Things I do not get paid enough to do.

So, in the spirit of worker's rights and as a stance against economic inequity, I've decided to form a union. Now, traditionally, unions get their strength from their numbers. Their numbers allow them to effectively negotiate agreements with management and secure things like better working conditions, higher pay and more cushiony toilet paper. 
My union will be slightly different. First of all, I will be its only member. Secondly, while most unions get their power from their size or from solidarity within the community, my union will get its bargaining power mostly because all my bosses think I can and will beat them savagely at a moment's notice. Lastly, while most unions have lame names like "AFL-CIO" (insert your own silly acronym joke here), my union will be different. My union's name (selected after extensive research by my PR team, which consists of me and a bottle of single malt) is "The Coalition of Super Radical Awesomites dedicated to Economic Awesome". Here are our (read: my) demands.


Union members will no longer have to perform the following tasks:
-Anything involving a toilet.
-Anything involving a typewriter. (If you think that this being 2011, this would not be a necessary clause, you have a better job than I do.
- Storing physical copies of anything less important than blood pacts with cosmic deities. 
- Running to the supermarket to pick up bottled water.
- Doing anything involving bottled water. Seriously, we have a fucking Brita, people.
- Trying to haggle with AT&T.
- Trying to haggle, period. I am not trying to get a durian for ten fewer ruples, I'm dealing with massive fucking corporations here. 
- Fixing anyone's computer issue without being allowed a break afterwards long enough to slowly savor a nice Martini.
-You know what? Fuck your computer. Seriously, what even compelled you to GET Bonzi Buddy? Are you five?

Fucking terrible. Also, you may want to brush up on punctuation, you stupid purple fuck.

-Lifting anything heavier than a notepad, unless I: A) Look totally badass doing it. B) Get to hit something with it.
-Laughing at jokes to seem polite.
-Really, doing anything to seem polite.
-Calling code enforcement for anything other than mischief and mayhem.
-Waiting to reply to text messages. I don't care if I'm in the middle of defusing a bomb, if the lovely lady I fancy says something sweet I'm sending a smiley, dammit.
-That said, I am done smiling at work. Unless my boss has a serious medical emergency, in which case, all bets are off.


I figure that's a solid start. If this goes as planned, I plan on instituting further policies:
-Union members will not be asked to wear anything less comfortable than a freshly laundered silk toga.
-Union members will not be made to drink anything that has not been dosed, fermented or distilled.
-Union members will try to make it to the toilet, but will not be reprimanded should they fail.


I feel like this arrangement should work to the benefit of all. Well, except management. But fuck 'em. I'm union now.

Since this might not make the zineosphere...

Life on an Anarcho-Primitivist Planet vs. Life in Guantanamo Bay

Or

“How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Microwave”

Food

Guantanamo Bay: The prisoners have gained 13 pounds on average, eating meals prepared by rigid standards to meet the requirements set by the Islamic faith.

Primitivist Planet: Dirt. Likely seasoned with curry powder and soy sauce.

Health

Guantanamo Bay: Doctors may have ignored evidence of torture and mistreatment of detainees.

Primitivist Planet: The fuck is a doctor? Can they help with this “shitting my face off” problem I’ve been having?

Leisure

Guantanamo Bay: Prisoners who exhibit good behavior are allowed access to the prison’s exercise facilities and libraries. The libraries are well stocked, with books and magazines on topics from law to popular culture.

Primitivist Planet: People who manage to avoid venomous snake bites, mosquito-borne diseases and tribes of marauding cannibals may have access to a rock and a twig for entertainment purposes; provided that days berry harvest and squirrel hunt go exceptionally well.

Safety

Guantanamo Bay: The prisoners are subject to regular verbal and psychological torment from their captors and are occasionally subjected to torturous interrogation techniques.

Primitivist Planet: Assuming people move to climates free from disease carrying insects, large carnivores, harsh weather and not prone to natural disaster they are likely to be safe. At least, until somebody shows up who remembers what guns and cars are.

Culture

Guantanamo Bay: While lacking access to the internet (the most liberating invention of the last century, second only to effective birth control), the prisoners still have access to well-researched articles and works by genius authors.

Primitivist Planet: Look what I drew with my shit!

Cuba

Guantanamo Bay: Is in Cuba.

Primitivist Planet: Cuba is an unlivable swamp.

Check and mate.

Reppin’ that red and black,

Will

I'd like to discuss this with people because maybe I'm missing something, however, I can't promise that I won't mention that you're arguing over the internet.

69th post. Hardy har har.

We ran out of toilet paper at the office today. My boss sent me to the Asian market to pick up some more. He was apparently displeased that my selection of toilet paper was not soft enough and to get some of the good stuff. 

I hope 4 rolls are enough.

Soft enough for ya?

Go ahead, call it a comeback.

HOLY SHIT GUYS! You will not believe who I scored an interview with. Last night, I was lucky enough to recognize 90's Nickelodeon superstar Doug Mayhew. I got even luckier when he agreed to do an interview with me over lunch. Here is the transcript of our conversation.


Q: So, Mr. Mayhew, you were a major force at Nickelodeon for over ten years, during which time you came up with some hits.

A: Could we not use that word?


Q: Hit?


A: *noticably cringes* 


Q: Um, sure. Let's start by talking about Doug. Enormously popular show. I think a lot of kids sympathized with his issues and with the awkwardness of growing up portrayed in the show. Was that based on your childhood at all?


A: Well, the original pilot I sent to the studio was a little, what did they call it? The words "deeply upsetting" were thrown around a lot. 


Q: Could you elaborate?


A: Well, Mr. Dink for instance was based on an imaginary friend I had as a child. I liked to pretend that instead of my dad spending hours tweaking nipple clamps to be as painful as technologically possible, that a kindly but eccentric neighbor was building me gadgets. I thought it would be obvious, what with Dink being an obviously fictional surname and his income stream being highly improbabale.


Q: Wow. Did any other characters see changes due to executive meddling? 


A: Well, in my real life, Patti Mayonnaise was an actual jar of mayonnaise I grew extremely emotionally attached to. She was my first and I miss her to this day. I'm pretty upset they changed that aspect.


Q: I always thought it was interesting that most of the supporting cast was colored shades of blue and green. Was that you attacking the construct of race?


A: Well, I didn't meet another actual child until well into my teens but I was told by my parents on a daily basis that children were Satan's demons contained in a vaguely humanoid shell. It's been fifty years since then and I still have a hard time seeing them any other way.


Q: I understand you were also involved in the production of Rugrats.


A: That is correct.


Q: Did you put any of your childhood into that show?


A: Yes, but in a more subtle way this time. My parents would constantly force me to drastically alter my appearance every few months, claiming to be disgusted by my face. They tried everything from putting glasses and fake freckles on me to putting me in dresses and pigtails. So, each of the children on Rugrats or as I wanted to call it Satan's Littlest Helpers was one of the personalities I developed while forced to take on these different appearances.


Q: I can tell your uncomfortable talking about that.

A: I'm not.


Q: That makes me even more uncomfortable. Let's move on. CatDog?


A: You've never read Freud have you? *much angrier* HAVE YOU?


Q: Bits and pieces...


A: Well, are you familiar with the concept of anal retention?


Q: Where a young child is afraid to release the contents of his bowels?


A: More or less, though in my case it was less fear and more anatomic impossibility. I was born with my erm... cheeks, fused together. My parents opted not to tell the doctor, claiming that it was just one less hole for demons to enter.


Q: Why a cat and dog?


A: My parents kept eight of each. At first they didn't get along. Later, they learned my blood was far sweeter than each other's.


Q: *I signal the waiter for another beer, contemplate and order a double whisky instead* I'm a little afraid to ask. But erm, AHHH! Real Monsters, was that zebra colored monster based on a can your parent's hit you with?


A: That's just fucking stupid. It's a show about monsters. Real ones. My parents used a morningstar. 


Q: I see. You were on the creative team briefly and apparently you came up with the character designs for both Hey Arnold and his grandfather, do you want to talk about that?


A: Well, once I turned eight, my parents tried to get me onto a football team.


Q: That sounds nice.

A: The team was the Denver Broncos. 


Q: That explains the football shaped head, I suppose. What about Grandpa? Was that based on a family member?


A: Well, my grandfather died in...um...a... uh...accident. Definitely not ritual murder. So, the only time I ever saw him out of the urn is when I caught my mom doing a bump of his ashes off her filet knife.


Q: Wow, I'm looking at your IMDB sheet here, you're quite prolific. It says you helped create Rocko's Modern Life. 


A: Well, when one time I decided to write a letter to social services. The stamp I licked and affixed to the envelope I pieced together from cigarette butts and scrapings from the inside of glue bags turned out to be a highly potent dose of LSD. When my parents saw my normally closed eyes open and dilated, they exacted their punishment by breaking into a petting zoo and leaving me there over night. I like to think of every scar I have from that night as part of the Rocko legacy.


Q: Wow.


A: Wanna hear about Alex Mack?

Q: Actually, um, could we just get the check?


A: How much do I owe you? 


Q: *Hastily dropping a fifty on the table and moving towards the door* Really, it's no problem... there should be some extra there. Get yourself a drink, I really, really should go. 

A: Well, I don't really drink out of cups since...


Q: Later!


And there you have it folks. If there are any other celebrities you'd like to see interviewed, do it yourself. I'm fucking done.

Freedom hurts. Get a helmet.

"Could I have done more with my day? Was that the best essay I could have written? Was hot asphalt really the best place for a midday make-out session?" 
Regret, possibly one of the most biting of emotions, seems like an obviously negative emotion. People speak gleefully about life without regret, people take pride in putting painful experiences behind them. I'd like to make the wingnutty claim that it is not. I'd, seemingly insanely, like to postulate the opposite. I believe every pang of regret, every time the phrase "what if" tries to crawl out of your chest with its dull, searing claws, is a moment of true beauty. 
Let's start with choice. It is, simply put, what all of us fight for. The liberty to live how we want, love how we want and consequently, fuck up our lives however we choose. Choice is freedom; freedom is life. Freedom doesn't guarantee happiness anymore than oppression manages to discourage rebellion. What it does guarantee is that the external hurdles to happiness: the cops, landlords and voyeuristic politicians will be gone. If any of you can say that those have been responsible for all of the problems in your life, I skeptically offer you the sincerest pity.
So, what then? If freedom isn't automatic happiness, why fight? If our choices can leave us miserable and broken, why not give them up? I fight because I know that those moments, the ones that leave us wishing we could take everything back, are the same moments that can make us ecstatic. The night that ends with our head in a toilet could have been the party we tell stories about for years. The community garden that ended with a shouting match and a field of rotten produce could have been a vibrant source of life and beauty. The moment a lover's words turn you into a walking scab could have been a kiss that sent you soaring.
Imagine this on a societal scale. Imagine the potential wonder we humans are capable of. Sure, we can and will fuck up. Sure, a lot of fights will be lost and a lot of ideals abandoned. But I'd take the sweet sting of regret over the cold, crushing tedium of lives in the world we were tossed into. I know it's a cliched sentiment, but hurt really does beat feeling nothing at all. Strap on a helmet and put on a party hat, because this world of choice is going to be a roller coaster, but who doesn't love those? 

May want to bring a barf bag. 

Coffee might not be for every morning.

Yesterday, my office's air conditioner did what I have considered doing all too many times in this hellhole and decided to up and quit. Thankfully, our building's sound construction and high-quality insulation kept the office at a temperate 93 degrees. If you're thinking that's not that bad, you're right, provided we're discussing a trip to the beach. If you've never had the misfortune of wearing a three piece suit when the sun has its game-face on, just imagine being a sports team mascot, for eight applause-free hours. So, employing logic (and this story should illustrate why I so rarely do) I decided to show up today in chinos and a polo shirt made from some synthetic material thinner than an eighteen dollar condom.

Thankfully, the maintenance staff took mercy on us and fixed the A/C while we were gone. My boss decided to celebrate in what might very well have seemed like the best option in his age-riddled pile of rot a creative individual might call a brain, he set the thermostat and put on a parka he apparently constantly has in his office. I wonder momentarily if I am dreaming, a cold gust of air to the groin quickly dispels that illusion.
At least I can distract myself by working, I think. I call FPL fifty-two times (yes, I counted) only to receive an equal number of busy signals before being put on hold. For four hours. In Spanish. I feel like there's a drinking game in there somewhere, provided you weigh five-hundred pounds and are Wolverine. I start on other work and realize I have to make out fifteen separate checks to that same horrid company. I would argue that this was irony if I wasn't absolutely sure I had already identified it as bullshit.

I go outside to let off some steam (far from literally, my breath couldn't have been much warmer than freezing). On my way to the bar I find and my fist confronts a particularly obnoxious wall. Fortunately for the wall (and my employment status), it is concrete. Unfortunately for me, my hand is not. Two chugged Martini's later and I realize no amount of ethanol is going to get me warm without being ignited. Luckily for every party involved, my curious hands find no lighter.

I would type more, but I am shivering too much to type with any accuracy and to be honest, I think my efforts will be better spent making a newspaper blanket. Wish me luck, and should I freeze and wake up in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, can y'all at least make sure it's a good one? I'm a picky one as far as those go.

All work and no play...

All work and no play makes Will a dull boy.
All work and no pay makes Will a slave boy.
All quirk and no pay makes Will an eccentric hobo.
All quirk and no say makes Will an introverted wingnut.
All smirk and no say makes Will a mute cynic.
All smirk and no whey makes Will a hipster.
All Kirk and no whey makes Will Captain Vegan.
All Kirk and no Takei makes Will avoid a sci-fi convention.
All shirt and no fray makes Will a dull boy.
All skirt and no play makes Will a distracted boy.
All skirt and no steak makes Will a conflicted boy.
All earth and no quake makes Will a stable boy.
All hearth and no cake makes Will a warm, hungry boy.
All girth and no weight makes Will a balloon.
All smurf and no fate makes Will... umm.
All turf and no gate makes Will vulnerable to robbery.
All surf and no bay puts Will in danger.
All serf and no sleigh makes Will poor and bored.
All worth and no pay makes Will an aristocrat.
All worth and no toupee makes Will popular with high society women.
All mirth and no repartee makes Will talk to the mirror, gleefully.
All night and no day makes Will a vampire.

The more you know.