How to get a raise.

Despite the NBA finals being a very good time for me financially, I still would like to have more money. I hear the best way to get more money would be to get something called a "raise". I'm not sure how this is done, so I made this drawing and emailed 13 (one for each dollar I would like per hour) of them to each employee. Let's hope it works.

Notice my unique brush technique, namely, using a shitty pen.

This is why humor is dead.

Anti-Gay Rights Activists Claim They are Being Bullied
Whites Believe They are Discriminated Against More Than Blacks

Neither of these are from the Onion. There is no way to satirize these stories. There is no way to parody them, to make them more absurd than they already are. I wish the political humorists of the future all the luck in the world, they're gonna fucking need it.

Caption Calamity or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Prompts"

http://www.tomslatin.com/80-journal-writing-prompts/


1. Name something you lost or gave away that can never be replaced.

Yup, that was me. Sorry guys.

2. What 5 websites do you visit often, and why?

I don't see the need for the other ones.

3. Name a truly useless possession and how you came to acquire it.

It was a total accident. I don't even remember getting it! What the hell  do people use these for?

4. What music album would be used for the movie of your life?

No one would watch it anyway, so why the hell not?

 5. List your bad habits and/or addictions and how you have tried to rid yourself of them.

This is the answer to both parts of that prompt. It's worked swimmingly. 

6. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be, and what would you do if later on you changed your mind?

I think I'd change that I'm not Batman. I doubt I would change my mind, but being Bruce Wayne would be pretty tight too.

7. What are your religious beliefs?  Have they changed, or have they always stayed the same?

One morning I briefly worshiped Ibuprofen, but that ended when I  learned it could not walk  on water, or at all.

8. When was your last food craving, and what did you crave?

And just now. Fuck you prompts. I stand by all those statements about your mother.

9. Who was your first crush and what made them special?

As part of my larger (and more troubling) Wednesday Addams fetish. Age  has not treated her kindly.

10. Name your most cherished childhood memory.

No wait, that's Jeff Goldblum (though the resemblance is uncanny). And that is not a memory but rather a motion picture. Fuck it. Until I unlock all my repressed childhood experiences with dinosaurs, this'll have to do.

11. Turn to an entry in your journal or diary from a year or more ago.  What has changed and what has stayed the same since then?

I only learned how to read a few months ago. Am I too old to be called a prodigy?

12. What is one thing nobody knows about you because nobody ever cared to ask?

I get around via echolocation. Also, I have a Wednesday Addams fetish.

13. Robert Frost write a poem titled The Road Not Taken.  Name a road you’ve always wanted to travel.  Where do you hope it takes you, and what might you see on the way?

Any road that takes me away from that fucking cliched-ass poem. Preferably at illogical speeds.

14. Name one thing you always wanted to do, but haven’t.  What has prevented you from doing it?

More important things to do I guess.

15. Write about your first kiss, was it everything you wished or hoped it would be?

Ever see Death straight in the eye? Ever had a gun held to you? Ever felt cold damp hands pulling you into the underworld? Yep, any of those things would've been better.

Expect more the next time I feel uninspired or lazy. In the meantime, anytime a crossword asks you for a European city, the answer is Oslo. Now you can't say I don't do nothin' for ya'. 

Green Lantern Review

First, let's make it clear that I have not actually seen the film, merely the following trailer. However, I do not think that should impede me in reviewing this film, given my amazing talents of precognition and overestimating my capabilities.

The film begins with showing a typical day in Ryan Reynolds' life. He wakes up late for work and leaves the previous evening's escort alone and unattended in his surprisingly sophisticated and orderly bachelor pad. He then shows off that he is terrible at both driving and seduction as he pulls a grimy maneuver even on his standards on a lady that even librarians wouldn't stoop to partying with. 


Just before you start to think this movie is just about how much every fifteen year old boy would love to be Ryan Reynolds, the film takes a bold turn. Oh wait, no it doesn't. It has him pull some fighter plane shit that makes Top Gun look like Up In The Air. 


Next, while Reynolds is on a late-night walk (presumably to meet his many drug dealers), he sees a bright green light fly through the sky. Notice the subtlety in Reynolds' acting as he contemplates whether he'd rather investigate the mysterious phenomena or meet up with Cuchillo under the boondocks. Realizing Cuchillo always runs late, our hero runs after the streak of light only to find that an alien (which looks like all aliens, namely humans of a different color) has crash landed his ship. He bravely gives up his power ring to Reynolds', hoping that this would provide enough box office revenue to hire the army of shitty CG artists needed to keep him alive.

No such luck for Barney-Boy. A voice-over (possibly alien), informs us that Reynolds was given his ring due to his "great responsibility" which is not unlike giving Robert Downey Jr. the Iron Man suit for his "great driving". So, holding a nigh-omnipotent weapon in his hand makes the only decision his Mattel sized mind can come up with and picks a fight with some roughnecks in an alley. Just as his oh-so-kickable face is being kicked, he takes them out with a huge punch. But, and here is where the plot (and the viewers' genitals) thicken, it is not a punch made of fist, but of GIANT FUCKING GREEN FIST! Take that, Hulk!

YOU WON'T LIKE ME WHEN I'M.....SULLEN!

Shortly after, the plot diverges (HOW THICK CAN IT GET?!) a brief shot of  Peter Sarsgaard effectively establishes that he is both very evil and very ugly. Meanwhile on Oa (a name designed solely to make people upset about Scrabble's proper name rule, Reynolds' get sniffed by a very large, badass alien who serves the dual roles of training Reynolds' and  selling a FUCKTON of merch. 


Towards the climax of the film, Peter Sarsgaard has become far more ugly and far more powerful and he must battle Reynolds' who, if costumes are any indication, has become a Power Ranger.


The stodgy woman informs Reynolds' that he has the ability to overcome fear, which surprises me, as I thought he only had the power to be a profitable actor after being in a National Lampoon film. Peter on the other hand has developed the ability to cause things to explode, presumably by cackling at them. Realizing that enough damage to the city could lead to Chad's super sweet triple kegger getting cancelled, R.R. knows what he must do.

The two of them battle it out, Reynolds' eventually gaining the upper hand and winning due to the knowledge he has acquired (future weapons are HELLA AWESOME!). The last shot of the film is Reynolds' making out with uptight girl while his alien buddies do the alien equivalent of the chest bump (which nearly got the film banned in Australia).  


Spoilers: Stay tuned after the credits to watch Batman beat the hell out of Ryan Reynolds for twelve straight minutes. Oh wait, that doesn't happen? Fuck this movie. I'm staying home.

So it's a fight you want? Too bad. All I've got for you is war.

So, Svetlana thinks her job is absurd. Poor, poor Svet, you have yet to even dip your toes into the ponds of horrifying delirium I dive headfirst into every morning. You want to talk homeowners associations? I AM two associations. This is puzzling to me as the closest I've come to owning a home is being on a one year lease and paying $195 a month rent. Also, if we look at Google's definition of association: "A group of people organized for a joint purpose: "the National Association of Broadcasters"." This confuses me for two reasons, not only am I not a group of people (I'd probably win more fights if I was), I also have no idea what my purpose is other than apparently destroy trees and ruin afternoons. 

Now, my tasks as an association are fairly simple, or would be if I could do anything without the approval of Ol' Junior. Woman wants to put a small vase outside her window with a few sunflowers. She calls and asks if it's okay. I tell her that of course it fucking is and not to waste my goddamn time (albeit with much sweeter words). I recount the story to my boss who scolds me. Obviously, a simple conversation was not enough, for I was no longer simply a man, I was an "ASSOCIATION!" now. So, I call the woman and ask if she could please send a letter, as a formality, requesting the placement of the sunflowers (which at this point I imagine were growing geriatric and flaccid). I call the woman yet again and ask for the letter, which she politely agrees to and sends. My boss tells me to "add it to our records". Just as I am begin to wonder why we would ever need a hard copy of this conversation, he makes another request. He asks that I write a letter to the woman confirming that we received her letter and that we approve of her TINY FUCKING VASE. This is a fucking loony bin. 

gottagetoutofheregottagetoutofheregottagetoutofhere

The next tale is remarkably similar, but I feel it necessary to show not just the depth of insanity I endure, but the frequency. So, Tony tells me he overheard that someone had installed iron bars at their backdoor. I call to investigate and the man politely explains to me that these bars do not obstruct the exit and are quite tasteful. I request photographs and tell him maybe I can work it out. He sends the photos, and the bars are rather tasteful. He includes his five year old son in one of the pictures, which makes me sick to my stomach, but wins my boss over. In any reasonable business, this is where our story again. But since I have the luck of a giraffe on a hill wearing a tinfoil hat in a thunderstorm, the bullshit commences. He wants me to first send the gentleman a letter saying he was violating code and needed to remove the bars. I show this letter to my boss five times until he has corrected (read:misspelled) enough of the words in it to be up to his bizarre and exacting specifications. He also demands for it to be printed each time before reviewing it. Now since he frequently uses his computer for other purposes, there is only one conclusion I can draw. Motherfucker wants to fight Captain Planet. 

Bring it on, asshole.

The man, being excessively polite and patient at this point, writes us a letter asking for permission. My boss decides his letter isn't professional enough and has me forge a letter from him to us. This undergoes six (SIX!) revisions. I then finally send him a response to his letter, approving his modification. This letter, seemingly the most important, is not even looked over. Here's the punchline, and it's an uppercut from a bodybuilding gorilla; he claims this entire process is "for our records". I have asked every employee here where I should be putting this correspondence. As far as anybody knows, the answer is: my ass. So far, I've been finding nooks and crannies to stash this shit in, but I think we all know how this is gonna end. 

In lieu of flowers, please punch my boss in the fucking liver.

One last office oddity. This is a reasonably accurate transcript of a conversation between a tenant at one of the shopping centers I help manage, and I about a rather, unusual problems. His statements, like his demands, shall appear in bold. (Translated from broken Spanglish).


Hey! I need to speak to the boss!


He's out right now, could I help you with something?


Nobody told me about these goddamn iguanas! My wife has a phobia! She saw one and now she had to go to the emergency!


I'm sorry to hear about it. What can I do for you?


If you think I'm paying full rent, you're insane! I'm not paying to run a business out of a zoo!


So, you want to pay less rent because of an iguana?


And big lizards! All the time!

um. this might warrant a rent adjustment

Well sir, I don't think there are any reasonable measures we could take to avoid. And if you check your contract, you'll see that the tenant is responsible for pest control.


I'm surrounded by fucking lizards! Don't give me that faggot shit bro!


Listen, bro. I can have a new tenant replace you if you'd like. BIGGEST LIE I HAVE EVER TOLD.


Oh no no. But what the hell am I supposed to do?


I've heard primates are particularly adept at chasing down reptiles and defeating them. Don't tell my boss this, but why don't you rent a chimpanzee to take care of it? I won't say nothing.


Are you fucking with me?
-


I gave him the number to Primate Products Inc., who likely spent the next three days laughing at him. All this has occurred while my boss has told me not to worry about a housing tenant who is using an indoor gas generator to power an external a/c unit while blocking all exits with rigid iron bars creating a situation that makes the Hindenburg look like a Brinks armored car driving through a school zone.

tl;dr My job's weird. God, please give me a scotch.

"No, watersports would not be the right term. For all sorts of reasons, Jim."

I'm not sure what's up with the Spider-man costume either.




Exhausted, beat, merked, pooped, tired, weary, bad. Real update tomorrow.

Even a broken man is right twice a day.

Last night I had the pleasure of seeing some very good friends. Some I haven't seen in far too long and some I won't be seeing for a while. Towards the end of the night, I had the pleasure of seeing three of each of them. This magic was made possible by an appetizer of cream sherry (which oddly enough is not made with cream but rather with the tears of overjoyed gods) and a main course of Old Crow whiskey (made with and by really, really old crows). After losing (read:winning) a game of ten finger "Never Have I Ever" seven times over, I tossed my corpse onto an all too comfortable roll-out bed. Note, dear reader, that I have not hydrated myself as I am generally adamant about, nor did I have a dessert of ibuprofen and Vitamin B12. Note also, dear reader, that these are very, very important things. I also forgot to set an alarm which was less of an issue as at precisely 6:50 am I was woken by what I strongly believed was my brain passing a kidney stone.

I threw myself off the bed and literally crawled to the bathroom. I remembered the ibuprofen I had cleverly stashed in my pocket and perhaps less cleverly, swallowed six of them, each hitting my stomach like artillery shells hitting an antique store. I managed to ignore the fact that my brain had grown four sizes larger than my skull long enough to wash my face, slap on some deodorant and put on my work clothes (which had never been less comfortable).

My ride picks me up and even though the ibuprofen has more or less done its job, I still look like a particularly disheveled hobo dying from late-stage syphilis. My ride asks me if I'm sure if I want to go in. I tell stories of great men like Charlie Murphy, who continued onward in battle after being grievously injured. I tell this story for quite sometime before realizing I meant Audie Murphy.

Nothing personal, big guy.

 After a bumpy and miserable car ride, I arrived at work and anxiously approached the elevator with trembling hands I hit the up button and hoped hard enough to bring a million Tinkerbells to life that it would be empty. Instead, I was greeted by an intense gust of perfume and a gaggle of old women who did a poor job hiding their contempt for me. I thought for a second that the elevator was particularly shaky this morning, only to remember that I was a convulsing wreck of a man.

Most of my effort that morning was dedicated to not yelling out "I AM NOT A SERIAL KILLER!" and keeping my digestive system from reversing its polarity. Just as I think my morning is going to pass without incident, a shitstorm of challenges decided it was time to shower on me without warning. First, Fredo needs me to be a witness on a whole bunch of legal documents.This is a fairly simple task for most individuals, you just need to sign your name and print it in small text beneath that. Now, normally my signature is no pretty sight, but today, it looked like a group of snakes demonstrating the back pages of the Kama Sutra. The printing my name tiny beneath it went just as tragically as you would expect.

My former best friend in the office, the "Posted" stamp has become my worst enemy. Its former satisfying "BAM" has been replaced by an earth-shattering, bowel-shaking crash. I feel betrayed.

Oh yay! Oh fucking yay! Paulie showed up! Oh happy day! Oh, he sung the Nationwide jingle to me as a ballad in my ear for three minutes! Oh yay! It's obvious there has been a breakout at Arkham, where the fuck is Batman when you need him?

Oh, that's right. Being a dick.

Oh, even better news! I get to do reconciliations. To the uninitiated (read:fortunate), reconciliations are when rich people freak out and make you figure out why their bank account is thirty cents lighter than it ought to be according to Quickbooks. This is great fun.

Finally, lunch arrived. It turns out the chemical additive the building's cafeteria uses to ensure all their food tastes like high-end plastic also has amazing healing properties. I felt more chipper than every animal to ever cameo in a Disney film put together. I felt pumped! Energized! Electrified! Ready to face the world and knock it out in the first round. 

They sent me to Sweetwater City Hall. Those shit-eating, smegma-drinking sons of demons sent me to fucking Sweetwater City Hall. On the plus side, this ended my day. On the other hand, this place makes hell look like a four star beach resort. Every door is held open by a Cheeto's bag. Not just one, that is their official stance on keeping doors ajar. The only thing Sweetwater City Hall has more of than cops is people willing to curse out cops in Spanish over their eighteen dollar parking tickets. While I normally take great joy in people yelling at officers of the law, today I would have preferred the sound of NOTHING. I slipped on my sister's iPod, I rap silently along to a Weezy song. I pushed up my glasses during one of the verses and suddenly felt I was doing something very wrong. I then felt very awkward referring to him as Weezy. 

Luckily, that was the end of my day. I got home, had a celebratory dram of brandy and a four hour nap. So the moral of this story is simple if you drink on a night before work. Drink the fucking ocean.