Saturday, January 28, 2006


(Some of this posted material was inspired by, lifted, and outright plagarized from the March 1989 edition of MAD Magazine. Who me?)

Well, we're now only down to 6 days and counting until the mighty Steelers of Pittsburgh take on the high-flying Seahawks of Seattle in this seasons Superbowl XL finale. What this really means for me, of course, is that all my regular Sunday evening shows will be inevitably prempted.

All I know about football could be engraved on a grain of sand. I'd rather spend the evening chained to the couch in my underpants and forced to watch multiple viewings of Yentl than stripmine my brain with all this Sunday 'Superbowl' nonsense.

I have purposely avoided any and all sporting news and media attention in regards to the upcoming Superbowl as a means of safeguarding my sanity. I do, however, take a particular interest in the infamous Superbowl halftime ceremonies and I usually eagerly await the recaps later on the evening news. Ever since Janet Jackson's 'Nipplegate' before the live television cameras two years ago, I have this strange fascination for the whole infamous Superbowl halftime tradition. Basically, I'm keeping the flame lit in the hopes that another famous celebrity tit will also be exposed in another unfortunate "waredrobe malfunction" - only this time, I'll be there to warm myself in it's radiant glow. But thanks to all those uber-sensitive douchebags* who went ballistic and voiced their complains to the FCC and appropriate station producers about the last one; my chances of this happening again are now slim to fucking none.

But a man can dream, right?

Anyways, as far as the rest of it is concerned, I'd couldn't care less.

I can only wonder what other madness is thats in store for us this upcoming Sunday. I purposely don't like to view the program of events prior to the Superbowl news clips that night as it just detracts from the whole fantasy**. I just realize that the gamut of pre-game history, highlites, interviews, predictions, aand what have you, are about as exciting and witty as a bag of dead kittens. My mind would liquify in a matter of seconds.

Instead, I'll just predict what a tenative pre-game programming schedule could look like:

10:00AM - Start of Superbowl XL. Synchromized fanfare by trumpeters in 100 U.S. cities. (live)

10:15AM - Blessing of Detroit's Ford Field by priest, minister, and rabbi, backed by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, followed by the sacrifice of 12 white doves to the football gods. (live)

10:45AM - Effect of Nostradamus prophecies on previous Superbowl outcomes. Interview with decendant Pierre Nostradamus in Paris. (live)

11:00AM - Premiere of official Superbowl XL anthem 'Spill Out Your Guts' performed by James Brown backed by Kiss.

11:20AM - Rehearsal of coin toss. (live)

11:25 AM - Highlites of coin tosses in previous Super Bowls and their outcome in relation to similar tragedies, disasters, and terrorist attacks of the time. (tape)

11:50AM - Documentary: "Coins Used in Previous Coin Tosses - Where Are They Now and What They Paid For?" (film)

12:00PM - Views of Stadium as seen through 3076 TV cameras on field, in the stands, in the Goodyear Blimp and from thousands of orbiting satellites from 53 different countries all over the world. (live)

12:30PM - Predictions of fnal scores by celebrities. Scheduled: Pee Wee Herman, Anderson Cooper, Donald Trump, Andy Dick, Saddam Hussein, Simon Cowell***, Bono, Nelson Mandela, the Dali Lama, and the entire cast from 'Will & Grace'.

1:00PM - Presentation by NFL Commissioner Paul Tagliabue of the coveted 'Silver Specimen' Award to the outstanding linesman producing the purest urine samples during seasonal drug-testing. (live)

1:30PM - Panel discussion by leading sod experts on effect of grass length on footing of opposing cornerbacks. Scheduled: David Suzuki, The Canadian Tire do-it-yourself guy, Woody Harrelson, and Jenna Jameson. (tape)

1:32PM - The arresting of Woody Harrelson. (live)

1:50PM - Test-blowing of official game whistle by the game referee and guest blower Pamela Anderson. (live)

2:00PM - Highlites of Superbowls I through XXXIX. (tape)

2:30PM - "Stuff It!" A traditional history; as well as easy and stylish kitchen and serving tips for the ceremonial Superbowl 'Turducken'. Hosted by Martha Stewart via satellite from Venice. (tape)

3:00PM - Seance interview with Vince Lombardi. (live)

3:20PM - Injury Update. Special guest: Jock itch expert Arthur Cootieman.

3:45PM - Opinion. Dr. Ruth Westheimer and Dr. Susan Johanson discuss the effects of pre-game sex on coaching staffs. (tape)

4:00PM - Entrance into stadium of Superbowl King, Queen and entourage in chariots pulled by a team of Budweiser Clydesdales. (live)

4:30PM - Panel. Six nutrientionalists analyze fiber intake of Game Day breakfasts as revealed from the remains of opposing quarterbacks scat samples. (live)

4:45PM - "Pigskin Hell - Anatomy of a Football." How one is made, from the slaughtering of the cow to the final stretching. (tape)

5:15PM - The singing of the annual anthem by Sir Paul McCartney before he's launched into orbit above the earth inside a spaceship made of pure gold. (live)

5:25PM - Introduction of teams; coin toss. (live)

5:45PM - Slo-mo instant replay of coin toss. (live)

5:50PM - Reverse-angle of coin toss (live)

6:00PM - Opening kick-off. (live)

* These same men who complained must also be the kind of guys who have their balls carried around in a velvet sack by their wives and girlfriends.

** My other fantasy involves seeing a bikinied Jan Brady and Laurie Partridge duking it out in a live broadcast of 'Celebrity Foxy Boxing'.

*** The sarcastic English bitchtit from 'American Idol' - for those of you who live under a rock.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

MySpaced Out

I would like at this time to extend a heart FUCK YOU! to the creators of the internet phenomenon. A pox upon your family line you bastards!

If I could find you I would kick your asses until your shoulder blades humped up between his shoulder blades. I hope your plane crashes into a volcano; I hope you choke to death on a rusty syringe; I hope stray cats piss in your loafers; I hope that homeless men use your family coat of arms to wipe their asses - whatever, just shrivel up and fucking die already.

In a moment of blindness, I got suckered into hastily creating my own MySpace website as a further means to expand my "internet horizons" beyond these little realms of online Shangri-la, that hopefully, you guiltily visit from time to time. As it was explained to me at the time, it had more user features than the new 2006 Escape Hybrid E85 SUV wagon. It was supposed to be the new prefered variety of internet crack for single geeks. But irregardless, I quickly found out that was nothing more than a front for nutbars, freaks and perverts. And we all know that the world needs another one of those kinds of internet sites like it needs another Steve Martin family movie.

So now, despite the fact that I have long since deleted this abomination from my life and my computer - or so I thought - I continue to recieve regular email invites from a whole host of strange wackjobs from God-knows-where, all wanting to attract me back to their own MySpace lair of inequity. Clearly, I was feeling about as out of place in this Brave New World as had I worn a '2 Live Crew' t-shirt to a Klan rally.

Enriques? Bert? Rando? Sloppychick? WHO THE FUCK ARE THESE PEOPLE?

Honestly, would you ever allow yourself to be caught cavorting around with a guy named Rando? And Sloppychick? Christ, I just wanted to perhaps share in a little sick humor with other like-minded assholes such as myself, not join the court of Queen Fucksalot and her Cocks of the Round Table.

There's just somthing very, shall I say, "internet predator", about One minute you're accepting ramdom invites and swapping emails, and the next thing you know you're waking up in a tub of ice and your kidneys are being auctioned off on Ebay. And yet - these emails continue coming despite having gone through the normal steps for deleting created account as listed in the MySpace webguide. I'm like the 'Ghost of MySpace Past' for fuck sakes!

I tried adjusting the spam setting on my email account in the hopes that these "e-vites" would just go away. Unfortunately, Bill-fucking-Gates wearing kryptonite underwear couldn't keep this flood of MySpace emails from arriving in my inbox every day! Emails from my own MOTHER are routed to my junkmail - MySpace, however, has a permanent bead on my position.

How do you stop this insanity? I mean, really, these emails are starting to scare me. I'm afraid that one of these psychos will locate me and my face will end up as a lampshade in some creepy apartment. But how do you undo what apparently can't be undone?

Quite the quandry. But what the fuck, if you can't beat 'em - join 'em.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Journey to the Center of Human Stupidity

Why do some people even exist?

I mean, and sorry to be such a pessimist bitch and all here; but honestly, some people should just be shot and over with so that we can preserve what little gene pool we have left. Clearly, the pool has already been pissed in so it's only damage control at this point really.

The following is an excerpt from an attempted conversation from some guy standing in line to buy Juicy Fruit and a bag of Doritos yesterday (who the fuck buys, much less eats, gum and chips at the same time?):

Doofus: "Hi."
Me: (looks around nervously) "Hi."
Doofus: "Whatchabuyin?" (It was more of a transmitted grunt than it was an attempt at an intelligible inquiry)
Me: "Umm, Vanilla Coke."
Doofus: "Cool." (uncomfortable silence follows) "What's it taste like?"
Me: (looks around nervously again) "Vanilla."

For a brief moment before the anger and fury set in, I felt almost sorry for this poor simpleton bastard. I felt like this orangutang was really trying to reach out to me like one of those upright primates in '2001: A Space Odyssey'.

Well, I'm not Philo Beddoe, didpshit; I'm only here for a Vanilla Coke, not to sniff asses and exchange grunts with some uni-browed, chip and gum chewing rhubarb with the IQ of a chipole. All I wanted at that particular moment was to see the back of this guys head and count the seconds before he, his chips and his gum fuck off outside allowing me to conduct my own business so that I can do the same. Otherwise, I was likely to give him a "Right turn, Clyde" of my own in an extreme fit of violent frustration.

Why do stupid people seem to gravitate to me? Do I have an "I Speak Asshole" sign written across my forehead or something? There must be something about me that invites people to make senseless small talk with me when I am least in the mood for it.

Even just today, after having decided to purchase the new Martin Scorcese documentary 'No Direction Home' about the life of Bob Dylan, I had an encounter with someone who could only have been the 'King of the Mentally Stunted' himself. In my search for my movie, I had wandered into the cauldron of y-chromosomes that is the local 'Blockbuster Entertainment' video store. After checking the sales racks unsuccessfully for my prize, I set myself to bid a hasty retreat out of the building back to freedom before my IQ too shrank to that of a honey roast ham.

Just as I was making my way to the door, I was stopped by a young store employee who looked like someone that even Jerry Lewis himself would have avoided. There's just not a telethon capable of raising the kind of money it would take to cure this kid I suspect.

"Can I help you?", he offered.

I should have bolted right then and there, or at least put him out of his misery. But, NOOOOO! I just had to persist with my fruitless search. Maybe he knew something that I didn't know.

"I'm looking for the new Martin Scorcese documentary 'No Direction Home', but I didn't see it on the sales rack anywhere", I replied confidently.

"Oh. Did you check those racks over there?", he asked while gesturing back from whence I had came.

"Ahh, yeah. Why? Do you have a special music or documentary DVD section?", I asked hopefully.

"No. Whats it called again?", the employee continued as he scratched the mop of hair that sat on the top of his scalp like a sleeping Pomeranian.

At this point, the retarded sales clerk begin to work himself under my skin like a bad skin irritation. He began to walk me back to the sales racks that I had just scoured; and like the mindless sheep that I am, I followed. Albeit, I was a little hopeful; mostly, I felt trapped and therefore obligated to allow him the chance to procur my movie for me.

"'No Direction Home'. It's a new documentary about Bob Dylan", I answered reluctantly.

"Bob Dylan? Did you try looking under 'B'?", the employee asked.

"But the movie is called 'No Direction Home'. It would be over there, wouldn't it?", I said as I motioned back further into the recesses of the sales rack towards the letter 'N'.

"But it's about Bob Dylan, ain't it?", the employee persisted. "That starts with the letter 'B'."

Now at this juncture of our failing conversartional, my brain started to implode in on itself. Our mental dance of the minds was starting to turn into more of a drunken lurch of a communication - so to speak.

"See? There's 'Bewitched', the 'Bad News Bears', 'Big Trouble in Little China'...they all start with the letter 'B'.", the employee explained.

Red spots started appearing before my eyes and my fingernails started to cut into the palms of my tightly-clenched fist. Was this kid really trying to explain the difficult concept of ALPHABETIZING to me? The kid continued to flip through the 'B' section of the sales racks.

"The 'Burbs', 'Batman Returns', 'Back to the Future', 'Brokeback Mountain'...Nope. No 'Bob Dylan'", the idiot child finally concluded.

I didn't have the heart to explain to this poor walking cheese loaf that even if the name of the fucking movie was simply called 'Bob Dylan', it would still most likely be categorized under 'D', for Dylan. At least it was on this planet - last I checked.

"But it's not called 'Bob Dylan'. It's called 'N-O D-I-R-E-C-T-I-O-N H-O-M-E'. There's no 'B' even in that, is there?", I explained exasperatedly.

I don't even know why I had tried. I'd have more luck stuffing Season 5 of the 'Soprano's' up this retard's nose than I would in connecting mentally with him.

"Oh. But it's about Bob Dylan, isn't it?", he said hopefully.

"Well, 'Bewtiched' is about Smantha Stephens and her twitchy fucking nose, but it's not found under 'S', is it Einstein?", I further explained. My patience was at an end.

I could actually see the kids eyes glaze over and begin to suck back into his head from their sockets due to the enormous vacuum being created from his collapsing brain. His jaw dropped slowly like a rickety drawbridge in wonderment. Yet somehow, I still don't think I managed to get through to him.

"So, you want me to check in the 'N's for you?", he asked lastly.

At this point I was ready to kill. My blood pressure had reached 'Orange Alert' levels. Not only had this brainless yob suckered me back into the belly of this neon hell for a few extra wasted minutes; but I think he actually managed to kill off a significant number of my brain cells in doing so. This poor bastard will never know how close he really came to having one of those 'Special Edition' copies of 'Bewitched' lodged up his ass.

"How about - NO! Why don't you go fucking look that up in the 'N' section, you Nitwit!"

Election Regrets 2006

I think I have finally decided that I'm not going to vote in our big Canadian national election tomarrow.

I know this makes me an ignorant jackass of magnus proportions; but lets face it, I'm no Peter Jennings here! I wouldn't know my Riding from my asshole. I pretty much snoozed my way through Canadian History back in high school, and Canadan politics in particular, after the Red River Rebellion.

I know that Jean Chretien talks funny; that Margaret Trudeau fluffed off to New York City with the Rolling Stones once; and that Brian Mulroney was an asshole of epic stature. Not really enough to base a decision on the future political outcome of my country is it? Sadly, I am severely lacking in political interest for this great nation of mine. If it's not force fed to me over the airwaves on CNN, I'm probably ignorant to the importance or impact on my life.

I like how current Prime Minister Paul Martin stands up for Canada against aging rock star bitchtits and voices out against the negative influences from the idiot president for the neighboring country to our south, but his party has the financial responsibility of a Merchant Marine on 24 hour furlough with pay at a Phuket brothel. Now sure, everyone gets caught with their hand in the cookie jar at least once in their lives - but those were MY cookies, Paul! You dig?

Besides the Liberal campaign this time around seems to be in throwing everything at the opposition but the kitchen sink. The Liberal Party has hurled more insults and unmitigated slander at the Tory Party than a terrets victim at a taping for WWE's 'Smackdown'.

Whose Paul Martin's campaign manager exactly - John McEnroe?

On the other hand, there's the Progressive Conservative party and Stephen Harper. The Tories are including promising a justice platform that will see mandatory prison sentences for handgun crimes and prison terms where "serving serious time will mean serving serious time" with "no more house arrests." He pledged more police in the streets and "tougher security at our borders." Umm, isn't it bad enough that we have a paranoid control freak at the helm of the current war machine on the opposite side of our border already? With any more security at our borders, you won't be able to go cross-border shopping without first sending in a blood and semen sample months in advance for random scanning and DNA tracing.

Besides, Harper is probably just going to use the opportunity to stack the courts with judges to make it possible to ban same-sex marriage and clamp down on abortion rights. Martin may be the king in a den of thieves, but he has no qualms with the fairies, lesbos, and teenage whores like Harper seemingly does. Something tells me that Harper himself may be in dire need of something best offered through a gloryhole at some Church Street nightclub. Besides, the last PC Prime Minister we had was that Mulroney bastard who decided one day, out of the blue, that he would just up and quit and head for Disneyland. Not exactly the pillar of political strength of character that one would expect for a nation of Peacekeepers.

And the whole campaign strategy for the New Democrats and Jack Layton seems to be in hanging back and fighting for the scraps. It doesn't exactly make me feel like I'm backing a winner. Sure his party is making all the right kinds of promises:
  • creating opportunity for young people through education and training;
  • offering dignity to seniors through better care and retirement security;
  • improving public health care and stopping privatization;
  • creating jobs while transforming a polluting economy to a sustainable one; and
  • cleaning up corruption and making government accountable.
But unfortunately, Layton himself looks a little bit too much like a cross between Richard Dreyfuss and the Glad Man for anybody to ever take him too seriously. Perhaps when 'ol Jack decides to step up to the plate and fling shit like everybody else the nation will take better notice.

Likewise, whats left? The Green Party? That's rich!

Sure I bet their campaign rallies offer the buzz of the century, but I'd bet the Green Party candidate would shit in his bucket bong if he were ever to actually manage to win the whole election enchalada. It'd be like entrusting your national well-being to a stoned guinea pig.

So, fuck it!

This year I'm walking into my local election center, conceal myself into one of those little partitioned boothes* and instead of marking any of the candidates with an 'X' on the ballot, I'm going to mark the whole Canadian electoral process as the nasty, odorous spectacle that it is - with one huge epic fart with a stink so bad that it would scare away starving hyenas. Perhaps my gaseous protest will serve to help other voters suddenly realize how blind - literally - they are being to the very foulness of this whole 2006 election.

I'd rather vote for a rabid beaver than side with any of these bacon-sucking schmoes!

* Besides, isn't this a little bit melodramatic anyways? Who gives enough of a shit about Canadian politics that they would attempt to peek over your shoulder at the polls in order to catch a glimpse of who you're voting for?

Saturday, January 07, 2006

Plastic Egg Pandemonium

(Another tidbit from the anals of Crazytigerrabbitlore, written approximately three years ago while working at the same place of employement for which I am still climbing the Corporate ranks. It's funny because, sadly, it's all true.)

Now it's no secret at my workplace of, say, four hundred or so, that I am somewhat unorthodox when it comes to my professional conduct at work. This is not to suggest that I am some slacking dipshit in Doc Martin’s trying to pan off his flannel jacket as business casual; nor am I doing my job ineffectually in the slightest. I just happen to believe in making the workplace as enjoyable an experience as possible to as many people around me as possible. And if I have to deliberately break company fire policies and risk torching the place (which is, sadly enough, constructed almost completely out of painted concrete) with the odd candlelit dinner in the cafeteria – so be it!

The team managers in my work area have all come to respect my particular brand of "stress relievers" throughout the workday – albeit, they may not always understand, or participate in them. At any given time, I will stand up at my workstation and perform the chicken dance whenever I get a particularly stupid customer on the phone, or I will hold up signs such as "Does Anybody Speak Ancient Swahili", or “Who Farted?” just to, you know, lighten up the moment somewhat. I would prefer to have people laugh at me and know what they are laughing at rather than have them snicker and talk in whispers behind my back when I fall off my swivel chair after too many bong hits on my lunch hour.

I learned at an early age the importance of the subtle art of deflecting negative attention from oneself. I'm like a publicity ninja.

Anyway, today’s office prank got a little out of control in the same way that Apollo 13 did. It all started innocently enough when I found this small pink plastic egg at the bus stop on my way to work. I picked it up, being stoned and curious as I was at the time, and proceeded to juggle with it while riding the bus to work, and then again some more in the cafeteria at work.

Co-workers then started to get curious about my pink egg. It wasn't anywhere near Easter and yet here was a grown man playing with a pink plastic egg. One by one, they kept coming up and asking me what the pink plastic egg was all about. To which I would only offer back in reply: "I don't know, they gave it to me at the door. Didn’t you get one?" I never thought that anybody would ever be so stupid to take me seriously.

Apparently, the true meaning of the suspicious unexplained egg circulated the workplace floor among my work peers quicker than Rosie McDonnell through a box of powdered breakfast donuts.

By noontime rumors had began to circulate that my pink plastic egg was actually intended for a draw to be made at the end of the night for some major prize or sales incentive or something. So everybody had begun to panic when they suddenly realized that they had been overlooked in getting their own pink plastic eggs at the door when they too had arrived at work that morning.

Never underestimate the power of paranoia to corrupt the human mind.

Before you know it, I was summoned to the company’s security desk and was questioned by two guards under bright lights about, as they put it: "this stupid pink egg thing". I swear, I thought I heard the sound the stretching and twisting of plastic tubing in the background as they worked me over with their questions for over an hour. I mean, honestly, how many questions can you ask about a plastic fucking egg?

Apparently, a lot of people, approximately over two hundred or so, had stormed the businesses front desk inquiring why they weren't also given their pink plastic egg for the big draw that night – all, so far, still unbeknownst to me. The poor secretary had been swamped with these concerned office freaks all demanding pink plastic eggs. It was then, in an heated riot that I was fingered by these same greedy “colleagues” (and I use that term loosely) as "inciting an unproductive disturbance in the workplace" and was thus issued my first corrective action.

Lesson learned. NEVER pick up plastic eggs, particularly pink ones, at bus stops before going to work.

I will just have to stick to scaring all the Kenyan women about the threat of deadly Canadian snow snakes whenever we get heavy snowfalls.

The Ball Joint Journals

(In light of my recent promotion at work, and the fact that I actually enjoy my job once again, I have been reflecting back on past shitty terms of employ I have suffered through in my checkered past. This was written over four years ago before I launched myself headlong into Corporate Hell, where I find myself now, and also happens to represent the first makings of my regular daily journal habits that still remain with me today.)

(Day 1)

Today I learned where the former employees go from Johnson Screens when they die, get fired, or don't pass their mandatory drug test. They are cast into the sulphury pits of Hades that is the 'Iafrate Ball Bearing Manufacturers' factory.

My entire daily work responsibility can be formatted to the following sequence of events:

Pick up the ball joint
Take off cap
Test that it is not broken (by loosely pulling on the rubber joint)
Mark it with a purple marker (if satisfactory)
Replace cap
Repack neatly into another box

This is the routine for eight and a half hours a day, unless of course, you are the mulleted factory lifer, or "Alpha Doofus" as I have come to know them, working beside me; then you would follow this particular work sequence:

Pick up ball joint
Use it to scratch your pits
Take off cap
Hawk a phlegmy lugie past my head and out the door
Bitch about how shitty a job it is
Mark the joint with purple marker (without testing it)
Replace cap
Fart loudly
Randomly toss ball joint into other box
Go for smoke break and leave me to repack ball joint neatly
Scratch his ass
Bitch some more

Why do we have to through all these seemingly pointless efforts for each individual ball joint, you might ask? Here is a portion of a conversation with the mulleted "Alpha Doofus" I had today, from which, you can draw your own conclusions:

Me: So, you been doing this long?
Alpha-Doofus: Yeah.
Me: How long?
Alpha-Doofus: 12 years.
Me: You've been doing THIS for TWELVE FUCKING YEARS?!!
Alpha-Doofus: Yeah.

Me: How many defective ball joints have you found?
Alpha-Doofus: None.
Me: Pardon?
Alpha-Doofus: None.

Me: You've found NO defective ball joints in 12 years?
Alpha-Doofus: No.
Me: Has anyone?
Alpha-Doofus: No.
Me: (stares in disbelief)

What happens when you find a defective ball joint that is unworthy of being safely labelled with a purple marker – fuck only knows! Sure beats me - but I would like to believe that balloons and confetti will drop from the ceiling and I will be presented with a handsome reward cheque for miraculously finding the only defective ball joint or something. I would be the envy of all the mulleted Alpha-Doofuses. I’d be like Charlie with his Golden Ticket:

“Run home, Terry. Run home as fast as you can!”

There would be monkeys in tuxedos and porkchops hanging from trees; it would be like getting a blowjob from Aphrodite herself. I can dream can't I?

(Day 2)

Today I learned that there does indeed exist a higher power at the factory, one that governs the universe and mitigates the outcome of fate and destiny in our poor enslaved employment; a power even greater than that of the seniority list of currently employed Alpha-Doofuses at this Gate to Hell.

This great power is known as the "Purple Marker" (insert playing of magestic angel choruses). No ball joint, or any other manufactured product at 'Iafrate Ball Bearing Manufacturers' for that matter, is EVER deemed completely worthy without first exhibiting the glorious purple mark of distinction in its plastic cap. Nothing is passed or initiated further down the production line without first passing under the magnificent purple marker's magic inky nib.

Having to mark over 4000 ball joints daily, I go through approximately two to three purple markers EVERY day. Each purple marker has to be requisitioned and procured from the main office (another two plants over) with the proper paperwork. The real fuckoff part is that no one is ever allowed to requisition more than one marker at a time. This inevitably means that I end up spending at least half my day drawing up requisition forms in triplicate, marching a mile and a half across the factory, dodging tow motors, and waiting pointlessly while my request is being processed before returning back to work at the other end of the plant – only to repeat the whole process just two or three hours later. Whoever runs the Workforce Management department at this damn factory should be shot in his comfy chair!

Any attempt to borrow, steal or share in the purple markers is strictly frowned upon and deemed criminal in nature. Some try to stockpile these purple markers at their work stations like the mulleted factory Alpha-Doofus that works beside me and thereby attempt to control the ebb of energy that radiates from it's store of ink wells. They're like greedy, paranoid children protecting their bag of concealed Halloween candy come December 1st.


Brainless retards. Purple is the colour of faggots.

(Day 3)

Today at Iafrate Ball Bearing Manufacturers I have learned that as a lowly "Quality Control Sorting Technician", I am at the divine mercy of a very omnipotent and vengeful group of big-ass mulleted factory Alpha-Doofus's. No, not the Union Reps - even worse!

The Tow-motor divers!!!

The tow-motor driver is the highest platform of existence among the factory Alpha-Doofus hierarchy. They are the 'be alls' and 'end alls' of work within the factory walls. They buzz around the factory like angry bees on an ever ready alert to run you over, skewer you, back over you, crush you, or honk at you. In fact, the tow-motor drivers are incapable of actual speech as they are quite with reason. Instead they prefer to communicate with a series of aggravated honks on their tow-motor horns. But the moment you need one - they are on a break.

They are the industrial harpy's of the factory as nothing can operate successfully without the tow-motor driver to replace, restock, reload, or even replug the bathroom toilet. We are at their mercy. From all reaches and work stations of the factory the persistent testicle-clenching beeping of the tow-motor's "backing up" signals: beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. This ever-present warning is always on the audible horizon of every other loud mechanical crash, clang and clatter emanating through the factory like a nearby swarm of angry beeping mulleted bees.

Heaven's forbid should you ever fuck up and force one of these mean-spirited tow-motor drivers to dismount his "hog". This is the ultimate insult to a tow-motor driver. They hate having to get down from their mechanical thrones and walk even two feet from their tow-motors. I’m sure these guys would drive to and from in their tow-motors if they were allowed by the company.

(Day 4)

Today’s lesson was a hard one to swallow, particularly when I was pretty sure and happy that I wouldn't be going back into the sulphury pit of hell that is Iafrate this morning, but "C'est la vie, say the old folk.”

Today I was exposed to the ridiculous titanic juggernaught that is the factory "Union". By the sounds of it from the lips of the other factory Doofuses around me, the Union is one big organized ‘Bitchfest’ with free coffee and a box of Timbit’s. Despite having already worked there for five days already, and with nothing ever having been explained to me properly about the inner workings of this Devil’s Lair, my fellow employees, or even my position other than the usual daily formula of “check, mark with purple marker, recap, repack”, that I was now also be required by the Union to wear safety goggles at all times - and that I was required to pay $3.50 for a pair to do so. All this was just explained to me rather gruffly and vaguely by the new plant Union Rep (or "Fat Guido Bastard", as I have now taken to calling him). All the time with his greasy palm out waiting for the payment of goggle money.

First off, not being part of the official Iafrate Union yet, and I am only here on a temporary basis in the first place (I was brought in to work for slave wages so the Union could lay off another twenty of their own Union members) I deemed I was in no way, and under no obligation to listen to, abide by, or be responsible to this lazy self-serving dicksmack whose only other responsibility it seems is to read the daily paper in his air-conditioned, soundproof office with his feet up and changing the Hustler calendar pinup girls in the bathroom at the end of every month. No way am I going to pay him, or any Union member, anything that is not directly involved with my work or my employment concerns.

Why am I required to wear safety goggles now anyways? Beats the shit out of me! There is no other machinery operators that have to wear safety goggles as all their machines are closed and safely concealed as they operate. So why then would a lowly "Quality Control Sorting Technician", such as myself, be forced to wear them? Particularly when I am in no way in any immediate danger of having my eye poked out? If it should ever be so fucking stupid to end up jabbing out my eye with my dull purple marker, I will assume FULL responsibility for my inept lack of dexterity. I'm not one of Jerry's Kids.

What else are they expecting to happen when you work in a practically abandoned warehouse, marking blunt metalic ball bearings out of a cardboard box with a purple marker? Are they worried a bird might be blinded in flight by the sun reflecting off the scrap metal dumpster outside our window and fly in through the bay door loading platform and skewer itself into my eyeball with it's beak? Not bloody fucking likely is it? I’m sure this is just other thing that the mulleted Factory Doofuses have conjured up in a means to make us lowly temporary workers suffer more throughout our work day. Next they’ll require us to wipe our asses with fine grit sand paper.

(And on Day 5, I handed in my resume to the office of my current employer and thus initiated the motivated disgruntlement that I would persist with me for the next four years leading up to today.)

Sunday, January 01, 2006

2005: The Year of Living Dangerously

It’s now 2006.

So on behalf of the entire planet allow me to just state this for the record: THANK FUCKING GOD! I, for one, was beginning to think that this ‘craptacular suck fest’ of year would never come to an end. Maybe now I will feel secure enough to be able to take down the boards from my windows or perhaps once again venture out into the city streets…

...well, maybe not quite yet.

As I cheerfully fulfilled my long-standing New Years tradition of consuming way too much hallucinogens and cleaning the apartment, I reflected back on this past year and came to the conclusion that I am fucking lucky just to be god damn alive! As I polished the toilet* I ran through the past years worth of news worthy events and decided that I would like to forget that 2005 ever happened.

I can’t imagine anyone really holding dear to this particular year in lieu of all that’s happened, apart from say CNN ghoul Anderson Cooper who hasn’t been flaccid for the entire past 365 days. There has been so much suffering and sheer political ridiculousness this year that one could almost go insane contemplating it all. Even Queen Elizabeth herself in her annual Christmas speech referred to the year 2005 as “a terrible year”. And you now this old broad isn’t one to exaggerate needlessly.

Lets just review the list of notable highlights shall we?

The year practically started off with a wave of destruction – literally – as a killer tsunami washed over the coastlines of the Indian Ocean killing more than 230,000 people and creating more grizzly Times magazines photo ops than you could shake a dead corpse at. It did however provide an opportunity for people worldwide to come together in order to lend aid and help finance the massive recovery efforts necessary; as well as a chance to unload all our back-catalogue stocks of women’s dress shoes and winter tents.

This however was only the beginning for what Nature had intended for us this past year. It’s as if Mother Nature herself decided to gave mankind a huge wake-up call with one massive golden shower to the face in 2005. Let us not forget the mudslides in Guatemala or the massive earthquake in Pakistan. These disasters, however, may have only received a mere few seconds of actual press time in the lingering shadow of all the Gulf Coast hurricanes this past summer. Hurricane Katrina in particular was directly responsible for the literal destruction of old New Orleans giving way to public looting and the declaration of martial law as desperate people ran in the streets with armloads of Huggies and designer jeans. After the ritual sacrificing of FEMA director, and Dubya crony Michael Brown to the angry public and media types, it did offer the chance for Hollywood celebrities to brush the dust off their haloes and wave at soggy star struck victims from the windows of their pimped out luxury SUV’s and "tsktsktsk-ing" before the media cameras in mock sympathy. One thing is for sure – if any of these morons who had their homes swept away when they refused to leave as advised, over and over again, are still sitting on their dilapidated porches facing the coast again this coming summer – I hope Neptune himself rises up and takes a colossal dump on their chest.

The world also mourned the passing of Pope John Paul II and stared expectantly at Vatican chimneys for little wafts of smoke. After the public funeral in St. Peter’s Square that would have put any Superbowl halftime show to shame, the rest of the Vatican bishops voted Senator Palpatine as the next Pope in a ceremony so shrouded in mystery that it would make any Masons lodge meeting seem like a company picnic by comparison. Palpatine then renamed himself after an omelet and everything returned back to business as usual in Vatican City.

And if that wasn’t enough mystical hocus-pocus for you, lets not forget that frogs were found exploding in German parks. Honestly, did anybody ever think to check to see that the rivers hadn’t turned to blood?

2005 was also a year of escalating violence worldwide as well. It seems so long ago now when all we had to worry about in 2004 were those pesky Weapons of Mass Destruction that weren’t really there and the odd beheading of kidnapped tourists and reporters in retaliation by some fanatical religious Jihad group…*sigh*…those were the days. It seems now however that 2005 turned out to be the ‘Year of the Anarchist’ as terrorist bombing attacks were successfully carried out with devastating results in the U.K., Spain, and Egypt. Shit, I can’t even ride on a city bus now without wearing a suit of armor and even then I still fear that I may panic and club someone to death if ever they should suddenly start fiddling suspiciously with their MP3 players underneath their jacket. On top of this, in Paris, radical French Muslims burned cars and rioted in the streets after two North African boys were fried to crispy tots in an industrial complex. How on earth these two incidents are related exactly is still to be determined once we manage to successfully design a super computer powerful enough to analysis all the prevalent historical data. And heaven fucking help you if you are a Boy Scout this past year!

Lets just say that a lot of people were pissed off this year and had lots to be pissed off at – myself included. Not because I was personally faced with, or even remotely affected by any of these disasters, but because even my only beloved means of escape – Reality Television – took a mighty turn straight down the dumper in 2005 as well. ‘Survivor: Guatemala’ crowned another skinny-ass chick as the ultimate survivor and winner of the million dollar prize. Gay Mormon survivalist and all-round nice guy, Rafe, was screwed out of contention when he lost himself momentarily in the final immunity challenge and openly invited Danni, the eventual victor, to not choose him for the final two - and thereby costing me twenty dollars that I had on him to win. If hope he fucking chokes on his ethics! In the wake of the fiasco that was the Survivor finale, the Linz family managed to beat out the born again bible-thumping Weaver family in the ‘Amazing Race’. It just wasn’t a good year for God’s chosen people in general was it? But all this was nothing compared to the royal ass fucking Randal would dish out to Rebecca on this season’s finale of ‘The Apprentice’ by denying her the chance to also be hired on by Donald Trump. “I honestly believe there can be only one. This is the Apprentice, not the Apprenti”...OUCH! Randal couldn’t have been any more blunt had he driven a stake through her heart right there on the set before a live television audience – or at least pissed on her leg. If I were Rebecca, I’d have been waiting for his black ass in the parking lot afterwards with a tire iron. Lastly, Martha Stewart chose blonde carbon-copy Dawna, despite her clusterfuck coordinating of “The Liz Claiborne Fashion Show & Charity Benefit” in the final project. Her victory over the fiery Latina beauty Bethanny was so anticlimactic that no one even so much as flinched as she rode off into the sunset in her new sports car. You mean the founder and publisher of a female sports magazine won the appointment of working at another future Martha Stewart Living magazine? Wow - there’s a fucking shocker! Thanks Martha – glad to see those months at ‘Camp Cupcake’ didn’t dampen your creativity none. That season finale was about as thrilling as watching invalids playing Bocce.

There was some slight satisfaction, however, in following the Michael Jackson child molestation trial. Personally, I just wanted to count how many times McCauley Culkin was going to be brought in to testify about his jewels not being diddled by “Freakshow” Jackson. Poor bastard.

2005 also found such noted politicians as Tom DeLay, Lewis “Scooter” Libby, and Randy “Duke” Cunningham guilty of crimes and offences not becoming of appointed government officials; Libby in leaking the name of a covert CIA agent and Cunningham in accepting bribes from defense contractors**. But where Mr. DeLay seemed to be enjoying the whole arraignment proceedings with a freakishly happy expression on his face throughout, as with his released mug shot, Libby and Cunningham would take solace in that having already earned their prison bitch nicknames they could have an easier time making that smooth transition to their new prison lives.

But the granddaddy of all pending investigations may be the Justice Department inquiry into allegations that Republican uber-lobbyist Jack Abramoff gave millions to at least 30 lawmakers — mostly powerful Republicans but also Senate Democratic leader Harry Reid of Nevada — and pricey perks to buy legislative favor for his clients, including American Indian tribes with gaming interests. If I were Dubya, there’d be beads of sweat the size of small hams dropping from my forehead. And rightfully so, the Idiot Child has been back-paddling in his politics of 2004 slightly quicker than the rescuers to the St. Bernard Parish of News Orleans.

For Californian muscleman Arnold Schwartzenegger, it also was not such a glorious year in the public eye as his popularity plummeted drastically to that of Jesse Venture redux. The governor’s poll numbers tanked faster than a Hummer in quicksand: - but at least you can’t fuck dead bodies anymore. That’s something isn’t it?

As an interesting side note, Time magazine, reflecting the new mood of humanitarianism, picked as its Persons of the Year U2 front man Bono, along with Bill and Melinda Gates, citing their philanthropy and social activism. Well, with so many stumbling politicians and leaders dropping the ball***, who else are we going to turn to for guidance and leadership? Rock stars and computer geeks, of course!

Also on the positive side, we made the lights flicker in 2005 with the convictions and executions of part-time preacher and ex-Ku Klux Klan member Edgar Ray Killen and former Crips gang co-founder, Stanley “Tookie” Williams. The 80-year-old Killen looked frail in his wheelchair, inhaling oxygen and tended to by a nurse in a performance on par with Dennis Hopper in ‘Blue Velvet’. The jury didn’t care, and in June convicted him of three counts of manslaughter, for which a judge sentenced him to 20 years each. Tookie’s post-execution toxicology report has just returned revealing high enough levels of sodium thiopentol, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride to down a herd of water buffalo. Unfortunately though, these same levels are also found in any one of Courtney Love’s average everyday breakfasts and so she therefore continues to walk among us.

FUCK! I’ve had this ditzy train wreck in my office ‘Dead Pool’ for the last four years now and still this pony won’t kick off! This broad will outlive whatever nasty pandemics Nature has yet to still unleash on us - I swear.

Anyways, I don’t think it’s any strange coincidence that I also so happened to be ringing out the old year with a mop in hand, a head full of chemically charged mush, and the Brian Jonestown Massacre playing in the background. I’m a hipper, fatter, and hairier Lady MacBeth frantically scouring the filth of this past year from my apartment.

It must have been through some demented cosmic design that I find myself now surmising the past year so bleakly. But in doing so there is now also hope for a full new year of surprises. The good news is that my apartment is now spotless and I can see my reflection in the kitchen facets and I’m ready and eager to begin another year and hope to fucking Christ that it’s a tad bit better than the last one. The thought of having to endure another 12 months of similar trauma scares the Holy Guacamole out of me! It makes hairs stand up on parts of my body that you don’t want to know about.

Of course, there were some very positive things that happened this year as well; but that doesn't make for very interesting reading, now does it?

VIVA LAS 2006!

* It should be now noted here for the record that I have now cleaned my bowl to such a fine polish that one now has to wear protective eye wear each time they enter the bathroom to take a dump as not to not run the risk of having their retinas burned out by the intense light reflecting off the sparkling porcelain. I don’t know what it is about me and hallucinogens and cleaning. I just find the repetitive circular motions of scrubbing to be disturbingly meditative. It’s a hypnotic “Wax on; wax off” kind of state I get myself into.

** His audacious take included a Rolls Royce, living quarters on a yacht christened the “Duke-Stir” and a $7,200 Louis-Philippe commode.

*** In fact, there was more political ball handling accomplished in 2005 than Wilt Chamberlain’s entire 65-66 season with the Philadelphia Sixers.