Christmastime in the Emerald City











{August 27, 2008}   Shitty Things About My Office

As I’m sure the majority of you are aware, I work in a very corporate type environment. I used to be the receptionist, multitasking like a demon, answering about six hundred calls a day for several dozen clients, and dealing with the general idiocy of the front desk and all it’s approachers. Since then I have been promoted to CSR II, meaning essentially that I am a senior customer service representative. You know those personal assistants you hear of, running about like mad, coffee this, errand that, and all sorts of busy shennanigans. Well, essentially my job description is that of a personal assistant for hire on a billable, as-needed basis. If you’re not big and fancy enough to hire your own full time assistant, but you need someone for a half an hour here and there to reschedule appointments, make travel arrangements, order catering and other function logistics, well that’s me. Corporate bitch for hire.

I do actually like my job a great deal, and when I’m busiest is when I’m at my best. I love flying all over the city running errands for clients, click clacking around our more posh downtown area in my fabulous heels and pencil skirt. And then I come back up to the north end of the city where my office actually is and think “ugh.” It’s not so much the job folks, it’s like everybody says: location, location, location.

In summary, my job is awesome, but my office sucks. Here’s why:

Location: Ugly

I’m a downtown kind of girl. I don’t live right downtown – I’m surrounded by trees, nice houses, funky districts and so forth. But where I live is generally considered to be in that proximity. I can see our dense collection of skyscrapers from my window, and I can walk there in just a few minutes. Where I work, on the other hand, is way the hell ass in the north end of the city. You can’t even see the CN Tower from my office, and it’s one of the tallest damn buildings in the world (fuck you Malaysia, your hookers suck.)

It’s far away and the neighbourhood is fugly. No bright lights, no posh architecture, no trendy amenities at ground level. I’m surrounded by nasty looking condos and Korean fast food. Not that there’s anything wrong with Korean fast food, I’m just not a personal fan. And if I’m going to put the effort into heels and pencil skirts, I’d kind of like to be surrounded by upscale florists and other things I like to pretend I can afford. Wide, pale sidewalks, shimmery and crack free. Potted outdoor plants with footlights and tasteful decor. Not so much up here. Tacky and dirty, that’s the general feel of this area. Ugly construction and confused passerby. Nice. Warms my heart as I get off the subway every morning.

Distance: Too Damn Far

It’s a forty five minute commute people. On a good day. On the subway. With transferring. One transfer if I catch the bus in the morning, two transfers if I miss it and have to take the streetcar. And if that’s the case, then I’m transferring at the notoriously ill-designed Yonge-Bloor junction. It sucks. This station brings out the worst in people, because it’s jammed, busy, and designed so that transferring commuters all crash into each other, and people who aren’t familiar with the layout have to stand in the worst spot possible to find any kind of signage. Also, all the civilized people are generally going south from Yonge and Bloor, towards the aforementioned sparkle and shine of the downtown core. Those going north with me, not so much. This is where you get the assfuckers who will park their oversized knock-off luggage on the seat next to them and sigh heavily when you have the nerve to ask for a seat that you paid for.

Status: Ghetto

The company I work for is tremendously succesful, the top in its field. We have dozens of locations in the city alone, and nearly a thousand worldwide. Part of my job often requires that I hop on the train and stop by our prettier centres to pick up equipment and etc. This means I get a nice taste of what the downtown centres look like. Me? I’m stuck at the northernmost point, initially under the employ of a company that was bought out by these fancy new people. That means we’re nowhere near as pretty because we didn’t have the start-up funding for, say, nice carpeting, or freshly painted walls, or pieces of art not emanating from the horrid, horrid 80’s. All the other centres know that we’re the crappiest. It’s a nice feeling.

We are the ghetto centre. We are ugly and cheap. If I didn’t work with Talea, I would immediately request a transfer to a downtown centre if a position was available, but the likelihood of both of us being transferred is slim to none.

Temperature: SubZero

My office is fucking FREEZING. All the damn time! I know it’s summer, I do, but it’s not really. Have they looked outside? It’s been raining every other day, and this morning it was freezing outside. Oh, but the computer says the temperature is fine! Well it’s not. It’s a bloody cold day in hell. And the worst part about it is that we can’t adjust our own temperature. When we’re cold, or when one of my dozens of persnickety clients are cold, I have to call down to maintenance. I loooooove maintenance. They hate me. They hate that I call every half an hour to have someone’s office warmed up/cooled down. They hate it so much that when Talea called down once, they reminded us that when the original owners took the space, they opted not to pay the extra fee for the option to self-adjust temperatures, so now they just get a little angry every time we call.

Great. Thanks. I’m still cold, so you can just bring your angry ass right on up and turn the a/c down, okay?

Oh and peep this! Just now the elevators stopped working. They’re coming up from the lobby, but they won’t go back down. Super fabulous.

Memos and Signatures: Pointless

Why do you think I type up memos and deliver them with mail everyday? Is it because I love risking the slicing intrusion of paper cuts on my fingers? The trees smashed under every word I type? No, people. It’s because there is something new that may pertain to you, and so I am giving you the courtesy of letting you know ahead of time. If you don’t read it, I can’t help you.

Picture this: It’s ten minutes after five, and I happen to still be at my desk. There is loud, insistent banging on the front glass doors, which are locked since it is past five. We didn’t always lock the door at five since we do have people who work here at all hours, even though they all have keys to the alternate entrances. But then security gave us shit. And so we sent out a memo and began locking the doors. Clearly, this banging individual failed to read said memo, and was irate upon my courteous gesture of opening the door for him. It would have been nice, he said miffedly, if someone had informed them that this new policy was in effect. We did, I retorted, there was a memo sent out. Well, said the haughty individual, *I* did not get that memo. You did, as a matter of fact. Your last bill? The one you paid? Yeah, it was in there. You just didn’t read it. Thanks.

Then there are arguments over contracts and all that other legal jargon that I’m not going to go into because it’s company privacy blah blah blah. But sticking with just generic observations, I will say this: If you sign a contract, you’re bound to the terms. That’s why you’re allowed to take these things home and read them over, kind of like when you buy a house and all that stuff. So if you piss and moan that you didn’t understand the terms or that you didn’t read this or that section, or that it wasn’t clearly explained, you can piss and moan all you want. You still signed something without reading it, and you’re stuid. Next time, I think I’m going to add a clause that allows me to tie people to chairs and kick them down a flight of stairs, and see if anyone notices before they sign it.

Incidentally, non-memo readers are about 70% more likely than memo readers to cuss and fight if they think you’ve charged them twelve cents extra for photocopies. Not exagerting here, TWELVE CENTS. Really, if it wouldn’t be construed as insubordination or flat out snarkiness, I’d start up a change jar at poor Talea’s desk so she could simply fling quarters at people rather than start the horrific process that is convincing our head office half a country away that joe-schmuck and his accounting errors desserve twelve cents back in the name of customer service.

Tech Support: Fail

I give up on the phones and internet, because our provider fails on an epik scale. (hahahahahahaha, subtle). We’ve been with this particular vendor for over a year, and still we can’t go a week without them fucking something up. Just yesterday, I took a spare phone we had sitting around, and asked them to program it for a new client. Just change the name thats already in it, that’s all! Wipe out the voicemail, maybe add a feature or two. You are a phone company, right? Well it takes a week (if it were me programming a VCR, I could understand, but I don’t get paid to program VCRs) before it gets programmed. Plug it in and the extension assigned to the phone has magically been stolen from one of our other phones and given to this one. Why? I have no idea. Damn good thing that extension was assigned to another spare phone and not one sitting in someone’s office.

But maybe they knew that, you say. They are tech people after all, they know what extensions are where and all that jazz. Just let them do their thing. Oh yeah? So when they hand us a spreadsheet of all the available phone numbers that we are free to assign to new clients and we find their own damn tech support number on there, I guess that’s a real fab indication of exactly how much they know about their own business.

Morons: I’m Surrounded

Yeah, that’s pretty much the gyst of it folks. I’m surrounded by morons and ugly buildings. I’m not planning on jetting out of here anytime soon, though. Firstly, there are a number of cool people keeping me here. Talea, obviously. Some of our clients can be buckets of fun when they’re in a good mood. One of the resident financial advisors stepped into our office for some of my lemon squares and to give us a fifteen minute lesson on how to flip pens in a crazy impressive manner. My boss is pretty rocking too, and that’s something you don’t want to gamble with. I could end up in the prettiest office downtown with a douchenozzle for a boss to make the overall day just that much worse.

It’s not my job that I hate. It’s my office.

Okay, some days the job sucks too, but I have rent to pay.



(editors note, WordPress appears to be fucking up, and I can not reformat this post to have any spaces between the paragraphs, this is not because I am retarded, it’s because the internet is retarded. Thank you for your time)

There’s a lot of damn things out there that make me happy, but I think I’ve been spewing enough lately about how awesome my boyfriend is, how cute my rabbits are, and how I’m so awesome my farts smell like Cinnamon Buns (seriously, Josh made a shirt telling me so.)

Yes, I am this awesome

Yes, I am this awesome

It is time, I feel, to get back on the rant wagon once in a while. It’s not good to keep all that well-worded rage bottled up inside. It wouldn’t be fair for me to clock a preppy blonde soccer mom in the face just because she reminds me of that bitchface in the Tostitos commercials. I’d at least have to clock her for the right reason – being a preppy blonde soccer mom in the first place. So lets get this show on the road.
The Tostitos Bitch
I can’t find anything on Youtube for this, mostly because only funny and worthwhile stuff is on Youtube, not mindless media propaganda. But I’m sure you can imagine it: some ridiculously well manicured preppy blonde is standing in her kitchen while a gaggle of healthy teens and doofusy dad barrel through – clearly she is super busy, just like EveryMom. Oh but she has the solution for that after school or mid game snack, oh yes! And it’s quick too, that’s the whole premise of these commercials: she finishes whipping up a Tostitos themed masterpiece with time left on the clock and cutely retardedly stands there looking at the camera.
Firstly, I don’t know about you, but it takes me a fuck of a lot longer than 30 seconds to blend expensive brand name shit in a food processor, pour it in a bowl and surround it by expensive brand name chips. Secondly, this attempt to appeal to EveryMom and give her the impression that she should be able to do the same pisses me off *almost* as much as the clear indication that she will turn into superefficientperfectlycoordinatedeverymom if she only adds Tostitos products to her next grocery list.
Fuck you! Do you know how expensive that shit is? Do you have any idea how quickly those three and a half dollar jars of fake cheese add up? Do you really think that once I squeeze out a few kids I’m really going to care about whipping out the food processor every day after school? Or quickly slicing up some buffalo mozarrella with a leaf of fresh basil and placing it daintily on a chip thirty times over? You better believe that if I have that kind of energy, it’s because I don’t have to work full time in which case I A) won’t be able to afford Tostitos brand products on a near daily basis and B) would rather spend the time, energy and money on something far more creative. Like a pie.
You want a quick and easy snack? Open a bag of chips you overachieving cow. Shut your thirty second face.
Middle Aged Suburbanites on the Subway
Okay, all you mommies and daddies that have to spend a fortune on a babysitter for your spoiled brats and then justify it by leaving your gas guzzling SUV in the driveway and taking the subway into the downtown core for the first date you’ve had since the drugstore ran out of condoms eight years ago, listen up: You’re not cool or hip, or whatever else you used to call yourselves back when you had a life. Your pressed jeans and new top freshly purchased at Winners piss me off, and you stick out like a fat chick at an anti-carb convention. Likewise your cheap highlights, fake leather jacket and tendency to compete for the SAME GODDAMNED HAIRCUT AS EVERYONE ELSE ON YOUR KIDS HOCKEY TEAM! Have you ever seen these creatures? These suburbanite flocks that all do the same weird over-the-age-of-30 shuffle on a bar-and-grill dance floor? Because that’s what they do on their big trip into town, and they talk about it ALL THE WAY THERE!
Pizza Pops
Because they go out the same way they go in. Orange and greasy 😦
Beer Bottles Without Twist Tops
Do I really need another device between me and my beer? If I’m having a beer it’s because it’s been a long ass day and I feel like hanging out and being a lazy ass. Why is it necessary, so absolutely essential, that I now have to get up and get the fucking bottle opener that I forgot to get on the way back from getting the beer since it’s so unnatural to have to stop and fetch an implement to facilitate drinking the beer that I’ve already spent the effort on getting into my hand? That was a long sentence, did you catch all that? I’ve already spent all the energy I want to spend today on GETTING THE BEER TO MY HAND. And now you want me to do more stuff? Does this not crush the spirit of beer? Some of you are nice, some of you play by the rules! Them other ones, the ones I can just pop off with my sweaty little girl hands, those guys are alright. But you assholes who give me some excuse about how it affects the bottling process or flavour or some such micro-brewery connoisseur bullshit, you motherfuckers slice my drunken hand open with your sharp non-twist edges! I hate you guys.
And if you want to know why I don’t just get beer in a can it’s because I already feel trashy enough drinking beer by myself with dirty hair in an un-airconditioned apartment next to a bag of cheetos without the can of Pabst or whatever you get in cans. I might as well just prop a car up on cinderblocks in my non-kitchen.
Cars with Ridiculous SubWoofers and the Assholes Behind the Wheel
So what’s the first thing you think when you see that sweet upgrade on your tiny dick little ride? “Oh fucking sweet dude, now everybody I drive past is going to instantly hate me for interrupting their movies, sleep, conversation, and awkward sexual advances. I rule!” What the fuck? If you’ve got this sound system, you’re automatically an idiot. If you weren’t an idiot, you’d know that you can only hear to a certain extent, and below this frequency you can’t hear a thing – you can only feel it, and you can only feel it twenty feet away where you AREN’T! You’re paying for a system that does not much extra for you, but does fucktons to irritate people nowhere near enough to your proximity to have done anything to deserve your overpriced interruption. If you’re paying to be an asshole, you suck.
And lastly, my personal favourite:
Motherfucking Greyhound
I don’t have near enough energy to go into the precise details of how much I hate Greyhound, but let me put it this way. Greyhound kept me waiting from 1am to 5:45 am in Richmond, Virginia surrounded by blaring TVs going into incessant depth on the latest Hulk Hogan death threat. Greyhound doesn’t seem to understand how to tell crazy bitches who clearly just had their hair did that their tater tot kids don’t get to strut in front of the other 150 people in the lineup – some of whom also have kids. Greyhound apparently pissed me off enough in Washington that I can’t remember a thing about the city. Greyhound had me run around the New York City bus stop with unidentified gates and passengers trying to get to Switzeland. Greyhound advises their new drivers to wander away from the vehicle when it breaks down for two hours at a truckstop halfway to Syracuse to better facilitate the crazy toothless truck driver who feels like climbing aboard to tell everyone all about the horrible bus crash he saw three weeks ago where eleven people died, despite my insistent questions “Who are you and why are you on my bus?” Greyhouse likes to advise dispatch of the wrong directions, sending my driver into the wrong end of some asswipe of a town nowhere near where I’m supposed to be. Greyhound likes to say “‘Dat ain’t mah prawllum, ma’am” instead of “this query of yours does not pertain to my job description, please go to the help desk where nobody is waiting to assist you.” Greyhound throws your shit to the ground hard enough to send your lipstick rolling through the gutters of the US Border Patrol. Greyhound doesn’t clean their bathrooms. Greyhound likes to thank me for choosing them. Greyhound is how I kicked my hardshell suitcase hard enough to break my toe.
Greyhound, you suck.
*Shakes fist*


We all know that just about every news story you see, from the indepth expose to the little reel of text across the bottom of the screen, has one form or another of bias. Frustrating isn’t it? All you want to know is what’s going on outside but somewhere out there is a huddled mass of enigmatic shadows deciding whether you should donate all your money to a lost cause or lock yourselves up in a basement against all the unholy evil in the world. How often do you watch a thirty second clip and think “what the hell is really going on?”

Well I have all the answers, natch. And so I share my insight with all you wonderful people. Of course, I don’t have time to explain the glorious, glorious truth behind every single flicker of media out there, so let’s just focus on a fantastic few.

By the way I might not be able to link you to all the stories because most of them were stumbled upon in a hazy stupor involving OMNI News South Asian Edition (I’m Caucasian for those who haven’t noticed) and a pot of French Onion soup, fancy bowl included.

 

FOURTH FOOT FOUND

HOLY FUCKING GROSS BATMAN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: So the article mentions the third foot found this past February, which I guess means Google hasn’t caught up yet since I just caught wind of the fourth. Four random feet have washed up along the west coast and nobody knows what the hell is going on. Always a right foot, in a sock, in a shoe. Meanwhile, CSI ratings are skyrocketing.

The Ugly, Ugly Truth: You know that fresh Pacific sushi? Yeah. Take that you trendy west coast hippie bastards.

 

DEADLY WATERMELONS

DEADLY DEADLY WATERMELONS

 

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: Kid at Wal-Mart reaches into a bin of seedless watermelons imported from Mexico and gets stung by a fucking scorpion. Like shopping at Wal-Mart isn’t scary enough. Hippies everywhere are freaking out about the co-demon of Wal-Mart feat. Genetically Modified Foodstuffs.

Cold Hard Fact: Mexico is coming. Run.

 

PIRATE ATTACKS UP TEN PERCENT

THIS PIRATE CAN TAKE MY NINJA STARS ANY DAY....WHICH IS A PRETTY CRAP INNUENDO. I FIND JOHNNY DEPP ATTRACTIVE. THERE...YES THAT'S MUCH BETTER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: Thank you George Stroumboulopoulos (or Snuffleupagus if you ask Josh) for bringing the most important news into my living room on a nightly basis. Unfortunately, last nights episode isn’t up on YouTube yet, and the hockey game screwed up CBC’s schedule, meaning it was on an hour later than usual. Consequently, I don’t remember much of it, particularly which coast it pertains to, but I do know this: pirate attacks are up ten percent. Yes pirates do exist and they have guns instead of swords, but the swashbuckling spirit of stealing other people’s loot is still high and mighty.

What You Only Wish You Had Realized: The nerdy 1337speak subdwellers controlling the counterculture of witty tshirts, webcomics, humorously captioned felines and the eternal pirates vs. ninjas battle have broken the fourth computer wall to bring the epik crusade right into our living rooms. Or high seas. Whatevs noobs.

TENNIS PLAYERS NARROWLY AVOID DEATH

DEATH BY TENNIS. YOU TOTALLY HAD IT COMING.

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: Completely accidental collapse of tree narrowly misses four tennis players who get together on a weekly basis to flash their sweater sets and call each other Muffy. No ankle socks were injured, and the group continued their game on another court after 911 was called to remove the tree so they could get out.

Reality Bites: Attempted insurance scam by the guy who sweeps the court after every adorable game. His car was crushed by the tree that was in actual fact coated with a blend of molecular particles designed to seep into the roots and rot them out, causing the crash. Unfortunately, the car was not only under the MacGuyvered tree but under a No Parking sign as well. Fail.

TRUCK PLOWS INTO GARDEN CENTRE AND OLD LADY THEREIN

I DIDN'T MEAN PLOW IN THE SENSE THAT YOU MAY HAVE ASSUMED

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: Some dude crashes his big ass truck into a garden centre, and then passes out with his foot still on the pedal, burning rubber until the paramedics drag him out. Both he and the little old lady he smacked into are taken to the hospital with non-life threatening injuries. Passerby scratch their heads and wonder what the dealio. Police suspect a possible medical condition.

Stranger Than Fiction: Medical condition indeed, but on the part of the little old lady, not the driver. She was up to her ass in debt from all the medicinal marijuana the driver has been selling since he confiscated that first baggie from his son back in 1993. Attempted smackdown. Fail.

 

So there you have it folks. Sorry I couldn’t explain the entire universe and such, but I have bills to pay and therefore a job to do and all that noise. But feel free to ask for my crystal clear bias free opinion on anything that’s been nagging at your little brains. I’ll hook you right up with the facts, yo.



I’m going to qualify that header with a little bit of information: I dropped out of University after my first year. Yeah, I know. Me, the prodigal child who went to gifted school, was in all advanced classes and spent most of highschool on the honour roll.

Was it too hard? Well it kicked my ass, but I probably could have plowed through – I passed a history course without even going to the exam, clearly I was doing something right. Did I spend all my money and time partying? No. I was poor and didn’t like anybody in my residence building. Did I decide to switch my major from Forensic Psychology to Interpretive Dance? Kind of, I guess. I did spend a fortune going to the best school for makeup artistry in North America before realizing that the Toronto beauty market is completely oversaturated. But hey, people spend that kind of money on vacations and I acquired some serious skills. No regrets at all. So why did I drop out?

Because it sucked.

Plain and simple, I didn’t like it. It’s not that I don’t have the wherewithall to haul my ass through difficult times in the hope of a great future ahead. I just didn’t see a great future ahead. Sure, I could have had a career as a forensic scientist, growing slowly more obsessed and insane (my fellow apartment dwellers were disturbed by the “motivational” photos plastered to my wall on the rare occasion I opened my door). But I lived with this lingering fear of spending all that time and money only to change my mind. I saw so many people achieving degrees only to find them useless, and so many people doing alright without them. I’m not saying higher education is useless. I’m just saying I was disillusioned. Everything I learned was through textbooks, holing up in my tiny bedroom for literally months at a time. The daily get up and go process, the classes and interaction with other humans only served as an example of why an education doesn’t make you smart. So I shunned it all very quickly, moved out on my own and threw myself into the real world for a whirlwind tour of poverty, uncertainty, adventure, heartache, exploration and a few good life lessons that all the overpriced tuition in the world could never have afforded me, and as is becoming increasingly obvious, has not been afforded to a great many of the more educated ‘others’.

THINGS UNIVERSITY DOESN’T TEACH YOU:

 

When it comes right down to it, your electric bill is the last one that needs to be paid. At least in Toronto where they will go for over a year before sticking that orange tab of paper on your door. On a related note, your account number is attached to your address, not you personally. So when you move, it’s not a very good idea to keep making online payments to the old account number because even though you will be credited for it, it’ll take them a year to figure it out and it’s a super pain in the ass.

 

 

 

 

 To prevent crack addicts from rummaging through your shit, don’t put out your recycling until you hear the truck coming. Empty beer cans are like gold. This of course, depends on where you live. If you can’t figure out whether or not you are surrounded by crackheads, you should probably just give up and wander into traffic. They don’t all look like Dave Chapelle, by the way.

 

 

There is no greater skill than being able to lie.

 

It’s all about who you know. I got this job because someone I made a brief impression on called me up to offer it. Talea got her job because I got that same someone to call her. At our previous place of employ, I was promoted from lowly phone monkey to reception because Talea knew me and my hyperorganization. Sure, the job was posted and technically available to anyone, and plenty of more educated and more senior people were a little miffed, but at the end of the day people hire you, not your resume.

 

 

 

Experience trumps education. I suppose some kind of college degree in business administration (What the hell do they teach in those classes? How to file? Did we not learn the alphabet and therefore how to alphabetize in kindergarten?) might beef up my salary. But if I walk into an interview with years of customer service and a list of references attesting to my skills, that meek little girl in her first suit and a newly framed degree doesn’t stand a chance.

 

Don’t bring your parents to a job interview you stupid, stupid twit.

 

You really, REALLY don’t need a swiffer. 

 

 

 

If you live in a sketchy place, make friends with the scariest looking person you can find. Again, it’s all about who you know.

You have to start doing the job you want before they will start paying you for it.

 

A four apartment quadplex with simple slots at the door for mail is going to be more secure than a two level series of bachelor apartments with 12 locked boxes. The former indicates an established level of trust. The latter…well, lets just say that I can still go back to my old apartment and open up most of the mailboxes with my fingernail.

 

 

 

Knowing city by-laws like the back of your hand is very useful, especially with jackass neighbours. Also become familiar with any rules and regulations pertaining to renting and lease agreements. Landlords will fuck you the minute they can.

 

 THERE IS NO SUBSTITUTE FOR GOOD LUBE

 

OH GOD MY EYES!!!!

 

When scouting for a dwelling, check all the taps and flush the toilets. Sure it might have a great view and tons of amenities, but you won’t care so much about the concierge service when you have cold shampoo running in your eye and you end up tripping on the shower curtain and are found by the paramedics staring blindly up into the still running ice cold spray. “Oh God, my eyes!” should never be anybody’s last words.

  

 

Learn how to break someones nose. You probably won’t ever have to, but it’s a good skill to have.

Not doing your own laundry by the age of 20 is wrong. Sending your laundry home to your parents makes you a sad, pathetic individual. Girls at school, I’m talking directly to you.

 

 

Find a good doctor. Don’t assume they all know what they’re talking about,   because a frightening percentage of them don’t. That nagging feeling of frustration like you’ve spent three hours trying to assemble a shoddy piece of Ikea furniture except you’ve been doing nothing of the sort? Yeah, it’s not the product of allergies and isn’t going to go away any time soon. It’s probably the sinking realization that you’re grown up and have to start acting like one, but you should still do something about it.

 

 

A good pair of heels can get you further than you think. So will a good tie and a good set of cufflinks. So will a chainsaw.

Get it in writing. People will doublecross you for a latte, nevermind a dollar.

 

If you’re getting calls from a collections agency, you probably already know that you’re fucked. You don’t have to stay on the line with them or let them scare you – feel free to hang up, laugh maniacally or make animal sounds. See that guy there? He’s screaming about the Manson muders and their relation to his mothers favourite Borscht recipe. And he’s having a grand old time. You can too!

 

 

Your printer didn’t just run out of ink on the day that you’re expected to bring a resume to an interview, and you don’t have a family emergency. For the love of all the is decent, just learn to say “I’m no longer interested in the position.” You’re not going to hurt anyone’s feelings.

 

Stop being afraid of hurting the feelings of people you are never going to see again. It’s very liberating. Feel free to walk out on a bill when the service was really that terrible. You don’t have to be nice to your ex. That pizza guy doesn’t need to be tipped 20% unless you have the same delivery guy all the time. If you do, make friends with him, man, make friends. You never know when a pizza guy is going to come in handy.

 

 

 

Nobody is interested in your regurgitation of the social theories you learned in school. If confronted with such a character, ask them if they’re going to introduce any original thoughts any time soon or if you should just break out the Communist Manifesto and get it over with.

 

If a taxi driver forgets to put the meter on, you don’t have to pay him out of sympathy. In this and in many other situations, asking for a name or employee number will get you a hell of a lot. If your cab gets in an accident you do not owe him anything other than a screaming shitfit. Learn how to throw a screaming shitfit, they can be very, very helpful. If your taxi driver happens to be a squirrel, pay the fuck up. Squirrels will lay the smackdown.

 

 

Return policies in most stores are more flexible than you think depending on how long you are willing to stand in line and argue.

 

 

Your first apartment isn’t going to come with a garbage can, toilet paper or a mop. You’ll also find yourself amazed at all the shit you need that you would never have thought of. Whether you’re a do-good bakeasaurus rex moving into a cute little condo or a hash smoking layabout living in the slums, YOU WILL NEED ALUMINUM FOIL.

 

 

 

A life well lived is the best revenge, but paired up with a wad of spit in the eye it’s damned near perfect.

And lastly:

BEING EDUCATED AND BEING SMART ARE TWO VERY DIFFERENT THINGS!!!

 

 

 



Dear Miley Cyrus:

I despise you quite a bit right now. Your tarted up face is everywhere, and your vapid lyrics are put forth through your mechanical voice everywhere I fucking go. I’d feel sorry for you if you didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself so much. My problem with you is that you’re a fake. That’s right, a great big phony. Let’s investigate the walking pile of lies that is you and everything you hold dear. Hold my hand on this journey child, your training bra doesn’t give you the right to cross the street by yourself just yet.

Firstly is your alter ego, Hannah Montana. I know you’re not much more than a walking Disney creation, but now that you’ve decided to crack your Mickey Mouse shell and start singing vaguely sexual lyrics (since those budding boobies are nothing more than two chubby cash cows in this industry), I don’t want to hear the name Hannah Montana ever again. Miley isn’t your real name either, but it’s sure as hell better than Hope or Destiny, so take the damn name and run with it.

Secondly, you can’t sing. You can’t even pretend to sing. I fully realize that when I was thirteen I had a crush on the Backstreet Boys, but at no point did I accredit them with any sort of artistic merit. They were fodder for my blooming sexuality and innocent daydreams of holding hands in parks. I’m quite sure there aren’t that many thirteen year old budding lesbians, and am not at all certain if one even knows if they are a lesbian at that point, so your celebrity confuses me greatly. Why do flocks of fans buy enough of your prefab albums to skyrocket your ass to the cover of enough magazines to even make it onto my radar, let alone piss me off? The Backstreet Boys could at least bust out with a decent a capella harmony, there being five of them and all. You can’t even sync up with the Studio Magic background track that makes you sound worse than Cher’s half-ass Framptonesque warbling on “Believe”. It’s bad enough that you rely so heavily on the post-production vocal version of photoshopping, but you can’t even do that right!!! STOP IT!!!

Thirdly, when you do sing, you sing shit. I don’t mean you sing poorly, we’ve already covered that. You know how “talking shit” implies slanderous, overdone untruths? Well you sing shit. You sing about rainbow flavoured love and make vague references to deep internal feelings like you’ve discovered your G spot for the first time. YOU’RE FIFTEEN!!!! I could probably go to jail for even MENTIONING that! Have you even gotten your period yet? Your meaningless lies about the cute boy at school are an unforgiveable insult to the great artists of our time who have loved and lost and written a decent fucking song about it! Go listen to Janis Joplin’s “Bobby McGee” you air headed little twerp. Now THAT is some soul! How the breath coming out of your glossed over mouth hasn’t turned bubblegum fucking pink yet is absolutely beyond me, but I would greatly appreciate it if you kept it in the schoolyard where it belongs.

Fourthly, and most offensively, you’re fucking stupid. I know Daddy is a country star and that’s why you’re famous, but being famous in the country-star sort of way is nothing at all like being famous in the pop-star kind of way. Country has it’s own flavour of soul and generally comes from authenticity. As a poptart, you’re no more than an oversized piggy bank. You’re pretty and sparkly, and so Industry Execs put money into the entity that is Miley Cyrus Inc. in order to get more money out in the end. That money pays for your wardrobe, your tourbus, your makeup and hair, and enough Studio Magic to make your voice palatable enough for incessant radio play. Sure you’re getting quite a few bucks out of it, but they’re getting even more. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be giving you your shiny pink big-girl pants in the first place, would they? They make money off you. It’s that simple. You’re a cash cow: they feed you lies and you shit them gold, with enough left over for you to tell yourself that it’s all okay. If you’re fine with that, alrighty then. We all have to abandon a few of our morals in order to pay our rent. What you don’t seem to realize is that as soon as you become an actual grown up, your appeal will have worn off and you’ll be dumped quicker than Britney after a crying jag. And that, my dear, makes you stupid.

Since stupid people generally understand concepts a little better with pretty pictures, lets take a look.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Disney’s Hannah Montana… 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Plus lots of cash… 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Equals Little Miss “I’m going to shake my booty even though I don’t really know what it’s for yet, and give millions of teenyboppers the impression that they know what the hell they are talking about when they get all lovestruck up in their not-yet-completely-formed brains and start making everyone else’s life a living hell with their sparkly lipgloss drama.”

Please note THE LACK OF BOOBAGE! THE LACK OF WAIST! THAT TORSO IS STILL NOTHING BUT A KIDDIE TUBE! SHE HASN’T EVEN FINISHED PUBERTY YET! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!?!?

Please also note the byproduct of this equation:

10

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That would be money to the power of ten.

Unfortunately, this is not a stable equation. With the addition of TIME the BYPRODUCT decreases, resulting in less money for professional hair, makeup, wardrobe and sound.

The final outcome looks more like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s right! It’ll happen to you too! Stop now and spare yourself the humiliation. And spare my ears while you’re at it.

Regards,

Me.

P.S. In case you still don’t believe me, I’m pretty sure my bff Talea is just about to rail on your ass for your parade of shittiness as well. Please click here for further demonstration of your inability to produce anything of worth to society.



So there’s a couple of things in life that are pretty unavoidable. Death and taxes, for example, at least until I finish up with the cryogenic reasearch (not for me, I’m already immortal, but for the bastards who keep taking my money). Another is celebrity gossip, at least in snippet form. I know none of you would dream of picking up the US weekly going on about Brangelina’s latest addition to their multicoloured genetic sampling, or Oprah’s most recent weighing in. But the information still manages to worm its way into your innocent bystander brain. You know Beyonce and Jay-Z got married whether you give a shit or not, and that Britney has gone from being tasteless to flat out fucking nuts. Because when you’re in a lineup at the grocery store and the feeble old lady in front of you insists on counting out her pennies, your eye will naturally wander to the giant bold font of every colourful magazine with its scantily clad wares on full display. You know Lindsay Lohan is about as classy as a puke filled tobacco spittoon, and I can guarantee that nobody wants to hear the name Miley Cyrus ever again.

Frankly, it’s getting a little old. I really can’t see much of a difference between Britney and Lindsay. They’re both blonde, strung out fodder for magazine punchlines, and neither of them have a smidgen remaining of any potential they may have once had. Mariah Carey is STILL struggling with her image and posing with the exact same facial expressions that she’s been carrying around in her luggage for the past decade and a half since she decided to flatiron her hair. And yes, J-Lo still has a great big booty. BORING!

You know what I miss? The fun-tastic celebrities of yore. The face-slapping antics of Macaulay Culkin and the goggle-wearing goodness of the entity forever known as “that Urkel kid”. We all know where Will Smith is nowadays, but what about Carlton? Or Hilary, who once made a huge deal over a boyfriend with a mole and was given the snappiest line ever: “You’re making a mountain out of a mole, Hill!” What’s Emilo Estevez up to these days? I haven’t heard anything about him since Will Ferrell drunkenly rambled his name back at the Roxbury. And Screech! Come on! Why aren’t these guys on the Surreal Life?

Well fine then. I’ll do it my damn self. I’ll find out what the hell happened to these people. And in the meantime, I’ll think up some fun alternate endings that would have ensured their lasting memory instead of their imminent disolve into obscurity.

Macaulay Culkin:

I really don’t know if I can come up with anything more insulting or outlandish than this photo, but just for the sake of morbid curiosity, I’ll switch from Google images to just plain Google.

Let’s see. Well firstly, he was arrested for marijuana possession back in September of 2004, probably still self-medicating after his harrowing Michael Jackson ordeal. He’s had a failed marriage or two, but who hasn’t? Oh here’s an interesting tidbit: he apparently bought Marilyn Manson his first pack of cigarettes for his role in Party Monster (yeah, I’ve never heard of it either). And it seems he stopped accepting roles while his parents were seperating because they were squabbling over his money like wonderful parents do, and after the flop of such atrocities as Richie Rich, never made it back into the limelight.

Cause of Obscurity: Fucked over by parents. It seems all the fame and money in the world can’t stop the inevitable.

Far Better Explanation: While he may have thought it ironic that he was corrupting a previously cancer free Marilyn Manson with his bad boy smoking ways, the tables were clearly turned shortly thereafter when Macaulay was roped into the Mechanical Animals as an understudy. He never got a chance to wear the boob-suit however, because his outlandish choice of personal styling was what Marilyn describes as “just a little too weird for my taste.” Macaulay currently remains in Marilyn’s employ by licking makeup brushes clean in exchange for petty cash and vitamins. Jackson is coming for him soon, he promised, he promised.

Steve Urkel:

Although the irony of the actors name – Jaleel White – does not escape me, the simple truth is that you probably didn’t even know what it was. He is, and always will be, just plain Urkel. But after his final nasally rendition of “Did I do thaaaaaat?” he was never heard from again. At least not so that anyone would notice. Did you know Bea Arthur performed the Urkel dance with him on stage at the American Comedy Awards? That’s cause Bea Arthur kicks your mothers ass.

After Family Matters got the boot, Urkel tried to write and star in his own show called GrownUps, which was a clearly failed attempt to carry along his childhood fame into adulthood. Bringing along Punky Brewster didn’t help, and the show tanked. Since then, he has managed to get a few bit parts here and there instead of tastefully hanging up the suspenders and calling it a day.

Cause of Obscurity: Cancer of the pseudonym. Without Urkel, there is no Jaleel White. I’m sure his friends and family will claim otherwise, but they are wrong.

Far Better Explanation: Urkel and Bea Arthur got married on the hills of Pasadena and now own a ranch known affectionately as “Burkel.” They have three children, all named “Argyle” and rivalled only by Michael Jackson’s kids for the collective title of “Most Obscure and Probably Really Ugly”. We’re not quite sure how, but they are in fact responsible for the crisis in the Middle East. Something about a Burkel brand Burka, with a terrible, terrible misunderstanding along the way. A camel was also involved.

Alfonso Ribeiro:

You probably didn’t know his real name either, but it was mentioned on Family Guy, so that’s good enough validation for me. I do know he was on another show, since that was the point of the reference, but I can’t for the life of me find it. And by “find” I mean “click more than one Google link”.

At any rate, Alfonso went through a divorce as well, and handed physical custody of his daughter over to his wife while still insisting on joint legal custody. Clearly this child is being primed for showbiz and a future battle over the assets gained by her no doubt gapped teeth. Alfonso himself appears to have never gotten over the loss of fame once promised him when he was cast in one of Michael Jackson’s Pepsi commercials, and has most recently been seen in a McDonalds’s ad.

Cause of Obscurity: Graciously exited the scene after McDonald’s told him he wasn’t black enough for them. He is now a professional dancer. I’m not even kidding.

Far Better Explanation:  Are you retarded?!? He’s doing the Carlton Dance for a living! What could possibly be better than that?!?

Hilary Banks:

Unworthy of any mention of her real name, not much is known about this elusive character except that she was a bit of a jerk on Fresh Prince. She was also on Blossom before that, as clearly indicated by the headgear, and had a brief stint on Melrose Place as well. Nobody has seen or heard of her since she appeared in The Ladies Man back in 2000. It was filmed in Toronto, and yet I don’t recall it – either a testament to our more presitgious productions or to just how lame a gig one gets after sporting ridiculous hats for a decade. Either way, she seems to have been filtered out of the far more talented (term used liberally) ranks we see on television today.

Sidebar: IMDB member blaque108 informs us that Hilary was on the cover of Ebony once upon a time. Thanks blaque108.

Cause of Obscurity: The hat, clearly. Whereas Michael Jackson absolutely made his career by sporting a mysteriously bedazzled white glove, this atrocious number never made it out of the early 90’s. Not seen in this photo are tendencies towards spandex, wild prints, mirrorball earrings, parachute pants and other era-approrpriate faux-pas including the themesong to Darkwing Duck playing constantly in the background. 

Far Better Explanation: Anything to do with Michael Jackson because that fucker has clearly ruined the life of every single celebrity I once loved and cherished.

Emilio Estevez:

We all remember Emilio Estevez from his days as the Mighty Duck Coach. But do you remember in the third installment when the story replaced him for the most part with a tight-ass college coach who looked distressingly identical to him? Yes my friends, it was a sign of the times to come. Our most recent recollection of Mr. Estevez was his not-quite-cameo in A Night At the Roxbury with Will Ferrell screaming Emiliooooo!!!!! Emilioooo!!!! Before that, and before Mighty Duck fame, he was an apparent member of what was known as the Brat Pack. I’m a tad young for this to have any bearing on my consciousness whatsoever, and only know this as a fact because I was too lazy to turn off a biography on Demi Moore a few weeks back. I also recall it having something to do with Molly Ringwald whose cause for celeb I still can’t figure out.

Since hanging up the skates that were never his in the first place, Emilio has actually continued to act, just not in anything worth mentioning. His name does not conjure up the same initial absence of recognition that Alfonso Ribeira does, but rather a feeling of “Awww, yeah, I remember him!” We remember his talent fondly.

Cause of Obscurity: Suckage. While his most recent stint “Bobby”  actually did fairly well, Emilio made a crucial mistake by abandoning the Mighty Duck bandwagon all those years ago. Apparently he only agreed to appear in the third installment at all in exchange for Disney’s financial backing in his actor-director fiasco “The War At Home.” Critics liked it, but nobody else did. And thus began his tailspin. His failed engagement and marriage to Demi Moore and Paula Abdul respectively didn’t do much for him either.

Far Better Explanation: It’s a little-known fact that his engagement to Demi Moore failed after she discovered Emilio canoodling with fellow Brat-Packer Molly Ringwald. Unfortunately, Molly also had a severe case of ringworm, as indicated by her unfortunate family name. The medication involved in the treatment affected his ability to make clear decisions later on in life. Emilio is currently a stockholder in Neverland Ranch, a further testament to the devastating effects of this illness. Please contact the author of this blog for info on where to send your charitable donations. A food drive will also be set up, as Mr. Estevez claims to be shockingly low on Doritos and Mr. Pibb

Screech:

This guy goes by a whole plethora of awesome names. Firstly, the character he played was actually Samuel Powers and would have been a super mega hunk with a super rad name like that if the writers hadn’t already decided to turn him into Screech. The actor himself is named Dustin Deschaine or Dustin Diamond, depending on which Wiki article you look at. And considering that he was with Saved By the Bell right from its early inception in ’88 to the final curtain on several modernized versions in 2000, he’s had a fairly good haul. Since then he’s apparently been trying to get his standup comedy routine up and off the ground, and was also a member of Celebrity Fit Club Season Five. His shitty attitude during the latter and tardy arrivals in regards to the former have kept him well out of the public eye. Apparently he was also a bass guitarist for the now-defunct band “Salty Pocketknife” but of course just because you and your friends got drunk in a basement within proximity to some instruments and gave yourself a clever name, it doesn’t constitute a “band”. Especially since Salty Pocketknife isn’t really that clever.

Most recently, Screech has been seen in his own sex tape scandal, leading one to wonder how anyone would get in bed with someone most notably associated with the name Screech. Assuredly, a bad vocal pun was made somewhere in the film. He has also been on radio shows explaining how broke he is, and hawking $15 Tshirts that say “I Gave Screeech Fifteen Dollars to Help Save His House,” explaining that there is an extra e in Screeech because he does not own the legal rights to his namesake.

Cause of Obscurity: Poor financial planning, the plague of most child actors. Anybody remember how Will Smith was nearly bankrupt after Fresh Prince went off the air? And how he resorted to cheesy feel-good rapping? Well, apparently the original Mr. Smith had a few things that Screech here didn’t, including talent and work ethic.

Far Better Explanation: Never got together with Michael Jackson.

So there you have it folks. I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane. Wasn’t it far more adventurous than seeing Lindsay in her umpteenth teary-eyed snot-nosed photo, or speculation over Mariah’s actual weight? And it was far more informative too. Knowing Brangelina’s exotic humanitarian vacation getaway details is not going to save your own children. Realizing that Michael Jackson secretly controls the world is vital to their survival. Remember these important things people. And now, just because I’m so generous:

 CREEPY BONUS ROUND!!!!

The Zodiac Killer:

Instead of continuing on with the shoddy actor theme, I decided to go a little more morbid. This fun little fellow killed a few people in Northern California back in the 60’s, and is most notably known for stumping police with his cryptic messages, some of which have never been deciphered. Five confirmed killings are on the record, as well as two survivors and his own claim to as many as 37 victims.

He was never apprehended, and the killings stopped inexplicably. To this day, nobody knows exactly who he was or what his motives were, though he still retains his boogeyman status with frequent pop culture references including a movie with Jake Gyllenhaal. Interestingly enough, the Zodiac Killer himself once told the media “i am waiting for a movie about me i wonder who will play me the world is in my hands now.” Fantastic grammar and everything.

Cause of Obscurity: Stopped killing. This freaks people out because serial killers usually continue until they are caught, as it is a terrible compulsion not easily ignored by even the smartest of fiends. Some speculate that he went into hiding or simply moved to a different state and continued his plan unrecognized.

Far Better Explanation: Hit by car on the way to pick up a box of cat food.

 



So I’ve found myself a little stuck with writing lately, only because I’ve been generally less pissed off thanks to my awesome boyfriend and my overall improved ability to not let the world’s jackassery spin me into a trauma that’s much less eloquent outside these virtual perameters. And unfortunately, it’s when I’m pissed off that I write my best. It gives me the outlet to be snappy, sharp-witted, and sarcastic in my observations; to provide helpful suggestions as to storage places within various bodily orifices for the idiodic ideas of the masses; in other words, the chance to be a bitch. 

On a day to day basis, I am actually very nice. Karma and such – I go out of my way to help friends and complete strangers where I can. Even when I call someone an asshole on the subway, it’s for the greater good. But there is a side of me that just really gets a kick out of being mean. Not to “people” really, because when I get pissed off enough, you’re no longer human, and I can be as mean as I want. This doesn’t work well in person though, because people cry and leak and stuff and then they’re human again and I feel like I’ve stepped on a starving African orphan. With AIDS. 

But if they don’t blubber and wail, or if they are distant somehow I’m GREAT. On the phone, for example, I can be as aggressive and mean as I wish I could be in real life. I had a super proud bitch moment a few weeks ago. Our internet went down and everyone was pissed. After an afternoon/evening of disarray, we figured out that a single phone number had been disconnected by mistake. The next morning it was my job to get on the phone with Bell (who we no longer use) and figure out what the hell happened. The fun part is that these people on the other end of the phone aren’t real to me, so I had an absolute blast. “No, we aren’t waiting for a tech, 4-6 hours is unacceptable. I don’t think you realize the severity of the situation or precisely how much it has cost my clients so far. I need to know why this line was cut, and I need to know immediately. No, that’s not good enough. Your employee number please? Listen, we’re going to get a MASSIVE bill for tech support, and I need to know who’s going to pay for it. Yes, I realize you are just doing your job, but so am I and I have 60 people breathing down my neck – you have one, me. Then put me through to someone who can.” One hour and five different phone monkeys later I was put through to someone who told me exactly who’s fault it was, and it was AWESOME. A fantastic feeling of accomplishment. Me, *I* figured out who’s fault it was. And it was an important person. Delicious.

Last weekend, my internet blipped for thirty seconds. Twenty minutes on the phone later, I was discounted up the ass. “I’m sorry but this is not at all what I plan to continue paying for. You’re automated menu has mentioned internet difficulties in my area since the minute I signed up. But I give you the benefit of the doubt and am left with unreliable service in return. Do you think I feel like a valued customer at the moment? No, I don’t. No, discounting me for the offline time is not acceptable. It doesn’t matter that I couldn’t get online for thirty seconds. It matters greatly that for several weeks, I have been unable to write an email, or transfer funds between my bank accounts (right, because I’ve got SO many with SO MUCH money in them) or go about any of the activities I pay for the convenience of having online access to without wondering if my internet will go down. Really? That’s what I’m paying for? One more thing to worry about? I want these charge reversed. Your name and employee number please” So the bill comes along with two months worth of phone charges, and only ONE month of internet charges. Because my internet went down for thirty seconds. I wasn’t even online at the time. If I hadn’t been in the room, I wouldn’t have noticed the little light blip off and then on again. SWEET. Next time they ask if they may know to whom they have the pleasure of speaking, those faceless little monkeys will be calling me Princess HottenTots.

Notice the absence of any swearing or personal attacks. These are ineffective measures in getting what you want, because they make you look desperate and flawed. I’m right, and perfect. The insects on the phone, they are not. And don’t give me shit for dehumanizing people, you all know you hate those headset wearing liars. They do lie, they hold out the serious discounts for the people who demand them. And if you are one of these people, well hey, I would probably hold the door for you out in the real world somewhere, but as soon as you adjust your little foam covered mouthpiece, your ass is MINE.

In real life, I sometimes get a rare chance to fuck with people legitimately. Because it’s not about being a bitch. I’m really an awfully nice person. But there’s that funny little side of me that needs to be let out once in a while, so if I’m given good reason to fuck around with someone, I’ll take it and laugh with glee. One of our very pleasant clients came up to my desk and said “I just got a call for someone asking for someone I used to work with. It’s a very unpleasant matter, and I don’t wish to speak with them. Is there any way to screen those calls out?” I said absolutely, it would be my pleasure, and proceeded to demonstrate: “Hello? No, I’m sorry but there’s nobody here by that name. No, you have a wrong number. I can’t imagine how you just spoke with him, there’s nobody here by that name. No, you weren’t just speaking with me. I can’t imagine what you dialed earlier, but you simply have a wrong number. No, you can’t. No. No. No. Well I hardly think your opinion of my personal character has any significance in the matter. Goodbye now.” He was quite pleased.

We’ve got someone in the office who likes me to screen people for her. She’s got me on instant messenger and will often send me instructions.

Client: “She’s here for an interview, I’m still trying to find an assisstant who isn’t a total retard. What does she seem like?”
Me: “Rather timid, really. You seem like you’re looking for someone aggressive. She seems frightened of me, and mispronounced your name.”
Client: “I don’t want her.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to reschedule your interview. She was called away a few moments ago, I just spoke to her on her cell phone. There’s no need to leave your resume, we’ll be in touch. Bye now.” Nothing personal. I don’t dislike you as a person. But you’re unnecessary, so you can continue being a pleasant individual elsewhere.

Client: “Thanks, you’re great. Can’t you be my assistant?”
Me: “I like realistic pay and benefits.”
Client: “Shit.”

The same client had someone show up a day or two ago. I greeted her very politely, asked who she was here to see, and then her name. I left a voicemail and within ten seconds received an instant message:

Client: “She had an appointment hours ago and didn’t show up. She’s been jerking me around and it’s wasting so much of my time and money. Get rid of her, feel free to be rude.”
Me: “Yes ma’am!”

Me: “Ma’am? Hi. Unfortunately, you missed your appointment this morning. So you won’t be able to speak with anybody. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “But I just need to speak with her for five minutes.”
Me: “She’s unavailable. You were expected at 9:30 this morning, and it’s nearly noon.”
Her: “Yes, I was unable to come in. I just need a form. It’s very urgent, my court date is tomorrow.”
Me: “You should have called. She’s unavailable now, and won’t be available any time today.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yeah, she’s STILL not available. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “Okay, I will come tomorrow morning then.”
Me: “No. How do you know she’ll be here? You could drive all the way for nothing. Call and make an appointment, and show up on time.”
Her: “Can you make the appointment for me?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Well then what time tomorrow she is here?”
Me: “I don’t know. Call to make an appointment with her.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yes. It is. Call to reschedule. Thaaaank You!”

Saying thank you at the end of a sentence is a really good way to indicate that the conversation is over and the other party must now leave. And they can’t even say you were rude – they just didn’t like the answer you gave them.

Anyways, I’ve rambled enough. You see, the thing is, this sort of ability to see someone as not so much a human but more of a bundle of cells comes in very handy when you work for a corporation. Corporations are recognized legally as seperate entities – this being the benefit of incorporating. But if you look at a corporation as a seperate individual and run a few diagnostic tests, you’ll find that they are quite psychotic. Cold, emotionless, unable toform any lasting bonds. They will be super nice and bend over backwards for you as long as you have something they want, but the minute you bounce a cheque you’re dead to them. No love lost. Goodbye corporate luncheons, hello call to security the moment you step foot back in the door. As Talea put it so well “If I took my job personally, I’d be on the floor crying all day”. So it is really an asset to be able to detach yourself in this manner when you need to wring necks in order to find out who’s going to foot the mile high tech bill for pulling the plug on everyones life internet.

Outside of work, it’s considered a ‘problem’. A ‘symptom’ actually if you want to get up close and personal. It’s actually pretty nice that my job gives me an outlet for the dark side. But I figure I should probably work on other outlets as well. What if I don’t need to squeeze answers, discounts and apologies out of people? What if I start lashing out at people I like because I just haven’t gotten my bitch-fix lately? This is not good.

So I’ve decided on some new goals. For my very nice wish-I-could-fix-the-world side, I’d like to have my finances in good enough order by this approximate time next year so that I can buy one of those $100 lottery tickets that donates proceeds to childrens hospitals. And for my holy-shit-I-am-SO-good-at-bitching-people-out-and-secretly-really-LOOVVVE-it side, my goal is this:

I want to make a collections agent cry.

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s true: I would make an excellent collections agent. But I’ve been on the other end of that, and while I was never intimidated I know there are a ton of people who are just trying to make ends meet to feed their kids. So the morals of that don’t sit right with me. I want to use my evil for greater good. But I’ve already gotten rid of all the creditors in my life. So I need some Karma. If anyone has someone out there who owes them money, or who’s hassling them for money, let me know. Is the phone company threatening you? Is your internet bill astronomical? Well I can help, because I am good at being a bitch for constructive purposes.

It’s a new marketing campaign. Call me. Please.

 



When’s the last time you got a raise? Just a general survey here, is anyone absolutely rolling in it? Is anybody else encouraged to simply stop doing their job because they don’t get paid enough? No? Well all y’all are apparently schmucks, because it seems all you need to do to get whatever your little heart desires is sign up for a pair of grey shorts as a member of one of several unions related to various job positions within the Toronto Transit Commission, hereafter known as “you jackass sons of whores.”

Let me back up and explain a little bit of what’s going on. The TTC employees, responsible for running our busses, streetcars and subways, as well as all the eletrical work and safety considerations etc. that go hand in hand with running any large-scale organization intended for public benefit, have gotten a little pissy lately. Like everyone on this great green earth, they want more money. They also want more benefits, and whatever else they’ve been yammering about. Currently, they only receive 70% of their income if they have to take time off due to a work related injury, including assault from shadier members of Toronto’s vast public. And yes, it might suck to have your income drop because of an incident beyond your control – but you’re still getting paid despite your absence in the economy, just like everyone else fortunate enough to work for an organization that provides these benefits in the first place. A hell of a lot of us are shit out of luck if we break our leg or sprain our ankle. And you may run the risk of having some punk ass kid take a swing at you because he doesn’t like your face or system, but my job isn’t without it’s risks. I’ve had some serious nutcases in my little reception area, and I’m pretty sure one of them declared Jihad on me. More than once I’ve had to have security escort someone out, but that’s just part of my much-slimmer-in-the-general-wallet-vicinity type job, now isnt’ it?

Now, I’m not saying how it currently goes is necessarily right. After all, it’s not my fault I fell down the stairs (maybe….) But I do think that’s one of those things where it’s just the way it is. And if you do want to change it, simply not doing your job isn’t really the way to go. Shit, if you don’t like a law, change the way you vote. You could maybe go against the law if you’re willing to spend some time rattling your donation cup against the bars and having your friends hand out pamphlets up about two blocks from me, but it’s not all glitz and glamour behind those iron rods of injustice. The simple fact is that the majority of us have no choice but to suck it up and do our jobs in order to pay our bills and put our kids through college. 

But no. The TTC can decide to strike. If I were to go on strike, you know what would happen? I’d be replaced within five minutes by the next doe-eyed multitasker ready to abandon all hope for the future of humanity in exchange for a meagre paycheque. Yes, that does give you a glimpse into my average day. If I wasn’t so good at ranting about it, I wouldn’t love my job so much. But I digress: the point is, I can’t go on strike. It wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t work for just about anybody. The TTC on the other hand, has the city by the short n’ curlies and so can just up and walk away and get handed whatever the fuck they want. Why? Because we as a city had the super smarts to think “Hey, cars aren’t really the best option around here. Gridlock and terrible smog, and the rising cost of fuel and parking and such. Lets build a city-wide infrastructure to support the commute of MILLIONS of people every day at a fraction of the cost of driving.” Good idea! So many benefits with just a few downsides, one of them being the apparent superiority complex given to every beer gutted bastard sitting behind the wheel of a bus.

Some people don’t get to strike. Some jobs are considered an essential service. The nurses went on strike once, back about the time I smashed my clumsy toddler head into the wooden arm of a couch and needed stitches – put in by my DAD, thanks a lot. Traumatizing much? (For him, not me.) And since then, they’ve been made an essential service. This means they can’t strike, but they do get paid a lot (Yes, I know our health care system is ridiculously underfunded, that is a systematic flaw. I know how much nurses make, and I’ll dip my hands in guts for that kind of dough any day.) And there has been a lot of talk about making the TTC an essential service. I know it seems kind of odd to look at the roster there: firefighters, nurses, doctors, policemen, and the TTC unions. Four out of five save your lives on a daily basis. The other one gets you to work. Yeah, sweet, that job I’m sure you love so much. However, as a city, we do need the TTC to function. So there are a lot of pros and cons to making them an essential service, because while it would prevent strikes, it would also give them the right to a lot of stuff – not for stitching wounds and dragging babies out of burning buildings, but for driving a bus all day. And while it is essential, something about that just doesn’t sit right with me. And something apparently doesn’t sit right with those who actually make the decisions, because our government has been hemming and hawwing in their quintessential Canadian sort of way.

Anyways, carrying on. They nearly went on strike about a week ago, and there was a whole shitload of “Will they? Won’t they? What the hell are we going to do?” going on. And so the TTC agreed to at least give the city 48 hours notice before going on strike so that the majority of us who rely so heavily on them could make alternate arrangements. Last weekend, they decided not to strike. They accepted the deal on the table for the time being and kept on truckin’ (or bussin’, rather) throughout the week until it could be officially voted on. Friday at midnight: not a fucking bus in sight! Stranded! Not me, personally, once I’m home I don’t really go anywhere I can’t walk to, because, um, I live downtown and that’s the benefit of paying ridiculously high rent. But yeah, right out of nowhere! Never mind two days notice, we got about two hours notice.

This, tactically, was a shitty move. Firstly, who the hell are you trying to paralyze in a city of commuters on the weekend? I’m not denying that some people were very definitely fucked, but overall, not very effective. Secondly, that gives the city 48 hours to retaliate to your ongoing bullshit. So what did our government do? Well, they didn’t declare them an essential service. That’s a very permanent move to make on such short notice. Instead, all three parties of our provincial legislation got together and put a nifty little bill on the table that was passed within half an hour. It said essentially this:

Dear TTC,

You have officially pissed us off. Yes, you may have the city by the short hairs, but you’re forgetting who can smack down the law ’round these here parts. You didn’t hold up your end of the 48 hour deal. So you want to play hardball? Here’s hardball: either get your asses back to work on Monday and settle your shit, or pay $2000 per employee (of which there are a LOT) and $25,000 per union for every single day this idiocy carries on. You also have five days to find someone to help you settle your shit, or we’ll pick one for you. You also owe the city of Toronto an apology.

Dear Toronto,

Please don’t beat up transit workers on Monday, that’ll only give them more fuel for their whining, blubbering fire.

So there! Take that you assholes! Try to hold my life hostage, will you? Just because we need you to function on a daily basis doesn’t change that fact that you DRIVE A BUS!!!!!! I still love my TTC as a system, because I love that we have taken on such a green, sustainable, economically friendly infrastructure and made it something that is really essential. But goddamn if I don’t hate the day-to-day assholes who yessssss keep it running (*clenches fists*), but who whine ceaselessly about it.

My solution? Get a couple of blogs, jerkfaces! Venting does the body good.

 



{March 26, 2008}   Spitz or Swallowz

Are we seriously still talking about this guy?!? Holy God, it’s been over a month since this whole Eliot Spitzer shiznat barreled its way onto that unavoidable little tv in my corporate elevator, and while the coverage has decreased to the status of satire on This Hour has 22 Minutes, it’s still hard to believe that the squawking box hasn’t tired of this yet. Are you guys in need of a little more excitement maybe? Hmm? Not getting enough in the bedroom? It seems that as soon as a political figure admits to having a dick you go absolutely apeshit, and I just don’t understand.

Now don’t go thinking I’m defending the idiot. There’s nothing I love more than seeing the life of a douchebag go up in media flames. We all love car wrecks, we slow down to gaze at the carnage – don’t deny it – and at the end of the day, I get a certain sick little kick out of all the shebang. Does that make me a bad person? Well, maybe, but my ass isn’t on the news now, is it?

My question is why does it always have to do with sex? I know other shit is going on, but with my ongoing attempts to avoid a steady influx of political crap, only the most outrageous incidents filter through. It’s a decent gauge, I find: if I know about it, then holy crap it must be a HUGE story. And it’s not as though we Canuck’s don’t have our own scandals. It’s just that they’re not about sex, so why would the American media notice? Not that they notice much about us, a fact that sometimes pisses me off and sometimes makes me grateful that the world doesn’t hate us. If anything, our scandals are far more interesting. Everybody knows what hookers are all about, but how about a political party trying to gain the support of a certain important figure by offering him a million dollar life insurance policy? The catch – the guy’s on his deathbed. I know, freaking Days of Our Lives or what?! Now that is awesome.

But no, you settle for the humdrum. Oh wow, look, another public figure who claimed that he was SO not about the paid-for poontang up and got himself caught with his dick in a borrowed pot of honey. Fantastic. And on Valentines day too! Double trouble! I bet all those years of sneakily ruining people lives, stock value and reputations in the press instead of in the actual courtrooms looks pretty regrettable now, doesn’t it you two-faced douchebag? And when you settled things out of court, effectively beefing up your own reputation while still letting people you called criminals go free, why didn’t anybody call you on your douchebaggery back then? Because you managed to keep your dick in your pants, that’s why. America loves a good dick story. Don’t you have better things to worry about? For example….hey, do we have that clip of ANYTHING GEORGE BUSH HAS EVER SAID?

But admittedly, there are a few things that caught my interest. The story did, after all, manage to worm its way into my consciousness. Firstly is the bill he footed. Holy fuck. If you have that kind of money, good for you, but in all honesty, there are only so many tricks Cosmo can teach you, and only so many orifices on the human body. Unless her pussy was gold fucking plated, I’m not buying. And even then I’m not buying because who wants to fuck a gold plated pussy? Was it stuffed with blow? Small children willing to do your gardening? Elves? I’m not only assuming she swallows, I’m assuming she swallowed several balloons worth of peruvian heroin to be marked up and sold on the streets, because that is only justification I can see for spending thousands of dollars on one overused funbox. What the hell?! You can get it cheaper!!! I’m not saying go for the Costco version but shit dude! Maybe if you spent a little less on the hookers and a little more on paying off the press you wouldn’t be in such hot lube right now. And maybe if you spent a little more on your wife’s Valentines Day present, you might have had a little more support from her – something the public tends to appreciate, we women have funny little powers that way – instead of winding up in this memorable photo, in which she is instead very clearly plotting his demise.

 

It’s a patient, smug, cold look. It’s the kind of look I like to think I wear whenever I succeed in getting someone fired. It’s the kind of look that let’s you know you’re in serious, serious shit. Obviously, she got a card. Obviously, he lost his testicles later that evening.

The other thing that caught my attention and honestly bugs me the most, as immature as it may seem, is that he was known as Client 9. Why? There’s nothing impressive about single digit numbers. I, for example, live in apartment number 3 in my particular little flat. You didn’t think apartments came in single digits, did you? That’s because they usually don’t. When you live in a real apartment building with things like elevators and fire escapes and garbage chutes and laundry rooms, you get numbers like 103, 1408, 217, fun things like that. When you go to a hotel, you get suite numbers of the same variety. When you go to a shitty motel, you get room number 4, maybe even 11 or 12. You get the idea. I can’t imagine such a high class escort service wouldn’t have hundreds of clients, so why such a low number? I don’t suppose he happened to be their 9th client, this is the oldest profession in the world we’re talking about. Seriously? 9?

I know you’re all thinking it. Why the fuck wasn’t he Client 007? COME ON!!! How cool would that have been? If absolutely nothing else, it would have given him a clever out by way of the good old Section Eight*. Clearly he’s got some delusions of grandeur, right? And we all know that politicians need only the most transparent of excuses to get away with downright murder, so why the hell didn’t he think of this?

Really, to be completely honest, if he had been known as Client 007, I would totally have been on his side, because that is just plain rad.

*By the way, if this image didn’t come immediately to mind when I mentioned Section Eight, then you suck and Alan Alda is coming after you in your sleep.

 



{March 18, 2008}   Starbucks fails again.

You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you?

Welcome to my daily grind: I wake up on a crappy futon because I haven’t gotten around to getting a nicer one even though I can easily afford it. I am greeted with the scent of bleach because ever since putting all the rabbits in a room of their own I have become slightly obsessive about keeping the rest of the apartment clean (let’s all take bets on how long that will last, huh?) I watch a bit of news on one of my five fuzzy channels, get myself in some sort of hygenic state, and put on some relatively clean clothes. I don’t even bother with makeup until I get to work.

I’m supposed to get to work at 8:15am. I get to work at 8:22 on most days. And my boss doesn’t notice because she usually rolls in far later than I. On the rare occasions she shows up earlier, I get some mild faux-friendly chiding about my arrival time. I snort to myself and ignore. My first task is to tidy up the boardroom for the daily 8:30 meeting for one of our clients. I change the newspaper in reception, make sure it’s all tidy. Then I go to the kitchen to clean up after the slobs that apparently don’t show up until well into the wee hours of the night to dump disgusting grime covered dishes into the sink for me to touch. The dishwasher has usually been run overnight, so it’s my job to empty it, put away the clean dishes and put in the herpes-riddled mounds of bacteria left for me. All this while, I’ve also got a fresh pot of coffee brewing and forcing polite chit chat with the early morning seekers of clean mugs, trying to figure some way to determine those that rinse their dishes and those who surely leave spit in the sink. There must be some telling sign of such gross disregard for civility: a twitch, surely, perhaps a tendency to drool? Alas, nothing so far. One night I’ll snap for certain, and end up camping out in fatigue gear with an infrared camera to catch these perpetrators.

Also, right now, I’m pretty sure there’s black fax toner in my coffee. Super.

Right, coffee. I usually end up getting a grande at some point during the day. Because once I finish cleaning the kitchen, turning on my computers, putting on makeup and reading my morning email from my super sweet boyfriend (seriously, retardedly adorably sweet – more on him later when I’m in less of a foul mood), there’s really not that much for me to do. Sure, I’ve got phones to answer, maybe an email or two. But nothing that really requires very much attention. And so it doesn’t take very long for the inevitability of last nights insistence on staying up to watch The Hour to kick in, and I start feeling that doziness.

I needs mah caffeine.

Here’s the kicker: we HAVE coffee here in the office. It’s free. It’s better than free: it’s paid for by the same bastards who leave their slime covered flatware in the kitchen every night. Well, it’s actually paid for by all of our clients, even the ones kind enough to rinse their dishes or *gasp!* actually put them in the dishwasher with a grain of courtesy. The coffee used to cost $1.25 a pop, but now every client pays a flat monthly kitchen fee, and that’s just how it goes. The downside is the constant pissing and moaning from some of the less gracious of our inhabitants. The upside is free coffee for me.

But I don’t want it. I might frothy up myself a hot chocolate in our wee little nook, perhaps even an herbal tea or two. But I don’t want a hazlenut flavoured cup of cheap. I’m not interested in some ‘House Blend’ or some other signature series of whatever-the-hell. I want Starbucks. I want my overpriced goddamned status symbol. Why? Because I woke up on a crappy futon with crappy cable, and put on expensive enough clothing to convince those around me that maybe I’ve got my shit together. I feel the need to add that one little extra accessory to complete the ensemble: a ridiculously complicated sounding helping of overpriced steamed milk with that zealous little green logo on the side to make sure everybody knows that I can afford to pay four dollars for my beverage. That’s right people. Look at me go.

“But that’s retarded!” I can hear you all thinking. Yes. Yes, it is. So why do I do it? Because I’m a girl and therefore allowed a certain amount of irrational behaviour. I’m not heavily medicated anymore, I haven’t even used the word fuckbag in this post (yet), and haven’t made any stabbing gestures in a fairly long time. Let me have my crazy fucking coffee, okay?

One of the reasons I like my fancy ass coffee is that I’m really not a fan of the taste of coffee. I know, I know. More irrational chick shit. But it’s like alcohol – you may want to get yourself good and toasted, but that doesn’t mean you want to be sucking down some sort of gasoline-and-cinnamon flavoured mixture. I want the caffeine without the taste of some Ethiopian nation or another, thank you very much. And yes, I’m willing to pay for it.

Now Talea, being my best bud and all, usually scores herself a coffee by the mere fact that everytime I get myself one, I grab her something because that’s just how I am. In return, she often fills me up with Chilean red wine at her less bleachy smelling abode. She also doesn’t have a mouse in her kitchen (but I bleached!!! I BLEEEAAACHED!!!). So, fair trade. We both tend to go through phases in what we order, myself moreso than her. She’s more likely to switch it up, whereas I am a little more steadfast. For several months I would order nothing except a Grande Non Fat Extra Foamy Vanilla Latte, until I realized the majority of their foaminator monkeys sucked ass at their trendy job and couldn’t whip up a decent foam if their self-aggrandizing art school documentary or the proper healing of their most recent piercing depended on it. So I switched to a Venti Caramel Apple Spice avec Whipped Cream. This ceased immediately after realizing that I was drinking over 400 calories worth of warmed up apple juice every morning. What, I asked Talea, should I drink now? Her latest thing has been a Grande Triple Shot Caramel Macchiato for those times when she reeeeaaally needs the caffeine. That sounds good, I commented, but does it taste too coffee-ish? Even without the extra shot? Well, she explained, a Grande usually comes with two shots of espresso, but you can ask for just one – called a Solo, apparently. More jargon to make my order sound even more complicated? I am so there!

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So down I go to get this more-caramel-than-coffee cup of sweet sweet wakefulness. And I enjoy it, and decide to make this a regular purchase.

This ends today, and makes for my shortest Starbucks trend yet. Perhaps one of these days I’ll kick this foamy monkey off my shoulder and suck up the free shit in the kitchen.

Today, you see, I actually paid attention to what they were keying in on their fancy little machine before I paid. Two grande caramel macchiato, check. A bit extra for Talea’s extra espresso shot, no problem. And then! The BASTARDS!!! You’d think maybe, just maybe, they would knock a few cents off for the fact that I only wanted half the espresso. But no, that would not be in accordance with the ass-raping ways of the Starbucks we’ve come to know and love. Okay, regular price then. Oh no! Not so! Those sons of bitches actually keyed in AN EXTRA SHOT OF MILK AND CHARGED ME EXTRA FOR IT.

Are you retarded? Did you think I wouldn’t notice this and perhaps find several shots worth of fault in this logic? You are charging me extra for my decision to use less of your core ingredient and more of your cheap filler? Your cheap filler that doesn’t even come in shots, but is simply poured until full? No. No, no, no, no, no.

You know what? This is the last straw. Three strikes and you’re out. No more Starbucks. I’ll spend that money on a manicure and a fancy ass haircut and find other ways to convince an uncaring public that I’m all swank and hip and whatnot.

Starbucks? Fuckbags.



et cetera