Memoirs Of An Evil Genius

Smile When You Say That

Wow!  Look at me, everybody!  Look at what I'M doing!  I'm updating my blog!  Whoa, I better slow down -- I am unaccustomed to this and it's making me seasick!

I'm being sarcastic.  It has been a while, but once again I swear I have a decent excuse.  I have been working my ASS OFF for a TOTAL INGRATE.  You know, it's bad enough when you have to really put your nose to the grindstone -- coming in early, skipping lunches, staying late -- and getting stressed and being barely able to keep your head above water anyway.  It is SO MUCH WORSE when the dickhole you're doing it all for is totally unappreciative of your efforts.  Worse still when he meets your accomplishments with a brusque, "Is this it?"  YES, THIS IS IT!  THIS IS THE END.  PREPARE TO DIE.

He's the worst, seriously, but there are others I work with that fare no better on my imaginary hit list.  There's a guy here who is totally passive-aggressive in that smarmy, smiley-faced kind of way that makes you want to punch them in the groin.  With a car.  The other day he called and left me a voice mail, just to say in his smiley way that he was assuming I had forgotten to do something important and so was going to do it himself.  In a voice mail.  This is douche behavior, people.

Okay, dig it: WHY would you leave a message like that?  No, wait -- YOU wouldn't, because if you're still reading this it's because YOU ARE NOT A DOUCHEBAG.  If you're going to just take care of, just take care of it.  There is no need to call and leave a self-aggrandizing message beforehand.  Also?  The thing that you're going to assume I didn't do?  You're right.  I didn't.  Because it WASN'T MY RESPONSIBILITY IN THE FIRST PLACE.  Way to investigate, Douche Tracy.

And that is only one small example of what I'm talking about.  I would list some of the rest, but, oh surprise, I have to get back to work.  Frowny face.

No Place Like Homicidal

OMG.  Argyle is at a bar RIGHT NOW sitting next to FANCY CRANE, and I am out of town and cannot drive to the bar like a lunatic, get all up in her face, and GEEK the FUCK OUT.  I AM SO MAD.  I AM CRAZED.  Seriously. This is NOT FAIR.  The Universe is trying to hurt me, right?  WHAT IS THIS?  No, but I'm really like insane about this.  To be fair, Ulrich and I have been out wine-tasting all day, so my judgment is somewhat impaired, but I AM REALLY PISSED ABOUT THIS.  I will never speak to Argyle again!  HOW DARE SHE MEET FANCY WITHOUT ME!  THAT BITCH!

Okay.  It's okay.  I'm okay now.  I swear.  I'm...going to breathe.  And maybe have more wine.  AND SEETHE.  No, not that last part.  I'm going to practice my Zen breathing and I'm going to be okay.  It's all okay.

IT IS NOT OKAY.  I am losing my mind.  I'm going to cry for a minute, but then I'll be fine.  No!  I'm fine.  Don't worry about me.  *sob*

Actually, there are possibly worries needed for my future, because I may commit a murder and be incarcerated.  Not Argyle -- I talk a good game, but I could never kill her because there would be no one left who knows how to Swiffer without leaving clumps of residue all over the fucking apartment.  (Seriously, why can't I figure this out?  I'm a college graduate, people!)  No, I am going to assassinate A CERTAIN PERSON I WORK WITH*.  I don't want to go into the whole thing because it would just piss me off all over again, and I spent two hours explaining it all to Ulrich yesterday, but the man needs to just die.

Between the passive-aggressive denunciations of my efforts on the job, and the way he a) doesn't listen, b) doesn't communicate, and c) expects me to nevertheless divine exactly what he wants and do it the way he wants it while not listening to me or answering my questions and telling me 'do whatever, I don't care' before then publicly accusing me of screwing things up by not doing what he wanted WHICH HE NEVER TOLD ME OH MY G-D I'M LOSING MY MIND AND I CANNOT STOP SHOUTING WITH WORDS!  He seriously ruined my life like eight times on Friday, to the point where everyone sitting in my cubicle area offered to buy me drinks and/or help hide the body.

I am trying to be calm and sensible about this, believe it or not.  I am trying to remember to forget about work when I'm not at work, but for reals?  This man makes me glad that I may be testifying in court on Monday and unable to go to the office.  Let him figure out how to do shit without me for a day.

Except that he won't.  He'll just wait and give me a passive-aggressive lecture about how I've wasted time by being subpoenaed and now have to really buckle down to make up for it.  That fucker.

Okay.  I need to go and practice more Zen breathing.  Send help.

*I am changing certain indicators in order to preserve a little privacy.  Not that I think THIS PERSON will ever read this?  But loose lips sink ships.  The person sitting in front of me has been leaning over my wall all day long to talk very loudly about my homicidal impulses, and I don't need to add any fuel to the fire.

We Don't Want YOUR Fries With That, Bitch!

So today is my birthday.  No, no -- don't get up!  I appreciate it, but really the applause is unnecessary.  I am OLD today, though.  OLD.  Well, old-er.  Old enough that if I were a famous actor I would start getting parts like "Single Father" and shit.  Well, maybe not me.  I would get parts like "Single Mother's Gay Best Friend", and I'd just be the catty, dishy guy who works with her at her interior design firm, and I'd be featured in the expository scenes where she's gushing on and on about the guy she met through her friend, and he's soooo beautiful (and he'd be played by Ashton Kutcher or some other such predictably affable comedian), and then I'd have to sigh and say shit like, "Oh, Susan (Drew Barrymore NO DOUBT,) you are so lucky!" and I'd have to act like I hate her for being so lucky, but really I'm so happy because she's my bestest friend and I know how broken up she's been since her husband died in that freak accident two years before.  And then there'd be a series of miscommunications between her and Ashton and she'd think he was a deadbeat, or a gigolo, or a con man, or something like that, and I'd be featured in a series of split-screen phone conversations where I'm in a bubble bath or something equally fey until FINALLY all is settled in the end and the young lovers waltz off into the sunset and everyone wonders, "HEY?  WHAT ABOUT THE GAY BEST FRIEND?"

So last weekend, Ulrich and Argyle and I had a night on the town.  Old-school.  I mean, we got SHITFACED.  Like, we drank...and then we drank some more...and then we drank some more, and THEN we decided to go to the bar, where we drank and drank and drank, and some dude tried to pick up Argyle (but he wasn't good at it, so he and his wingmen picked up ALL of us to get to her), and then the three of us stumbled home drunkenly but happily.  This is where the DRAMA begins.

We wanted chili fries.  You cannot get chili fries at any of the fast food places in our neighborhood.  So we had to go to the grocery store and buy chili and cheese, and then walk down to McDonald's at 2:30am to get fries.  But the place is closed after, like, midnight, and we had to go through the drive-thru.  Except that we were on foot.  So picture me and Argyle standing between cars -- PATIENTLY -- waiting to get to the window.  (They wouldn't acknowledge us at the speaker, you see.)  We finally get up there and ask for two orders of fries, and the manager comes up and gets ALL IN OUR FACES and says, "We don't have time for this!"

I'm all, "Listen, I'm offering you money -- I just want two orders of fries."  And she repeats, "WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!"  For what?  Walking over to the heat lamp and picking up two things of French fries?  Because seriously, that doesn't take long.  So the three of us get into this EXTREME DEBATE at 2:30 in the morning about what exactly is going on here, until I snapped out, "I am offering you my money for your product, and you are refusing it!  You are saying you do not want my money!"  And she says (try to guess) "WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!"  And Argyle barked out something pithy and we stomped off.

But we did not stomp with our tails between our legs.  Oh no!  We marched RIGHT BACK to the apartment, got in Argyle's car, DROVE BACK TO MCDONALD'S (at 3:00am), ordered our French fries, waited in the drive-thru line, got to the window, and then Argyle leaned over and shouted, "Oh!  I'm sorry -- we forgot!  YOU DON'T WANT OUR MONEY!" and then drove off at 1780mph, all the way over to the Carl's Jr. next door so we could wait in the drive-thru for another fifteen minutes to get our fries.  FOR WHICH WE GLADLY PAID.

We had briefly considered ordering two of every item on the menu at McDonald's before driving off, but it's not like they can't get your license plate number a million times while you're waiting.

Anyway, this is why we will NEVER EAT THERE AGAIN.  And you should not either.  Don't let anyone ever tell you not to do things just on principle, because it was the most awesome fun we have ever had.

Flying/High

I hate flying.  To begin with, I don't enjoy being 30,000 feet in the air -- call me crazy -- with nothing to break your fall but 90,000 pounds of fiberglass and aluminum, and maybe, like, a rosebush.  I also hate the fact that unless you are traveling WITH someone, you inevitably sit down next to somebody who wants to be friends.  I do not want to be friends.  I want to read my book and NOT DIE.  This does not seem to me to be an unreasonable request of the universe.

I should say that I had a wonderful Christmas vacation.  I went home, I saw my toddlin' nephew, I taught him how to say "octopus" (he said it like "OW-psss", and then I GAVE HIM ALL MY MONEY), and gave/received a lot of wonderful gifts.  I got to play with my dog and hang out with my friends, and my four-year-old niece invited me to her birthday party.  I told her that, as I live 2,500 miles away, I probably couldn't make it.  Her response?  "Ask your mom!"  I had no more money left, so I gave her my blood.

THEN.  I had to go home.  Ever since I enjoyed this little experience, I have been a...not so good passenger.  I tense up, I sweat, and every jitter of the plane causes me to start carving my last will and testament into the tray table in the hopes that it alone will survive our death drop into the rosebushes.  So I do what all God's children are supposed to do -- I get good and tipsy before climbing aboard, and try to let my buzz dispel the clamor of nerves.  We were maybe a half-hour into the five-hour flight (and I was maybe twenty pages from the end of my book) when the girl at the end of my row leaned over and asked in a drunken stage whisper what I was reading.  I explained, to the best of my abilities.

Drunk Girl: THAT SOUNDS GOOD!

Me: It is good, actually.

Drunk Girl:  I AM TOTALLY STEALING YOUR BOOK!  HA HA HA!  I NEED MORE WINE!  DO YOU LIVE ALONE?

Me:  No, I have a roommate.  A crowded house, actually.

Drunk Girl:  GIRL OR BOY?

Me:  A girl.  But our boyfriends come and go.

Drunk Girl: OHHHHH!  ARE YOU BISEXUAL?

Me:  Um...no.

Drunk Girl (disappointed):  OHHHHH.  SO YOU'RE STRAIGHT-UP GAY?  I'M BISEXUAL.  I LIKE BOTH!

Me:  That's...what that means, all right.

Drunk Girl:  YOU'RE ATTRACTIVE.

Me:  ...thank you.

So by this time, everyone on the plane knew that I was straight-up gay, and that my new best friend liked it both ways.  I was a trifle embarrassed, but tried to communicate that although I appreciated the company, it was reading time now.  She didn't get it.  She proceeded to inform me that she was flying out on an impulse to party with some guy she didn't know, whom she suspected would possibly be picking her up at the airport.  She used some...outmoded terms to describe him, which I will not reprint here because I find them to be impolite and inappropriate.  Just imagine her screaming "high yellow" or something similar, and you have the basic idea.

During the last forty-five minutes we bonded again when we encountered some minor turbulence in our descent that nearly sheared the wings off the plane, and I decided that if we were all going to die I wasn't going to meet my maker until I'd eaten every last piece of chocolate in my carry-on.  I shared, and this seemed to further cement our bond.  At the baggage claim, she was still with me, and still in...high spirits.

Drunk Girl:  I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT STEWARDESS CUT ME OFF!  I NEEDED WINE!  WOOOO!

Me:  When the hell are they going to send out our luggage?

Drunk Girl:  DOES THIS OUTFIT LOOK TOO WHOREY?

Me:  Nope, just whorey enough.

Drunk Girl:  HA HA!  LIKE YOU'D KNOW.  NO, YOU WOULD, BECAUSE YOU'RE HOT.  WOOOO!

Me:  ...where are my bags?

Drunk Girl:  WHY IS EVERYBODY STARING AT ME?  IS IT BECAUSE I'M DRUNK, OR IS IT BECAUSE I'M DRESSED LIKE A WHORE?

Me:  Can I pick more than one?

Drunk Girl:  I LIKE EATING PUSSY.  IT'S THE BEST!

Me:  ...

Drunk Girl:  YOU SHOULD TOTALLY TRY IT!

Me:  ...no thank you--

Drunk Girl:  OH, RIGHT.  NO, IT'S COOL!  YOU CAN HAVE ALL THE COCK YOU WANT!  I LIKE THAT, TOO!

Me:  Oh Jesus, please send my bag out right now.  I will donate to the church -- any church -- just please.  Please--

Drunk Girl:  I SURE HOPE MY RIDE SHOWS UP!

Me:  Yes, we all do.

Drunk Girl:  YEAH!  OTHERWISE I'M GONNA HAVE TO STAY WITH YOU!

Me:  Oh, look, it's my bag!  Bye!  Don't get killed!

And it actually WAS my bag?  But even if it wasn't, I was going to grab the next one that rolled by anyway, take it into the bathroom, change into someone else's clothes and make a mustache out of toilet paper, and then sneak back to the opposite side of the carousel to wait for MY shit to come through.

I am never taking the plane again.

Mo' Auto, Mo' Problems

Okay, I'm going to have to make this really, really quick because I have to leave work in about five minutes, but I have been so fucking busy all week that I didn't post anything.  SO, a quick update.

I bought a car last weekend.  Not that it was without The Drama.  Of course.  See, first off?  The car has...an odor.  Like, the guy I bought it from had this goshawful air "freshener" in the car, and it was so cloying it gave me a headache on the ride home.  It smelled like melted crayons and cheap, French whore.  So we put two boxes of baking soda in the car to soak up the stench.  So far, it's done wonders on the cheap, French whore!  Not so much on the melted crayons.

ALSO?  The tires needed to be replaced.  ALL of them.  So I did that on Monday, with much sturm und drang when they told me I needed the "wheel lock", but I'd thrown out the wheel lock (or else I'd salvaged it from the trash by putting it on the coffee table -- I did both things, but I couldn't remember which one came first.  Did I mention how busy I am?  It's like a David Lynch movie inside my brain), and they told me they were going to charge my ass $44 per tire to break the locks.  That's $176.  AMERICAN.  I said hell no, and they, worried they'd lose the insane sale of four tires, relented and broke them for free.  That's business for you.

Of course, the engine light has come on, and now I can't pass the smog test the guy who sold me the car was supposed to have gotten done before he sold it, and without that, I can't transfer ownership or register the car (the guy who sold it to me ALSO did not keep the registration current, imagine that), so I have to put it in the shop on Saturday.  Hooray for the "convenience" of personal automotive ownership, right?

Oh, ALSO also?  I came home Monday night to a letter from the bank informing me that, oh, by the way, they didn't cash the payout check I got from my insurance company for my total loss.  So I paid for my car and have been paying my bills with money I just barely had in the bank.  Like, by the time I found this out, I had $200 in the bank, and my rent check was still at large.  So I called them to yell at them about why I was just finding out about this now, via a letter, with no recourse, when the teller should have informed me there was a problem WHILE I WAS IN THE BANK DEPOSITING THE CHECK, and they should have CALLED ME to let me know that I might not want to start going all Paris Hilton with the spending when I didn't really have a dime to my name anymore.  I finally got things sorted out -- BARELY in the nick of time -- but BANK OF AMERICA has NOT HEARD THE LAST OF THIS.  I will be switching banking institutions, just as soon as all my latest checks have cleared.  Motherfuckers.

PS, I love how they try to subtly (or not-so) blame it all on you.  Like, they'll be all, "you're one of our most valued customers!" and then as soon as you have a complaint, it's like, "well, I'm sure it's your fault somehow.  We'll be sanctioning your account and charging you a ridiculous overdraft fee if anything goes wrong as a result of our incompetence."

Okay, now it is FINALLY the weekend, and I'm going to drink some wine.  Peace, y'all.

Noises Off

Dear Neighbor With Apparent HEARING LOSS,

You are loud.  LOUD.  If the people throwing things out the dead man's windows (one of our neighbor's died last week -- yikes) didn't wake me up, your INCESSANT and BAD techno music would certainly have done the trick.  The other night, it was your girlfriend's caterwauling that AGAIN woke me up THREE TIMES in the middle of the night, and her disturbing sexual hysteria that followed for THIRTY MINUTES and, in my opinion, YOU ARE DOING SOMETHING WRONG.

Also?  In re: your choice of "music" this morning, which you are blasting at top volume?  At 7:30am?  Yeah, that.  Listen: 1986 called.  IT WANTS THE ROBOT BACK.

--Dr. Julius "I Will Come Over There And Choke You With My Claw Hands" No