not going into those things right now. Looks like you missed out. Shoulda been hanging out with me instead of, I dunno, taking that powernap. I talked about legwarmers and scrunchies. I talked about how an upright collar is one step short of carrying a sign that says "I need attention." I even, in a round-about way, discovered the meaning of life. Well... should have been there. You blew it. Maybe you should call my house more often. Just leave a message if I don't answer it. I'm there, listening to your message. Screening. Analyzing your grammar and syntax. Laughing at you. You just can't hear me. "HAHAHA," I say, "I am actually AT home and CAN answer the phone! I just don't want to!" Then I'll call you back and we'll laugh. "The poor-man's caller ID," I'll call it. You'll laugh. Then, maybe, just maybe, I'll tell you the meaning of life. If you're good. All 4 now. toodles!

Oh, wait, one more thing... Here you go, Jon, I hope I made your day.

Michael Knight: I'm a little drunk, ole buddy. I think I need you to drive.

KITT: But, Michael, I don't really exist.

Michael Knight: C'mon, KITT, don't fuck with me!

KITT: Michael, you are talking to your convertible Chevy Cavalier. Your name isn't even Michael. It's David.

Michael Knight: Just drive. OOH GAH CHUCKA OOH GAH OOG GAH OOG GAH CHUCKA!

As it most likely is painfully aware to many of you, I can tend to be a negative person. Today, my negativity has reached epic proportions. There is no subsequent reason for this - just that I feel like being pissed off. And, well, I am pissed off. I'm not mad at you - the individual, per se, just mad at you - the whole. Even though I realize that most of my friends fit into the "cool" and "reasonably bright" categories, it's everyone else out there that throws things off scale. It is unfortuante for you that I am about to make this statement; but, the fraction isn't in your favor, chum. EVERYONE SUCKS. PEOPLE SUCK. YOU ARE ALL STUPID. Now, I am sure you are feeling all offended 'n' shit, thinking, "Hey, Howie, I am not stupid. I do not suck. What is the deal?!" To you I say this. Think about all of the people that you dealt with today. Think about all of the people that you saw on Good Morning America with fucking signs. Think about all of the poeple that watch Oprah and buy her damn magazines and her friggin Book of the Month shit. Think about kids with their Lacoste collars up. Think about soccer moms. Think about hockey dads. Think about Democrats. Think about the guy that caused the Plastic Fishing Worm manufacturers to write "Not For Human Consumption" on the packaging. Ok, now multiply all of those people by 1,000. That still doesn't come close to the number of frigging dumbfucks that are out there. Sorry, bucko, you may be a piece of that little numerator, just waiting for the that huge denominator to drop you on your goody-goody ass. I'm making generalizations here. You, unfortunately, did not make the cut. So, you're stupid. Everyone sucks. Step aside and buy a helmet, Skippy.

Friday. Yay. Friday before a 3-day weekend. Yay Yay. I haven't any plans for this coming Memorial Day weekend. I feel like I should. It is a THREEEEE day weekend. That's, like, one whole day more than a normal weekend. Even though I cannot tell you what I am going to do, I can tell you what I am not going to do:

I will not be going to the Cape.

I will not be driving on Rt. 3.

I will not be attaching anything to the roof of my car, such as: Car-top carrier, zodiac, mattress.

I will not go canoeing.

I will not paint my garage.

I will not do the dishes (just kidding, bump).

I will not not do anything.

I will not update my blog.

I will not sit on my couch, watching PBS for three days.

So there. Got that out of the way. Sometimes, stating what you're not going to do helps weed out things to do. Nope. Not in this case, however. Still nuthin. Welp... Drinking it is then.

First of all - if you type "www" before my web address, it won't work. I'm not even going to pretend to know why this happens. Just don't type www, ok?

The 2004 ROAD-TRIP WRAP-UP:

So, the monumental drive to Cali-for-nia and back has finally ended. Shit. I remember thinking that vacation seemed so far away. Before I knew it, it was time to leave. Before I knew it, I was back to work. Well, as they say, time flies when you're not listening to your overpaid coworkers bitch about how they deserve better treatment. Yup. Stands true. Anyhooooo..... I thought I would share my road experiences with you. Let's call it eight days of solid driving, boiled down and condensed into bite-size portions. Most of this is directed toward the Midwest, cuz, well, it sucks. I call this:

OBSERVATIONS AT 90 MILES PER HOUR:

1. Jesus saves, and apparently spends a lot of money on billboards.

2. The shadow creatures only come out after you've drank four XL cups of truckstop coffee.

3. In the Midwest, ashtrays are everywhere - even at the urinal. Smokin' and a pissin'!

4. Steaks go with everything. Chimichanga and steak. Apples and steak. Steak and steak.

5. It is possible to go 4 days without sleep. Three words: coffee, redbull, vodka.

6. If its looks and smells bad going in, it's worse coming out. Three words: coffee, redbull, vodka.

7. In the Midwest, the term "grilled chicken" means that the chicken is grilled, then breaded, then fried.

8. There is a point when motorcycles cease being rebellious and cross the line into Lazy-Boy.

9. Guys named Tiny are never small.

10.Every town in the MidWest claims to be the heart of Rt. 66. Nope. Lies.

11.Never expect a restaurant attatched to a gas station to be good.

12.With all of this anti-smoking shit everywhere, Big Tobacco has found a home - the Midwest.

13.The only color that gravy should come in is brown. White gravy is the first sign of the Apocalypse.

14.Just because something is old and has a pricetag does not make it an antique.

15.Betsy's favorite driving word is "douchebag."

16.Cameras, Betsy, and a moving car do not mix.

17.Do not, I repeat, NOT drive into the smoke. I don't understand why you would, but the signs clearly state. DO NOT DRIVE INTO THE SMOKE.

18.If a squirrel walks up to me, I will pat it and name it Nutsy. Or Nutkin. I don't care if I'm committing a felony. That shit never happens in Fitchburg.

FIN

Ok. So I've been slacking lately. Sue me. I am constantly confronted with the realization that I am no longer on vacation. It is starting to sink in. I deny it as much as possibly; however, it is creeping up on me like a dirty toilet. One day the shit's clean, the next - fucking ring around the shitter. Where'd it come from? Dunno. This is the feeling that the end of this vacation has left me with - a big fucking toilet ring.

Anyways... I got invited to a kegger tonight. I was looking forward to this soiree until Mr. Workaholic reared his combed-over head and offered to work tomorrow. What possessed me? The good ole American Dollar. That's what. The carrot in front of the donkey.

On a seperate note, I happened across a few kids at the VW dealership on Wednesday. I may not have payed much attention to them if it wasn't for Justin's obsession with kids wearing polo shirts with the collars up. There were three of them. Gelled hair. Frosted tips. Huge beaded chokers. All with their collars up. All looking at BMWs with an extremely hot chick by their side. That was one hot chick. Not one each. This led me to the assumption that she was there as either their fashion advisor or is just really dumb and thinks these guys are cool. Oh, did I mention that I was in Nashua, NH? Yeah. They were "flossin" it in New Hampsha. I figure they must've looked in the Tiger Beat magazine for what Seth from the OC was wearing. Then they got mom to drop them off at the mall and went to buy their clothes at Pac Sun. Then they walked over to Newbury Comics to accessorize. Then they hit up the Dellaria to get their hair done. $250 later, they propped up their collars, picked up the slut, and went to look at Bimmers. All that for my entertainment. That's a lot of effort to cheer me up fellas. I thank you.

I get to the Road-Trip Wrap-up ASAP. Scout's honor.

Back to life. Back to reality. Back to work at 6am. Shiiiiiiit. Lot's of catching up to do. Road Trip Rap-up blog soon to follow. Same hbomb time. Same hbomb channel.

Here are a few things to expect upon my arrival*:


-A glorious farmer's tan (aka the "Howie T-Shirt")

-A car both dirty on the inside and outside

-A fresh new haircut worn by yours truly

-A few new phrases including "that's kill" and "weeeak"

-A super laundry extravaganza

-A few complaints about the East Coast weather

-An assload of pictures soon to be scrapbooked and become a
co-lect-tion for the Co-llec-t0r

-A tent airing out in the back yard

-Me getting nervous about my tent being stolen out of the back yard (Fitchburg, hello?)

-A big hug

I'll be seeing you all soon. L8.

*not to be confused with Justin's "Things you can Expect from me upon my return." Totally different. yeah. enjoy.

One red, sunburt arm. Yup. I'm in New Mexico and I have one nasty burn on one nasty arm. Desert driving, my friends. That'll happen. I slept for the first time in 4 days last night. I never thought it was possible to go 4 days without sleep; but, now I can report - it is possible. The TDi has gone from dark blue to faded red. I have purchased a cowboy hat. I wear it often. Welp, we've gotta get out to Cali now. 12-hour drive in front of us. Petrified Forest. Cave paintings. Me in a cowboy hat. Gonna be good. Talktoyalater. Y'all come back now, ya'here!

I received an email today. It was in my non-spam account. It read as the following:

From: "Dr Mark Kuku"
>Reply-To:
>To: markuku@vndirect.net
>Subject: STRICTLY A PRIVATE BUSINESS PROPOSAL
>Date: Wed, 28 Apr 2004 05:56:51 -0500
>
>ECO INTERNATIONAL BANK PLC
>PLOT 84 AJOSE ADEOGUN STREET
>VICTORIA ISLAND LAGOS
>
>ATTN:PRESIDENT/CEO
>
>STRICTLY A PRIVATE BUSINESS PROPOSAL
>
>
>I am Dr Mark Kuku,a manager in the Bills and Exchange
>at the Foreign Remittance Department of the ECO
>INTERNATIONAL BANK I am writing this letter to ask for your
>support and cooperation to carry out this business
>opportunity in my department. We discovered an abandoned
>umf$15,000,000.00 (Fifteen million United States Dollars
>only) in an account that belongs to one of our foreign
>customers who died along with his entire family a wife and
>two children in ovember 1997 in a Plane crash.
>
>Since we heard of his death, we have been expecting his
>next-of-kin to come over and put claims for his money as
>the heir,because we cannot release the fund from his
>account unless someone applies for claim as the next-of-kin
>to the deceased as indicated in our banking guidelines.
>Unfortunately, neither their family member nor distant
>relative has everappeared to claim the said fund.
>
> Upon this discovery, I and other officials in my
>department have agreed to make business with you and
>release the total amount into your account as the heir of
>the fund since no one came for it or discovered he
>maintained account with our bank,otherwise the fund will be
>returned to the banks treasury as unclaimed fund.
>
>We have agreed that our ratio of sharing will be as stated
>thus;20 % for you as foreign partner,75 % for us the
>officials in my department and 5 % for the settlement of
>all local and foreign expences incurred by us and you
>during the course of this business.
>
>Upon the successful completion of this transfer, I and one
>of my colleagues will come to your country and mind our
>share .
>It is from our 75 % we intend to import Agricultural
>Machineries into my country as a way of recycling the fund.
>To commence this transaction,we require you to immediately
>indicate your interest by a return e-mail and enclose your
>private contact telephone number, fax number full name and
>address and your designated bank coordinates to enable us
>file letter of claim to the appropriate departments for
>necessary approvals before the transfer can be made.
>
>Note also, this transaction must be kept STRICTLY
>CONFIDENTIAL because of its nature.I look forward to
>receiving your prompt via my private/alternative email address
>markuku@fastermail.com
>response. FAX NUMBER234-1-7592911
>
>Best Regards
>
>
>Dr Mark Kuku.
>

Yeahhhhhhhp. Here's my reply:

Dear Dr. Kuku,

Oh, wow! That sounds great! I can't wait for the opportunity to help you out. Let me just take out my wallet and allow you to help yourself. Obviously, you are a doctor; therefore, you are to be trusted whole-heartedly. May I ask, what kind of doctor are you? I don't see a DMD or any sort of medical suffix following your name. Surely a real doctor would not overlook such an obvious faux pas. I'm sure you just forgot. Let's see... Where are you from? Oh, the Victorian Islands. Huh. That's weird. Those are beyond the reach of our international fair business laws. So basically, I could just send you money and you could run away with it. How about I call your phone number and you charge me $24,000 in "exchange fees?" Yeah. Let me do that. I wouldn't want to send my life savings to some stranger without talking to them first. I mean, you are a doctor working at a bank. That seems like a logical life choice. 10 years of un-related schooling in order to send emails to people on how, if they only pay the "Exchange Fees," they can inherit enormous sums of money. If you actually are a doctor, way to put the old degree to work, pal. I also have a GREAT deal of respect for your "business associates." In case you haven't noticed, you're emailing someone named hBoMb and asking them to take part in some sort of money exchange. Who named hBoMb would actually have any money (other than me, of course)? That's a bold move. I like that. I think I will send you the money. 15 mil is nothing to gawk at. Or, actually, it is something to gawk at. I'm definitely going to buy a million dollar car. Probably a few servants, as well. I will make them fight to the death. HALLELUJA! HALLELUJA! My days of living in a chicken coop are over! I'm gonna get me one of them fancy villas in Lagos and start sending emails out to stupid Americans. I'll have them send me money and then run away with it. I'm sure no one's ever tried that before. What a novel idea.

I'll be in touch as soon as I tell my Manager to take this job and shove it. What do I need a job now for? I'm rich, biotch!

Sincerely,

Dr. Hbomb Sumnut, DMD.

In case any of you still wonder what a hellmit is.... Here is your answer.

And, in case you're having a bad day, at least you're not this guy!

In my house, next to my TV, above my receiver, on top of my PS2 sits a DVD. A rented DVD. A rented DVD that I watched only the first 40 minutes of. A DVD rented from Lackluster Video. An overdue DVD rented from Lackluster Video. It is actually not overdue, yet. It will be overdue in 1 hour and thirty-eight minutes. I am not happy. There is no way , even if I left work now, that I could return this DVD on time. It is just sitting there, laughing at the $4.50 that I will have to pay tonight when I return it 6 hours late. Although it is a 1.5 day rental, if you keep it 3 days, you will pay $13.50 total. They basically want you to drive it over there, show them that it's OK, then they will return it, then re-rent it. I say HORSESHIT! If I'm paying $4.50, I want that other 1.5 days, dammit! you bastards.


On a seperate note, I just told my supervisor that, if I don't get another promotion soon, I will soon become disgruntled and quit. This, of course, is a lie. I am already disgruntled and already hold ZERO dedication to this waste-of-neural-elecricity called a job. Are you guys hiring?

As one blogger returns from the West Coast, another one sets out for it. Me. Justin and I are taking shifts watching over Cali as to make sure that nothing "too siiiiiick" goes on there without us. The TDi will be packed, once again, with sleeping bags, tents, water and air freshener. An ass pillow may be purchased. No road trip should be without an ass pillow. Ass pillows should not, however, return from said road trip. Unless it is switched out with Bumpus's pillow, then it should return. But... I digress.... I'm hoping to make it to the Illinois area before the first break. We'll see how it goes. I'll update the blog as much as I can from the trip. No promises, though. Alright. Gotta go call Bronson Pinchot on the porcelain phone. talktoyalater.

Something to blog about, something to blog about... Let's see.... Allergy season is in high gear again. No, that's not interesting. No one wants to read about how full my snot locker is.... um, let's see.... Schilling blew it last night.. No... That's too easy.... Shit. I can't think of anything. It's not as easy at it looks, folks.... Hmmmm.... let me see.... (scratches head).... Did you ever get the feeling that you were the center of the universe? I understand that it's rather, I don't know, egotistical, but, I mean, what else do you expect from me? So, I was chilling out the other day. Thinking. And it came into my head that maybe the entire basis and grounding of the universe is through me. I mean, I've only lived and experienced life through my own perspective. What's to say that it's not the only perspective? I've never heard anyone else come up with the self-centered theory before. If they have, they haven't told it to me. Either because they're not a headcase (like me) or they realize that it's a completely ludicrous and selfish outlook on life and they'd be to embarrassed to ever admit that they'd thought of it. Well, I'm not afraid to admit it. I've thought of it, dammit. Prove me wrong. Otherwise, I'm probably going to attempt flying pretty soon. Then I'll be the parousia of Christ. Yup. If you don't take me off my high-horse, there will be no stopping me from becoming the megalomaniacal overlord of the universe. I will tread softly and carry a big stick.

Lace up those running shoes, folks. It's Marathon Monday! If you're not running, then, by God, you should be barbeque-ing and taking part in your own marathon. Your own Beer Marathon. And remember to pour one out for your homeboy, hBoMb. I'm working today. I'll be suited up like an astronaut, breathing filtered air in the dark cleanroom, while you douchebags enjoy a nice, sunny 86 degree day. Don't let me down. I expect vomiting from liquor and heat exhaustion. I want to find you sunburnt and passed-out with a red dixie cup in one hand and a half-eaten, poorly grilled cheeseburger in the other. This is your day. Your Marathon Monday. Go out there and get 'em!

tee hee tee hee. i am back. yes, a guest blogger. again i must think of something off the top of my head to write about, keeping it terse enough not to annoy, yet in depth enough to be interesting. its going to be tough because my internet at work has been picked cleaner than the carcass of a thanksgiving turkey and i haven't had anything interesting to read in weeks. its still a far easier task than trying to relax in front of american midol. so here goes nothing:

i hate my job. yeah, thats right... i fucking loathe my job. i know, i am no different than anyone working in a socially acceptable corporate sweat shop. that is all my job is. i am paid to handle customers, and to handle as many customers as i can in an 8 hour period. so many in fact, that it doesn't matter if i have solved the problems of the customers that have come before, as long as get to everyone so they don't have to hear our asinine new age jazz hold music. i honestly wonder what the suicide rate is for the customers i deal with, after having to hold for hours and listen to that garbage. but i am getting way way of track here.

i was really thinking about it, and the job would be a shred more bearable if not for the coworkers that i am forced to endure. its like they all still believe in the medieval concept of hygiene. for those of you who wonder what that concept is, there wasn't one. its an office too! you would think there would be some standards, but apparently they are too scared of some sort of discrimination suit. it may be risque for me to blog about this in fear of one of them seeing it, but i can't get to this site at work anyway, and i could give a fuck what i say on my off time. my off time is my off time and that is just the way it is. so there. mwah. let me give you a few examples...

i worked with all 7 of the deadly sins whose pants were so big, that despite his belt, he had to walk holding them up with his hand. lets just call him tiny. he sat behind me, and he was too fat to change his socks. i could smell his feet from under his desk. the rest of him smelled like rancid coca-cola. he had pustules on the back of his neck too, and from what i hear, he had a gas problem, so maybe i had it better than the girl who had to sit behind him. he is fat because he is an arrogant, lazy, conceited fuck, who happens to come from a wealth family. basically, a 400lb, 40 yr. old trust fund baby who had an excuse for everything and wasn't ashamed to throw blame at any cost. despite all this, what bothered me the most was his bacon egg and cheese bagel with golf ball sized gobs of butter and corned beef hash breakfast with a bucket of root beer to wash it down. he chewed with his mouth open, and i can't think of a more disgusting sound. imagine this every morning behind you, the sounds of the gums slapping together, the putrid smell of the hash, and the socks... AAAAARGH! tiny eventually got fired. despite his size, its only a small victory.

now let me tell you about the other insanely obese man i have been relocated next to after finally complaining about tiny. we'll call this one 'the odb.' are they his initials or is he really an old dirty bastard? you be the judge. the odb is a big, over-zealous baby. he wines, he fusses, he tells jokes and if he gets a hint of a sympathy laugh, he proceeds to tell everyone around, in turn, said joke until its heard 15 times over. i would not be surprised if he needed a diaper change during the day. he has absolutely no self control, in fact james wilson used to state that tiny could lose the weight if motivated, but the odb just couldn't. he has reflux, and won't hesitate to tell you about it, as if you couldn't guess from whatever it is he births out of his throat during one of his coughing fits. he is a spent opera singer who refers to his wife, of the same age, as the child bride. does that creep anyone else out as much as it does me? tiny is a big man, but the odb rivals him... especially in stink. odb's odor is truly distinctive, its mildew-y b.o meets fabreze. you see, he's got a lot of insulation, so when he sweats, it pours, even in 20 degree weather. the cloth on his chair is so saturated day after day its begun to mildew. its soaked in his body odor and there is mildew ontop of it, so strong that my loving boyfriend bought me an airfreshener for christmas. so instead of feet, i have that wafting gently over my desk. its the fabreze that makes it truly over the top. he's acknowledging his own filth for christ's sake! one can't help but think of a pig roosting in its own shit. you can smell it even when he isn't there, but my superiors won't ruin a new chair over it. and why should they? we're still not in perfect economic conditions, right?

this brings me to a co-worker i actually like, as long as he is not standing near my desk. he's nice, he's funny, he does his share of the workload, but i prefer to deal with him over the phone despite the fact he is only 2 desks away. see, most people when they open their mouths have these pinkish-red things called gums, then in between are these fairly whitish things called teeth. not he. when he opens his mouth, you can see the gums, you can see the teeth, and you can see what look like a row of sharks teeth growing ontop, just in case he loses one. its plaque build-up, the kind your dentist warned you about. the first time i saw them, i just thought he needed braces, then i realized that they really weren't impacted teeth at all. needless to say, his breath isn't much of an improvement. i cower in fear when he actually has to come over to my desk to deliver something. plus he has long fingernails, and anyone who has read this blog since the beginning knows how i fell about those.

and since good things come in pairs, this will be my last example. he happens to be my direct supervisor, which in his case has its +'s and -'s. the plus is because he is a supervisor, his cubicle is half surrounded by a glass partition on the top. the minus is that mine is not. see, the sup drinks coffee and smokes cigarette (at least i think he does). his breath smells like dogshit. really. that is exactly what it smells like. since he is the supervisor, there is no avoiding him. he doesn't like the inter-office im. he prefers to make the rounds to your desk where there is no escape. i'm sure he thinks i don't respect him b/c i never look at him when he talks. i can't. i'll barf. his breath lingers too. sometimes he's spoken and left, and just as i thought it was safe, i turn my head and breath in, and have to grab the air freshener and actually puff it like an inhaler. when you have to go to his desk, at least you can stand back behind the glass wall. one day i was doing this, and it was worse than normal. i not only backed up, but moved over. i think his breath was hitting the glass, and due to the atmospheric conditions of the room, it was traveling up the glass. he actually said 'come back here. everybody does that. i can't hear through the glass.' sigh. you try having you semi-annual employee evaluation face to face with that. its so bad that i almost forgot to mention that his balding head has bad dandruff.

so you now see why i hate my job with a vengeance. i wouldn't wish it on anyone. its getting harder and harder to go in with the fake plastic smile plastered to my face, so don't be surprised when you ask me how my day has been and i tell you that i just walked out and pulled a shmulke. who is shmulke? john shmulke (shmull-key) got hired at tower records, came in on his first day, went to lunch and never came back. i really do admire that bastard. rant rant rant. anyhoo, since howie hasn't updated his blog in days, i think i have given you ample reading material to kill at least a few hours between... well, between whatever it is you miserable bastards do. thank you for calling evergreeninvestments and have a nice day.

-bets

p.s.

does anyone remeber kevin illyanavich rasputin kubusheskie? i feel like ashton kutcher is ripping him off big time. you be the judge.

Jon Bumpus wants an update, so, here's your update. I'm spending all of my blog-time on revising "the script." I'm making it leaner and meaner. I'm throwin in a few curveballs. You wanted your update, welp, there it is, jerky. I hope this makes your life worth livin'.

The card on the door says, "Do not disturb."

The Dahkness is spreadin, Chahlie Murphy, the dahkness is spreadin'!