Some of my Coworkers Might or Might Not Call me the Bone Collector
I dreamt that my Dad wore diapers and rolled on the floor. In my office. At least I had an office…
. . .
Last night I stubbed my toe so hard in the dark that there's a line on my toenail, near the base, and everything above the line is white. It is my belief that a large portion of this nail was bent back upon itself when I tried to walk through Alyssa's fan at one in the morning.
It still hurts today!
. . .
Two birthday anecdotes:
1) Last night I returned home to find a little box with 'Happy Birthday!' wrapping paper on the front, and the logo of some chocolate factory on the outside, and postage. This was exciting, because yesterday was not even my birthday yet! And chocolate is delicious! I thought my parents had sent some delicious chocolate. But I tore it open and found some note like
"Thanks for renting!
--Venture Management"
Which was nice, but a bit disappointing. My only birthday gift came from my landlord! I'm sort of hoping my parents don't give me anything so that I can keep this anecdote like a little treasure, and whip it out at key moments, to earn sympathy from attractive girls of the future.
So no one give me anything. Except free drinks. Free drinks are encouraged
constantly. Unless you're harboring some sort of family-passed-down treasure map. If you are, this would be a really great time to tell me.
Last summer Alyssa and I were going to collaborate on a story about an old guy who dies without revealing the location of his big sum of money, and all the hilarious antics/family dissolution that occurs. If your family has dissolved in the wake of a hidden cache of bullion, I will help you find it. I will.
2) This morning my Mom called at 8:03 to wish me happy birthday, because that is when I was born. Wow, I thought. That must have been a shitty way to wake up. But of course she was already awake, writhing in reproductive agony.
Let's all take a moment to be glad we're not women. And those of us who are women, let's be glad we're not pregnant. And if we're Michelle . . . well, fuck, Michelle. Fuck.
Anyway, the head cubicle-peeker and tardiness-tattler hobbled back here and stopped to peek in my cubicle, as usual. But then she stood there until I looked over the phone. And she told me someone brought cupcakes. Why? For their birthday? For it being Friday? The point of the story is that she relayed this detail with such malice that I am unable to walk down there for a cupcake, no matter how delicious they might be.
. . .
Did Kevin tell anyone else what he did after leaving the Goatranch last night?
He killed a prostitute.
That is what he did.
. . .
Amish, if anyone tells you about this: did you get the assless chaps for the reunion? I can make the sleeveless cowboy shirts.
. . .
Despite Goathead's three-day drunken blonde-bedding birthday this year, I'm sure he'll agree when I say that having a great birthday early on is sort of a curse, because it ruins all the ones to come. When I turned 21 and we went out to dinner—that was great. And greater still was me and Kevin and Dave driving to Ottumwa and then sitting around Dave's loft with lemon vodka at one in the morning, an hour into my legal boozing.
. . .
If you ever wonder why these posts are so long, it's because when I quit writing it's the start of the real work day. And nobody wants that.
Not that my workday resembles a real workday.
. . .
Always thought 'shammy' was a weird word.
. . .
Anyone ever read Martian Chronicles? I'm not acutally interested in reading, just curious about people's experiences with the book.
. . .
This is the birthday gift I would like from all of you. Everyone find one cat. Someone who doesn't find a cat will buy a harness. Someone who doesn't buy a cat or a harness will buy a sled. Someone who buys nothing will hitch the cats up to the harness and the harness up to the sled and this will be my birthday gift, a cat-drawn sled.
It could go up trees, you know.
. . .
So: Rousseau. Before the blog exploded yesterday, what was it we're to talk about? I'm maintaining minimal involvement with Follies this year, so if it's about them I might not be the best guy to talk to. But even so—what's up?
. . .
And whoever this "monki" fellow is (or is that a girl?)—you're right in assuming we care little about you. You terrible, terrible whore. Okay, so we love you. We love you love you. Come back from your godforsaken absence. Or, if you'd like, I could come collect you in the cat sled.
. . .
Last night I stubbed my toe so hard in the dark that there's a line on my toenail, near the base, and everything above the line is white. It is my belief that a large portion of this nail was bent back upon itself when I tried to walk through Alyssa's fan at one in the morning.
It still hurts today!
. . .
Two birthday anecdotes:
1) Last night I returned home to find a little box with 'Happy Birthday!' wrapping paper on the front, and the logo of some chocolate factory on the outside, and postage. This was exciting, because yesterday was not even my birthday yet! And chocolate is delicious! I thought my parents had sent some delicious chocolate. But I tore it open and found some note like
"Thanks for renting!
--Venture Management"
Which was nice, but a bit disappointing. My only birthday gift came from my landlord! I'm sort of hoping my parents don't give me anything so that I can keep this anecdote like a little treasure, and whip it out at key moments, to earn sympathy from attractive girls of the future.
So no one give me anything. Except free drinks. Free drinks are encouraged
constantly. Unless you're harboring some sort of family-passed-down treasure map. If you are, this would be a really great time to tell me.
Last summer Alyssa and I were going to collaborate on a story about an old guy who dies without revealing the location of his big sum of money, and all the hilarious antics/family dissolution that occurs. If your family has dissolved in the wake of a hidden cache of bullion, I will help you find it. I will.
2) This morning my Mom called at 8:03 to wish me happy birthday, because that is when I was born. Wow, I thought. That must have been a shitty way to wake up. But of course she was already awake, writhing in reproductive agony.
Let's all take a moment to be glad we're not women. And those of us who are women, let's be glad we're not pregnant. And if we're Michelle . . . well, fuck, Michelle. Fuck.
Anyway, the head cubicle-peeker and tardiness-tattler hobbled back here and stopped to peek in my cubicle, as usual. But then she stood there until I looked over the phone. And she told me someone brought cupcakes. Why? For their birthday? For it being Friday? The point of the story is that she relayed this detail with such malice that I am unable to walk down there for a cupcake, no matter how delicious they might be.
. . .
Did Kevin tell anyone else what he did after leaving the Goatranch last night?
He killed a prostitute.
That is what he did.
. . .
Amish, if anyone tells you about this: did you get the assless chaps for the reunion? I can make the sleeveless cowboy shirts.
. . .
Despite Goathead's three-day drunken blonde-bedding birthday this year, I'm sure he'll agree when I say that having a great birthday early on is sort of a curse, because it ruins all the ones to come. When I turned 21 and we went out to dinner—that was great. And greater still was me and Kevin and Dave driving to Ottumwa and then sitting around Dave's loft with lemon vodka at one in the morning, an hour into my legal boozing.
. . .
If you ever wonder why these posts are so long, it's because when I quit writing it's the start of the real work day. And nobody wants that.
Not that my workday resembles a real workday.
. . .
Always thought 'shammy' was a weird word.
. . .
Anyone ever read Martian Chronicles? I'm not acutally interested in reading, just curious about people's experiences with the book.
. . .
This is the birthday gift I would like from all of you. Everyone find one cat. Someone who doesn't find a cat will buy a harness. Someone who doesn't buy a cat or a harness will buy a sled. Someone who buys nothing will hitch the cats up to the harness and the harness up to the sled and this will be my birthday gift, a cat-drawn sled.
It could go up trees, you know.
. . .
So: Rousseau. Before the blog exploded yesterday, what was it we're to talk about? I'm maintaining minimal involvement with Follies this year, so if it's about them I might not be the best guy to talk to. But even so—what's up?
. . .
And whoever this "monki" fellow is (or is that a girl?)—you're right in assuming we care little about you. You terrible, terrible whore. Okay, so we love you. We love you love you. Come back from your godforsaken absence. Or, if you'd like, I could come collect you in the cat sled.
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