Great Googly Moogly!
The most ridiculous profession? Crossing guard. Man, those guys look ridiculous. You're barrelling down the street, hunched over your steering wheel, staring at the road through blurred eyes and scuffed sunglasses, with forty other people streaming around you in pickups and SUVs and dinged-up Beatles, all of you late as hell. And some paunchy 50 year-old with a plastic stop-sign the size of a salad plate thinks he's going to stop you?
I run em over. They hold that stop sign aloft and I hit the gas. So far, none of them have noticed this; it's too incomprehensible and so their brains don't process it. And then—usually at about 65--ffffthoomp! My car's not the best for it because of that spoiler in the back. They cling to it, you know, and drag down the street behind my bumper. So far none of them has dropped the stop sign even at this point.
If you don't want to play phone tag when trying to buy a toilet adapter or extensions for your leg braces, go to Activstyle.com. I hate corporate websites that talk about phone tag. This is how I imagine phone tag. Some fucking customer service rep asks me what extension I want, and I pop out of a little closet in the back of the room and hurl a massive old desk phone at his head. It clocks him right in the middle of his speech.
"He's unavailable," he'd say. "But we can put you through to the customer serFWWWUT!
"Tag," I'd say.
Every day I become more like a clown at my job. Today's wardrobe:
Shoes: black with gray diagonal stripes. Rominger has described these as bowling shoes.
Pants: Gray with no belt, too baggy, some strings? As if I know how to tie knots? Who do the designers think I am?! Weebelo Woody?!
Shirt: blue and brown pinstripes.
Jacket: The color of coffee.
Hair: Unkempt.
Here was an embarrassing thing: yesterday I went to the state library. It's this massive cathedral of books, and gilded shelves, and thick wooden desks, and statues, and windows, and wrought iron gates and spiral staircases. No one goes there. The librarian and I have fought before—and by fought, I of course mean got it on--so I was ready for her smarmy English accent. Actually, her accent is charming. She is lovely. She's probably fifty, and her glasses are the color of birthday cake sprinkles.
I gave her the call number for some journal I wanted (I was looking for a job description). She called the basement collection and said something dignified about a gentleman up here, a state employee, who was looking for this particular piece of information, and could someone bring it up? Then we talked about me checking it out because most of the stuff in the basement was old and thick and impenetrable.
I walked around while waiting. There was a brochure for some log cabin historical site, which turned out to be a state landmark and tourist attraction for the lovely reason that native Americans had once killed most of the inhabitans in the area and carried off all the ones of rapin age. What the hell kind of tourist attraction is this? Fuck.
Anyway, finally the clerk burrowed her way up through the earth, from her subterranean book depository, and deposited my information on the main desk. It was a fat glowing green pamphlet, covered in white illustrations and big text, and looked like a middle school primer. The text inside was maybe 15 pt. It was a middle school occupational outlook book! Fuck. I felt less than dignified. And that fucking book didn't even have what I wanted.
I run em over. They hold that stop sign aloft and I hit the gas. So far, none of them have noticed this; it's too incomprehensible and so their brains don't process it. And then—usually at about 65--ffffthoomp! My car's not the best for it because of that spoiler in the back. They cling to it, you know, and drag down the street behind my bumper. So far none of them has dropped the stop sign even at this point.
If you don't want to play phone tag when trying to buy a toilet adapter or extensions for your leg braces, go to Activstyle.com. I hate corporate websites that talk about phone tag. This is how I imagine phone tag. Some fucking customer service rep asks me what extension I want, and I pop out of a little closet in the back of the room and hurl a massive old desk phone at his head. It clocks him right in the middle of his speech.
"He's unavailable," he'd say. "But we can put you through to the customer serFWWWUT!
"Tag," I'd say.
Every day I become more like a clown at my job. Today's wardrobe:
Shoes: black with gray diagonal stripes. Rominger has described these as bowling shoes.
Pants: Gray with no belt, too baggy, some strings? As if I know how to tie knots? Who do the designers think I am?! Weebelo Woody?!
Shirt: blue and brown pinstripes.
Jacket: The color of coffee.
Hair: Unkempt.
Here was an embarrassing thing: yesterday I went to the state library. It's this massive cathedral of books, and gilded shelves, and thick wooden desks, and statues, and windows, and wrought iron gates and spiral staircases. No one goes there. The librarian and I have fought before—and by fought, I of course mean got it on--so I was ready for her smarmy English accent. Actually, her accent is charming. She is lovely. She's probably fifty, and her glasses are the color of birthday cake sprinkles.
I gave her the call number for some journal I wanted (I was looking for a job description). She called the basement collection and said something dignified about a gentleman up here, a state employee, who was looking for this particular piece of information, and could someone bring it up? Then we talked about me checking it out because most of the stuff in the basement was old and thick and impenetrable.
I walked around while waiting. There was a brochure for some log cabin historical site, which turned out to be a state landmark and tourist attraction for the lovely reason that native Americans had once killed most of the inhabitans in the area and carried off all the ones of rapin age. What the hell kind of tourist attraction is this? Fuck.
Anyway, finally the clerk burrowed her way up through the earth, from her subterranean book depository, and deposited my information on the main desk. It was a fat glowing green pamphlet, covered in white illustrations and big text, and looked like a middle school primer. The text inside was maybe 15 pt. It was a middle school occupational outlook book! Fuck. I felt less than dignified. And that fucking book didn't even have what I wanted.
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